 Miles Davis As with most of Miles Davis's 70s records, Jack Johnson would more accurately be considered a Teo Macero album, because he was really the one who shaped the music, somehow taking hours and hours of formless wanking and editing the tapes down to create the "songs." The resulting record is a stunner, and marks the real dividing line between Miles's traditional jazz stuff and his rock-influenced stuff. It's the record, far more than Bitches Brew, that will cause you to either get down or throw up your hands in exasperation, swearing off Miles Davis once and for all. To call Jack Johnson a fusion record misses the point, because "fusion" implies some sort of searching for balance between jazz and rock … this record is not interested in balance. It's in your face, defiantly "out there," flaunting its way-ahead-of-you-ness with absolute confidence, like Jack Johnson himself, the fast-living, flapper-fucking heavyweight champion of the 19-Oughts. The album's two tracks, "Right Off" and "Yesternow," mosey along through a variety of grooves and moods, from blistering shit to reverby ambient weirdness to slow-simmering, quiet insanity. Producer Macero's edits and crossfades work magic on this stuff, presenting what was actually a fairly unfocussed series of explorations into something of real purpose. Both songs are basically giant montages of different performances, but it all hangs together like a spicy Indian dinner. Despite the aggressive wall of sound throughout – mainly dictated by John McLaughlin's intentionally showy guitar lines and Hendrix-like sonic fuckery – Miles remains the firm center, and his playing, if you focus only on that, is not much different from that of Sketches of Spain. The man drew his inspiration from many places, but the important thing is, when he was inspired, he was always on, and he's fucking fantastic on Jack Johnson. The album wanders in and out, through dirty, gritty nightclubs and spaced-out smackhouses, before finally ending up at a cemetery to pour Hennessy over the fallen body of its most cherished homie. The final minute, a dark, minor-key swell accompanied by a powerful voiced-over Johnson quote, may be the most beautiful minute of music Miles ever put to tape. It's a thrill to have taken the ride through some of those sketchy neighborhoods just to be alongside for this moment. I hope some idiot fan of that good-time strummy surfer-jam crooner Jack Johnson buys this album mistakenly believing it to be a confluence of Miles Davis and that hack. Might just blow that Jack Johnson fan's head right open, which would be a good start.
Review by Caitlin Champagne |