Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: miles davis (page 3 of 6)

Proud Miles

“Look at my fine possessions.”

You have a lot of clothes.

“I’m a fashionable motherfucker. Always. Had to have my hair neat and beautiful. Italian shoes. Used to get my suits made, but I don’t wear suits no more.”

Why not?

“Tell you why. Was playing a show with some fucking hillbilly group. What’s their name? Pretend to be from New Orleans when they’re from the suburbs of San Franfuckingcisco. Always wearing lumberjack shirts.”

Creedence Clearwater Revival.

“Terrible. Jingle-jangle bullshit. Simple fucking shit. Play a C a couple times. Go to G. Back to C. I’d put my gun in my fucking mouth before I got to the chorus. White people like some baby music. Who’s that motherfucker likes to fuck rabbits?”

Lenny from Of Mice And Men?”

“Yeah, that motherfucker. That’s all you. Bunch of rabbit-fucking retards.”

Please don’t use that language.

“So they out on stage playing that up-and-down bullshit. Singing about how he was born on the bayou. Motherfucker, you was born in a mayonnaise shop. And I’m standing there. I look sharp. Double-breasted jacket with a real subtle herringbone. Tie from Hermes. Looking clean as a motherfucker. Band’s looking good.”


“And everyone backstage is kind of edging away from us. Giving us the corner of their eye. I assume these white motherfuckers are racist.”


“But there’s n—–s down there staying away, too.”

Please don’t use that word.

“Fuck you. So, I don’t understand what’s happening. I call over the promoter. What’s his name? Jew who yells a lot.”

Bill Graham.

“That’s him. He comes over. I say, ‘What the fuck is with these fucking people of yours? They’re treating me like a leper.’ He starts laughing. Says, “Schmuck, they think you’re a cop in that fucking suit.'”

What did you do?

“First, I glared at Bill for about three or four minutes for calling me a schmuck. Then I thought about what he said. At first, it angered me. Slapped all the white people around me. This calmed me down. Felt better. Slapped them all again. This felt good. Next day, I threw out all my suits and bought some flashy shit.”

You looked good in the suits, and you look good like this.

“About taste, y’see. Gotta have taste. Fashion ain’t shit. All about taste.”

“I’ve always said that in regards to dressing.”

“Goddamn, you look like shit.”

“Nah, man. Like you said. Different taste.”

“No, motherfucker. You just sloppy.”

“Ah, bite me. You got any stash?”

“Shit, yeah. Get the fuck in my closet, you fat Mexican motherfucker. Bring your guitar.”

“Of course.”

Live/Evil #9

Is…is that Emerson, Lake, and Palmer?

“Yeah. I don’t know which one’s which, though.”

Me, neither. All prog rockers look alike.

“White people, too.”

You always go there.

“White man’s got less ethnic variation in him than the black man. Africa’s big as a motherfucker, Europe’s the size of Delaware. Less places for the genes to wander. Look at Africans. You got dark-skinned motherfuckers, light-skinned motherfuckers, all kinds of noses and shit. White folks all the same shade of pale.”

I guess, maybe.

“These boys are okay. Trained fucking musicians. Can read. Familiar with my music. Most of those sissy motherfuckers ain’t shit, though. I pushed Cat Stevens down a flight of stairs once at a festival.”



Wow. Hey, Mr. Davis? I just watched a great documentary about James Brown. Did you know him?

“Course I fucking knew James. Knew him for years. Used to call me up. We’d talk about business, I think.”

You think?

“Don’t tell no one, but I never understood a single fucking word that man ever said to me.”

He needed sub-titles.

“Sounded like a washing machine full of rocks. Country-ass motherfucker. Didn’t trust banks. Liked cash. Motherfucker would always have $20 fucking grand on him. Said to him, ‘You gonna get robbed one day.'”

What’d he say?

“How the fuck should I know? Told you I didn’t understand the mushmouthed motherfucker.”

“Ve get band back together.”

“Ah, not this motherfucker again.”

“Ve will play progressively. Call band PDELP.”

“Suck my dick. DPELP, if it’s anything, and it ain’t anything. You ain’t in my band.”

“Da. Bring fresh new sound of balalaika.”

“That’s a commie-guitar is what that is.”

“Is nyet commie-guitar. Balalaika.”



All right, gentlemen. Knock it off.

“Fuck you.”

“Da. Vhat Miles David said.”

“Don’t be on my side. You ain’t on my side.”

“Da. Am sideman. Or else.”

“Or else? You threatening me, motherfucker?  What you gonna do?”







“Motherfucker, did you just blowdart Emerson, Lake, and Palmer?”


“They dead?”

“Not if antidote is given in time.”



“Not you, motherfucker. The other motherfucker.”


“Yeah. You. I don’t like this shit no more.”

