By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
By Karli Evans
By Jose D. Duran
By Pablo Chacon Alvarez
The collaborations between trumpeter Miles Davis -- one of the most restless (and brilliant) figures in the history of jazz -- and Gil Evans, a composer/arranger/pianist who was attracted equally to innovation and traditionalism, have spawned plenty of arguments among critics over the years. There's no question that the three albums forming the core of the Davis/Evans legend -- Miles Ahead (1957), Porgy and Bess (1958), and Sketches of Spain (1960) -- have a striking sound that's never been duplicated. But commentators differ on whether the discs represented for Davis a musical leap forward, an intriguing creative tangent, or an overrated bow to that very sort of finicky high art to which jazz once served as an alternative. And while music has no hue, the pigmentation of these two artists has colored the discussions of their work together. Many Davis disciples suggest that Evans's mission was to make Miles more "acceptable" to those sophisticated Caucasians who by the late Fifties represented a sizable percentage of the jazz audience. While he by and large succeeded, he also bleached the messiest but most intriguing elements from Davis's sound. Succinctly put, devotees feel that the music Davis made with Evans is too damn white.
The recent release of Miles Davis & Gil Evans: The Complete Columbia Studio Recordings, a lavish six-CD boxed set issued on Legacy/Columbia, is unlikely to resolve critical disagreements. It certainly provides all sides with evidence to support their cases. The first disc presents Miles Ahead in a newly constructed, full-stereo version supplemented by rare alternative takes. Disc Two pairs the original Porgy and Bess release with different run-throughs of the same material, presented in the order that the compositions appeared in George Gershwin's opera. Disc Three features Sketches of Spain plus a couple of extra numbers. Disc Four includes Quiet Nights (the least ballyhooed of the Davis/Evans albums), some seldom-heard sextet tapes, unreleased material Davis wrote for a play by Peter Barnes, and more Miles Ahead remainders. Five and Six delve even deeper into Miles Ahead, compiling studio chatter, aborted takes, and related ephemera. The sixth disc also contains rehearsal recordings, along with more unused bits and pieces from the Porgy and Bess and Sketches of Spain sessions. These CDs are encased in a booklike package complete with gorgeous graphics, a sweeping discography, and essays by, among others, Quincy Jones. Simply to hold it in one's hand is to feel extravagant -- which, for an item that retails for around $100, is precisely the idea.
Listenability isn't the primary focus of the last two discs. Executive producer Michael Cuscuna (from Mosaic Productions), reissue producers Phil Schapp and Bob Belden, and their assorted minions seemingly view the project's last third as a valentine to completists -- those Davis/Evans buffs desperate to own every single note played by the artists while in each other's company. More casual enthusiasts will find much to admire among the unearthed obscurities -- for example, snippets of Davis's conversations showing that his voice was gruff and gravelly throughout his life, not just at the end. But neither casual nor more obsessive fans are apt to spend as much time with this material as they will with Miles Ahead, Porgy and Bess, and Sketches of Spain, remastered with a care and precision that accentuates their richness and complexity.
This opportunity to more effectively unravel the enigmas of this music may well lead a great many students of jazz to decide that the recordings represent Davis's artistic peak -- an extremely dubious conclusion. In this fan's view, 1959's Kind of Blue, 1969's In a Silent Way, and 1970's Jack Johnson are Miles's greatest achievements, with a number of other long-players (Milestones, Sorcerer, and Bitches Brew) close behind. But that's not to say that the bulk of The Complete Columbia Studio Recordings is dispensable. Far from it: The music demonstrates Davis's versatility and the radiance of his timbre. Moreover, the clarity of the discs makes plain an often overlooked aspect of the Davis/Evans efforts: tension. While Davis was in some ways as analytical as Evans, he never shied away from spontaneity, a tool that the tightly structured, heavily arranged backdrops Evans constructed prevented him from using as he might have otherwise. The setting calls for Davis to be at his sharpest, and he is. But the moments when he's most obviously chafing at his restrictions are often the most interesting ones here.
For self-evident reasons, Miles Ahead is the loosest volume in the Davis/Evans canon. While a few of the tunes might be considered tony --particularly "The Maids of Cadiz," which prefigures Sketches of Spain by several years, and "My Ship," a piece by Ira Gershwin and Kurt Weill -- the majority were originally written for jazz or pop fanciers: Bobby Troup's "The Meaning of the Blues," J.J. Johnson's "Lament," Dave Brubeck's "The Duke." What distinguishes them from other Davis performances is the size of the ensembles backing him; the groups massed by Evans are often nearly twenty members strong and include instruments such as oboe, clarinet, bass clarinet, and tuba. These arsenals are Evans creations, and he deserves credit for assembling them at a time in jazz history when so-called big bands were viewed by shortsighted beboppers as hopelessly passe. Evans, through his arrangements and the tastefulness of his recording techniques, came up with a distinctive sound for these oversized combos -- one that owed a great deal to Duke Ellington but was notably creamier. Even the brass stings on "New Rhumba" seem somewhat reserved by comparison with those of, say, the average Count Basie recording.