Dave Liebman jouait dans les carrières de Junas en 2010
Le livre de Dave Liebman:
What It Is: The Life of a Jazz Artist [Anglais] [Relié]
Dave Liebman (Auteur), Lewis Porter (Avec la contribution de)
est disponible sur Amazon.fr
Dave Liebman: When Miles Came Calling
In this book excerpt, the saxophonist reflects on working with the Prince of Darkness
11/13/12
In the summer of 1972, 25-year-old saxophonist Dave Liebman was thriving and learning in a band led by Elvin Jones, the drummer most associated with Liebman’s idol, John Coltrane. And then Miles Davis came calling.
In this exclusive excerpt from his recent memoir, What It Is: The Life of a Jazz Artist, a collaboration with author, historian and musician Lewis Porter, Liebman reflects on his time with the brilliant, mercurial trumpeter.
LEWIS: When did you first hear from Miles?
DAVE: The first specific event was June 1, 1972. I happened to be staying at my parents’ house, visiting in Brooklyn, and had an appointment at a doctor’s office in downtown Brooklyn, Hoyt-Schermerhorn Street to be exact. I think it was an allergy doctor. Out of nowhere the secretary shouts, “Is there a David Liebman here? It’s your mother on the phone.” My mother says, “Somebody named Teo Macero said you should come to the studio to record now with Miles Davis.” Teo was Miles’ producer for many years. This was like 11:30 in the morning. I happened to have my soprano with me—talk about good luck. I knew what this meant, because I knew that Chick [Corea] and Dave [Holland] were doing sessions with Miles in the mornings. As well, I knew that it was probably a 10 to 1 session and it was going to end soon. So I hightailed it out of Brooklyn like a maniac and parked my car right on 52nd and Madison in Manhattan, where the studio was. It didn’t get towed, by the way.
DAVE: The first specific event was June 1, 1972. I happened to be staying at my parents’ house, visiting in Brooklyn, and had an appointment at a doctor’s office in downtown Brooklyn, Hoyt-Schermerhorn Street to be exact. I think it was an allergy doctor. Out of nowhere the secretary shouts, “Is there a David Liebman here? It’s your mother on the phone.” My mother says, “Somebody named Teo Macero said you should come to the studio to record now with Miles Davis.” Teo was Miles’ producer for many years. This was like 11:30 in the morning. I happened to have my soprano with me—talk about good luck. I knew what this meant, because I knew that Chick [Corea] and Dave [Holland] were doing sessions with Miles in the mornings. As well, I knew that it was probably a 10 to 1 session and it was going to end soon. So I hightailed it out of Brooklyn like a maniac and parked my car right on 52nd and Madison in Manhattan, where the studio was. It didn’t get towed, by the way.
So it was about 12:30 when I got there. I walked in and stood in the hall between the studio and recording booth, looking through the glass at Miles and everybody. There were like 9,000 people in the studio, all sitting, quiet—John McLaughlin, Chick, Don Alias, Herbie Hancock, Michael Henderson, Colin Walcott, Larry Young, Jack DeJohnette, Billy Hart, Badal Roy on tablas and another keyboard player named Harold Williams. Miles signaled me to come in.
Miles was standing next to Jack and was whispering in his ear the way he used to sort of sing something in that gravel voice. Everybody was really still, at attention. There was a big boom microphone in the middle of the studio—obviously Miles’ mic. He said, “Let’s go,” and they started playing. You’ve got to remember that everybody was electric, all plugged in—keyboards, guitar, organ, bass—and I had no headphones, so it all sounded like clicks! All I could hear were the drums and a little tablas and congas. Basically, I don’t think there were any actual amps in the studio. Miles made a motion moving his fingers, like, “Get your horn out.” I took the soprano out, and he signaled me to come over to this gigantic microphone and nudged me up to play. He literally put his hand on my back to go to the microphone.
Anyway, that’s the title track of the On the Corner record. You hear me fumbling around because I couldn’t hear what damn key I was in! I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t hear a root. Nobody said a word to me, and everybody was pumping along on their keyboards and drums. I didn’t have time to think, but I played OK. Anyway, that’s it. The take kind of peters out because, as I learned, there were no beginnings or ends to any of these tunes during that period. It was a little bit awkward. I could feel the presence of Miles just put a freeze on everybody. The session seemed over, and everybody was putting their horns away or whatever. I didn’t know what to do. Nobody said anything to me. I put the horn away and I went into the booth. I thought maybe I could hear back what we did—which of course never happened. Teo communicated with me: “Here, sign this paper and you’ll get a check.” Something like that. Then I saw what I learned was pretty much the ending process on all of those recording dates. Miles got the cassette and was gone. The limousine was waiting for him, evidently. As he passed me—he hadn’t said a word to me yet—he said, “You should join my band.” Very offhand.
Dave Liebman dans la groupe de Miles Davis 1981
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