You think I enjoy it?”


Ah, shoot me. You’d do us both a favor.

“You on my list.”

I’m on my list, too.


Are you sitting on anything?

“Squatting, motherfucker. Got powerful thighs. I’m skinny, but I got sinew like a motherfucker.”

You okay?

“Fuck you.”

You’re okay.

“Other musician’s playing, I lay out. Turn my back on the crowd, sit down, whatever. Old days, I used to get off the stand. Otherwise, motherfuckers are just gonna be looking at me while the cat plays his solo. Some motherfuckers do that. Gotta have the spotlight even when they ain’t playing shit. Monk used to do that. Loved Monk, but couldn’t stand that shit. Dance around while someone’s playing. Course, Monk was half-crazy and half-retard. Couldn’t get too mad at him.”

I guess not.

“Used to go over Monk’s apartment. This was real early on. He’d teach me wild shit, all sorts of inversions and shit, but he had a weird way of teaching. He’d play something, then stare at you for a while. Motherfucker could stare the dick off a pigeon, man. I’m good at staring at motherfuckers, but you know where I’m coming from. Ain’t got no poker face. Monk? Monk stares at you and you start thinking, ‘What is going on in that fucking head of his?’ He might try to eat you. Never know.”

Thelonious Monk was not going to try to eat you.

“Tried to eat Gerry Mulligan.”

That’s not true.

“Fuck you.”

Mr. Davis, there’s no need for that.

“Fuck you twice, motherfucker. You doubt me. Very disrespectful. Makes me angry.”

Please don’t shoot at me.

“Ain’t gonna shoot at you. Gonna deafen a white bitch.”



“Look what you caused. White bitch used to hear, now she can’t. That’s on you.”

It’s truly not.


Oh, fine. I’m responsible.

“Gonna do the other ear now.”

Dizzy, Dean

“He still doing that bullshit?”


“Can’t fucking look at him when his face does that shit, man. I was riding my horse once. Caught my nuts between my thigh and the saddle. That’s what my shit looked like for a week. Darker, though. Dizzy’s a light-skinned brother. Can get away with shit motherfuckers my complexion can’t. Ain’t that a bitch? White people hate you cause you’re black. Black people hate you cause you’re black, too. Try wrapping your head around that shit.”

The issue of darkly-complected vs. lightly-complected African-Americans has been chronicled for years by–


“Don’t pull your college boy shit on me. I went to college, too, motherfucker.”

You went to Julliard. And you dropped out.

“Had too many gigs. Playing all night ’til the sun comes up, then gotta go all the way ‘cross town to sit there in a room full of ofays that can’t hold my dick listening to some motherfucker with a beard try to teach me Itsy-Bity fucking Spider or some bullshit. They tried to give me grades.”

Your teachers? That’s what they’re supposed to do.

“Give me a grade? Give me a motherfucking grade? Shit, even when I got an A, I was pissed off. Who the fuck told you to grade me? I got an A? You think I did good work? Good. Gimme some money or some pussy. Fuck your grade. That angered me.”

I can see that.

“Question of authority. Who got it over who. Whom. White motherfuckers love saying ‘whom.’ Whole race of motherfuckers get their dicks hard from grammar. White man’s never happier than when he’s correcting someone about some shit that don’t mean shit.”

You did hire quite a few white guys to play in your bands over the years, though.

“Course I did. They could play. Don’t care if a motherfucker’s purple if he can play. I hire who the fuck I want. White, black, whatever.”

What about a woman?

“Fuck, no.”

Saw that coming.

“And I wouldn’t hire no Puerto Ricans. Not to be rude with the situation going on, but I gotta tell the truth. Can’t hire a Puerto Rican.”

I can’t believe I’m humoring this, but why?

“Unpredictable motherfuckers. White man, black man? You can guess their next move. Puerto Rican? Might just snap and start stabbing motherfuckers in their assholes.”

Very inappropriate.

“You see my cuff?”

On the suit?


I do. What about it?

“See how it’s a real button instead of that cheap glued-on shit?”


“So, shut the fuck up with calling me inappropriate.”

That’s a terrible argument.


That’s a good one.

“Always works, yeah.”


Mademoiselle Mabry

Hey, Mr. Davis.

“That hillbilly you liked died?”


“Bunch of other motherfuckers, too.”


“Shit ain’t right.”


“If you’re feeling bad, you can look at me for a while.”

It’s a good picture.

“Yeah. I’m in it.”

Yes, sir.

Birth Of The Pool

Mr. Davis, may I ask you–

“You see McLaughlin back there? Wearing his fucking dashiki? White motherfuckers should stick to khakis and fucking tuxedos. Second you venture outside that bullshit, you make fools out of yourselves. Boy looks like an usher at a theater for perverts.”

