In Ohio, in 1966, I was a 16-year old saxophone player in the high school band. There were a few of us that listened to jazz then along with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and Paul Revere and the Raiders.

That was the year of the First Cleveland All-Star Jazz Festival. What an incredible line up! Big Joe Williams, the Horace Silver Quintet, the Dave Brubeck quartet, Jimmy Smith, Nancy Wilson, and the Miles Davis Quintet. It was held at the Celeveland Arena, a soon-to-be-demolished hockey and basketball venue. There were six of us who went and had wooden chairs on the floor of the arena halfway back from the stage.

The stage was at the end of the floor,approached by wooden steps. There was a back-stage area, but it was off to the side and the musicians walked out into an open area and up the steps. Between acts, anyone could walk up to them and start talking and I made sure I did just that.

I got to meet my hero of that time, Paul Desmond. He played alto sax with Brubeck and played flawlessly. I had flashbulbs in my Kodak camera and he graciously posed for a picture. I turned from him and there next to the stage, getting ready to play was the inexpressably cool Miles Davis.

I knew Miles' reputation. Gruff, aloof - he often played with his back to the audience. He was an innovator, an artist, he knew every musician worth knowing at that time and had played with most of them.

I, on the other hand, was about as far from cool as it was possible to get. Tall, skinny, with black-framed glasses, I had grown up in farm country (had Miles ever seen a farm?) and had never actually known any "Negros" (as we used to say, not knowing any better). But I was eager and I was polite.

"Excuse me, Mr. Davis - can I take your picture?"

Miles barely looked up, I don't think I even registered on his radar as more than a very random blip. In his characteristic raspy growl he said, "Hell no!" and turned around. I turned too, and went back to my seat, laughing. My friends thought it was cool, because Miles had actually talked to me. We all knew his reputation and those two words were like his music - concise, not a wasted note.

I've never forgotten that night. I heard Jimmy Smith's jazz organ work the crowd to a yelling, stomping, joyous froth - and then go on two choruses too long, losing the edge. I heard Big Joe Williams sing blues in the richest, warmest baritone I'd ever heard. And I heard Miles Davis and his group make music that demanded to be heard and left you grateful for having shared the experience. The man who made that music, the man whose trumpet played on so many of my records had talked to me. Could I have imagined a better evening? Hell, no!
8:21:23 AM    Comments?()