In a Silent Way by Miles Davis

Beautiful things made by flawed or even bad people should be a source of hope for all of us. Miles Davis was undoubtedly a flawed man capable of extraordinary musical beauty and wonder. For me, there is no greater expression of those powers than the music contained in his 1969 masterwork ‘In A Silent Way’.

Wonderful melodies mesh with shifting rhythms to create unexpected moments from musical motifs elegantly revealed in the space of thirty-eight minutes. At the same time, these melodies, rhythms, and motifs offer a feeling of such enticing restlessness that even after a hundred listens I’m still compelled to listen closer to make sure that I don’t miss the glorious moment.

Believe me when I say that I’m no expert in Jazz, but I do know far too well what it is like to struggle to escape a feeling of anxiety. For me, the gift of ‘In A Silent Way’ is in the tension and unease at its heart, punctuated by exquisite moments of calm and clarity. It is something that is not unlike the sensation of controlling your breathing while a storm rages around you.

Of course, this is my convoluted way of saying that whatever the artist's intention was with this record, my connection to it is on a far simpler, baser level. This music speaks to me because it seems to reflect something in me that I recognise. Of course, the fact that I consider the sound of Miles Davis’ trumpet to be one of the most expressive and emotionally eloquent sounds in the history of recorded music is another important factor in this. Indeed, given that it seems to me that there isn’t a feeling he cannot evoke through the instrument only provokes an increased feeling of kinship to an artist, with whom I have little in common except my love for their work.

Unfortunately, this is where things get complicated because, without going into the details, (the information isn’t exactly hard to find) Miles Davis’ life was messy, violent, and often unpleasant. As is often the case there is some mitigation for aspects of this but not all of it can be neatly set aside and ignored. In this way, Davis provides a clear example of a troubled person who, on some level, sought acclaim and was given a spotlight that revealed to the world the more troubling aspects of their character.

This is a tale that has often been repeated and isn’t softened by the repetition. Like many others, because he was a ‘Great Man’, Miles Davis didn’t need to be a good one. Obviously, there have been notable social changes in recent years that have somewhat complicated this status quo, although this has had a greater effect on artists working now than on the cultural giants of the past. The implication seems to be that time may not really heal but it can certainly provide the distance required to offer something resembling redemption. This suggests that social changes and the social acceptability of past behaviours can literally cover a multitude of sins. However, even this can’t fully explain why the need to divorce the art from the nature, character, and behaviour of an artist becomes easier when that artist has already died.

Perhaps it is simply a matter of being able to more easily choose to reflect on only the greatness and beauty of their work. Not having to directly face the truth of the flawed person certainly simplifies their legacy and helps explain how the likes of Richard Wagner, Michael Jackson, Pablo Picasso, Miles Davis, and many others retain a degree of love and respect that some of their actions in their lives would and perhaps should have obliterated.

This attitude seems to imply that all that truly endures is the beauty of the art itself. The problem with this is that the art is an extension of the artist that made it. It must be. No matter how good, bad, or indifferent the artist was or is it must have come from a place within them, showing some aspect of who they are or were. Looking at it in this way is much more uncomfortable and makes the art of these sometimes horrible oftentimes messy people all the more interesting while making it harder to defend the brilliance of their work.

Despite this, the power of ‘In A Silent Way’ can’t be diminished for me. It offers me what it has always done: the hope that only familiarity and understanding can offer. It is music that somehow, wordlessly makes me feel understood. It is as if my anxiety, my sadness, and my sense of disquiet are somehow singularly my own and yet were also given expression in the form of music made by someone else years before I was even born.

There is an essential sense of compassion and even communion that comes from this. It is a connection that all of us can share, and which can help us understand that we are all flawed people and that we can all be worth more than the sum of those flaws. After all, if even awful people can create beautiful things, then there must be some hope for everyone else.