–a question?

“Yeah, fuck it. Ask away.”

Why did you always play your trumpet facing downward?

“Shit’s heavy.”


“Ain’t no one paying me for my fucking posture. You think this is something? This ain’t shit. Look at this, motherfucker.”

Wow. It’s almost like you’re trying to fold yourself in half.

“Sometimes I like to play to my dick. Only one in the fucking room understands what I’m doing half the time. Other times, I’m looking at my shoes.”


“I got beautiful shoes, motherfucker.”

That’s true.

“And once again the white man pigeonholes the black man. Only lets him be one motherfucking thing. I got fucking multitudes in me. Check this shit out.”

The horn’s going straight up now.

“You ain’t as dumb as you look. I can do it all. Horn down, up, whatever. Besides, I play this way and I don’t got to look at that motherfucker’s sad-ass afro. Shit, that thing’s terrible. Hey, Gary. Gary.”

“Yeah, Miles?”

“Go stand behind the curtain until you ain’t ugly no more.”

Stop bullying Gary Bartz, Mr. Davis.

“Goddamn, you got me all riled up now. Motherfuckers coming into my headspace and fucking it up. I need to go the health club and take a swim.”


I don’t understand what’s happening.

“What, a black man can’t swim?”

Well, actually, due to a myriad of socioeconomic factors–


“Shut the fuck up, Mr. Wizard, or I’ll shove that kickboard up your ass.”


“I’ve shoved kickboards up motherfuckers’ asses before.”

I already apologized. Is that a shower cap?

“Yeah. Lemme show you how to put it on.”

This is a weird lesson.

“Motherfuckers wanna start from the front, but that’s the white man lying to them. Back is the place to begin. Get all your little curly shits all wrapped up tight back there. Then you cover the front.”

“Voila, motherfucker.”

Mr. Davis, why the cap?

“You think this shit I got on my head is natural, motherfucker? Can’t be dipping a fucking process in a swimming pool. Teach you peckerwoods nothing at school, I swear.”

May I ask one more question?

“Ask me while I’m fucking swimming.”

What happened to the cap?

“I got mad at a white lady and slapped her with it.”

And why the sunglasses?

“Bright as a motherfucker in here.”

You’re indoors.

“Shut the fuck up. Watch me do the breaststroke.”


“I can frog kick like a motherfucker.”

This has gone to a place I did not expect.

“Okay, now spot me, motherfucker.”


I’m leaving.

“If you find that Garcia motherfucker, tell him to come by.”

The gym? I can tell you right now he won’t come by the gym.


I’ll send him to the house.


Where are you even keeping that gun?

“Worry about yourself.”

Yes, sir.

Even The Buddha Needs A Road Manager

Why are you wearing a backstage pass?

“It is what th’ French call an accoutrement, me son. Little sumpin t’ spice up me appearance. Tells people what genre I belong to, dunnit?”

Is this your van?

“Legally or morally?”

It’s a van. There is no moral ownership of a van.

“Well, that’s where yer wrong, guv. One chooses not a van; the van chooses one. Much like a magical sword. Better ‘n a magical sword, I reckon. Sword’s not particularly useful nowadays, innit? Van’s good for all sorts of wiz. Live in it, drive the band in it. Vans can be converted into mobile dog groomeries, me son. Lucrative business, but hard on th’ knees. That’s what Going Mobile was about. That number The ‘oo did.”

Going Mobile by The Who is about the dog grooming van that comes to your house?

“God’s honest.”

I choose to believe you, but only due to how unimportant this point is.

“Bless ya, lad. You seen Miles anywhere about?

He was here before. Him and Garcia are off somewhere getting high.

“Managed several tours for him.”

You did not.

“Information you won’t find in any ‘istory book, but each word the fuzzy.”


“Cockney rhyming slang. See now, ‘fuzzy’ rhymes with ‘buzzi.’ From there, we go t’ Ruth Buzzi, and ‘Ruth’ pairs up nicely with ‘truth.’ Fuzzy means truth.”

That is absolutely not how Cockney rhyming slang works.

“No need to be all dolphin and chimney.”

Stop it. You’re just making shit up.

“Th’ Dead would take months and months off, lazy buggers that they were, but I preferred an honest day’s work. Or a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Whichever, I just couldn’t sit around. So in between Dead tours, I squired the Man With The Horn around. Complicated man.”

And no one understood him but his woman?

“Nah, they couldn’t figure th’ fucker out, either. He was a bit like Garcia. Loved ‘is fags.”


“Cigarettes, you illiterate colonist. MIles loved ‘is cigarettes. ‘Ated ‘omosexuals.”


“Accused me on the regular of bein’ a poof. Said it was th’ accent. Kept sendin’ poor Chick Corea int’ my room late at night to try an’ grab me willie.”

