You can listen to a recorded
version of this essay by going to the archive of National Public Radio
(NPR). Put this link in your web
browser:
By Daphne Muse
Looking more like a Brazilian
shrunken head than a towering giant of jazz, there I stood in between Miles and
a short white guy, with a German accent. Mr. German accent guy appeared to have
some official role in Miles’ life. But
the gentleman standing next to me certainly was not the legendary, Birth of Cool jazz bad boy I’d seen play
three times, giving the audience his you can kiss my ass stance. By reputation and documentation, Miles generally
displayed no capacity for reasonable social graces.
But that night, he was almost totally
out of character, remarkably engaging and had “chillaxed” his ego. We’d gathered to honor actress Cecily Tyson,
his wife at the time. It was her night
and Miles respected her space and knew his place. The UC Theatre was packed and Miles actually
looked on rather adoringly, as his wife was praised for her exemplary work and honored
with an award from Women in Film.
As we left the theatre and inched our
way towards the exit, I found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with Miles
Davis. In the slowly moving crowd, we looked over and acknowledged one another
in ways people once did without a second thought. As his greeting caught on the rough edges of
his throat, he said, “Hey, what’s happenin.’” His voice sounded like his vocal
chords rubbed against sandpaper, before coming out of his mouth. I kinda looked around for a minute thinking
Miles Davis couldn’t possibly be speaking, let alone to me. Once I realized the gravelly greeting was in
fact to me, I responded with “Good evening Mr. Davis.” Miles smiled and I
almost fainted into the arms of Bebop.
Mustering my courage, I said “Mr.
Davis, I saw some of your paintings last week and your music and art are
equally powerful.” He looked at me with those eyes popping up out of his
shrunken head self, reverting to the legendary Miles of bad ass attitude and
said, “Where you see my shit?” With all the grace I could muster, I explained I’d
recently read an article in Essence
Magazine that focused on his paintings. He delivered a second unbelievable
smile and suddenly my fear of his personae melted. But some of the fear was
mitigated by the fact that he physically did not tower above me: All five foot
four of me could look him straight in the eye.
The festive and honorable tone of the evening had carried over and bent
the steel in his heart. One felt he was genuinely proud and pleased for Cecily.
The conversation we began at the
theatre continued at the bar of Berkeley’s Fourth Street Grill, where I found
myself standing between him and the now smiling man with the German accent. As the pieces of gravel continued to travel
up his throat, he asked me, “What you do?”
His question came out sounding like one word. “I’m a teacher and I write.” He paused a few
seconds, as though he’d returned to his trumpet to call up a note or his canvas
to capture a brushstroke. As he bobbed his
head up and down, he said, “That’s important work you know.” As I attempted to ask him more about his
paintings, he returned the conversation to the evening’s events and the honor
bestowed upon wife. I was so proud of
Miles. That night, it was so all about Cecily.
Copyright 2004
Daphne Muse
2429 East 23rd
Street
Oakland, CA 94601-1235
510 436-4716, 510 261-6064
(FAX)