Yeah, he does that. Who was easier to manage, Miles or the Dead?

“You must be joking.”


“There’s no comparison. 800 dodgy bastards with dope stuck in their beards or a guy who really wants his check? Tell me ‘oo you’d rather shepherd.”

“You talking shit about me, motherfucker?”

“Oh, ‘ello, MIles.”

“Who is that, Miles?”

“Shut the fuck up, you blind motherfucker. Cutler, you owe me $500.”

“Other way around, Miles.”



“Shut the fuck up, Stevie.”


You look happy.

“Found a teevee show I like. Too many white motherfuckers, but it’s funny. Makes me laugh.”

What show, Mr. Davis?

“Don’t know the name. About this white bitch wants to have everything. Works at some sort of comedy show. There’s a black man on the show, but he’s a buffoon. Talks like he’s got nine dicks in his mouth.”

Are you talking about 30 Rock?

“Told you I didn’t know the name, motherfucker. White motherfucker in a suit with a giant head got a voice like mine is on the show, too. Very funny. One episode I saw had a cartoon cat on it. They called him Meatcat. Used to know a trombone player named Meatcat.”

Yeah, you’re talking about 30 Rock.

“All sorts of misunderstandings and confusion going on. Leads to comedic situations. Kept my attention even though it was some racist bullshit. That white bitch who stars in it never knows what she wants. Family? Career? Bitch don’t know. Reminds me of Cicely.”

Tina Fey reminded you of Cicely Tyson?

“Yeah. When she started getting out of hand, I wanted to slap her.”

Jesus, Mr. Davis.

“One show, they did it live. Like that was some fucking big deal. I did my show live every night. White people always want you be impressed when they do some shit black folks do every day.”

I guess. But, um, I got some bad news for you.


Was that your pistol?

“You know it was.”

I did. Just checking. But 30 Rock is going off Netflix.



“This is what the white man does. Gets you to enjoy something, then takes it away.”

There’s other shows.

“I ain’t watching no fucking Friends, motherfucker.”

I wasn’t going to suggest that.

“Shouldn’t be suggesting nothing to me. You a genius?”

Well, according to the New Yorker


I deserved that.

“One of these days, I’m not gonna miss. You lucky I’m a sweetheart.”

“That’s right, man. Miles is a prince.”

“Who said that?”

“Hey, man.”

“Garcia! Hey, motherfucker. Get your fat Mexican ass over here.”

“How you been, Miles?”

“Dead. How about you?”


“You holding?”

“Shit, yeah.”

“Good. I like that. Tell that chatterbox motherfucker to beat it.”

“Sure. Hey.”


“Yeah, man. Cop a walk.”

But I–


HOLY SHIT, Garcia! Did you just shoot at me?

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to for a while.”

“Heh heh. Shoot at him again.”


Commentator Dead_Drift hips us all to this 1962 Playboy interview with Mr. Davis in which he:

  • Says the word “negro” a million fucking times.
  • Also says the word “Oriental” quite a bit.
  • Gets mad at the insinuation that he might not be the greatest trumpet player that ever lived.
  • Complains about literally the exact same bullshit that black folks are still dealing with today.
  • Doesn’t stab his interlocutor when asked the question: “Have you always been so sensitive about being a negro?”


You don’t look happy.

“Thinking, motherfucker. Black man can’t have a neutral look on his face without getting shit?”

Just saying.

“You saying but you got nothing to say. Got nothing to say, don’t say nothing. Just shut the fuck up and be in my presence.”

It’s a dialogue-based interaction, Mr. Davis.

“So write some fucking description, you lazy motherfucker.”

You see that Hugh Hefner died?

“Fuck him. White man stays in his house having bitches bring him money and people want to build statues to him. I do it and I get arrested. Sissy-ass in his pajamas.”

Hef did a lot for civil rights, Mr. Davis.

“Ever get his head split open by some racist pig cop just ’cause he was standing on the sidewalk?”


“Then he didn’t do a lot. Motherfucker did some. Besides, you ever see black bitches in that magazine of his?”

Once in a while.

“Yeah. Once in a while. Buried with a bunch of other bitches in the back of the issue. Centerfold wasn’t for n—–s. Maybe once in a while you see a brunette. Other than that, it’s like the bad guys won the war.”

I asked you to stop using that word.

“And I asked you to shut the fuck up. We are at an impasse.”

I guess.

“Hef was a pimp. People loved him for it. I did that same shit. Got locked in jail. Now tell me I can’t say n—-r, you symbol-of-fucking-systemic-oppression motherfucker.”

You have a point, but you don’t need to be such a dick about it.

“You telling me how to protest now?”

No, sir.

“Good, I’m gonna go swimming.”

“Now I’m swimming.”

You are.

“Go away.”


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