God's Teeth and Other Phenomena by James Kelman

Author:James Kelman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PM Press

18

Dont mess with Miles

Oh god it was lights out in the world and I had found this radio station somewhere, who knows how. The guy doing the show was quite elderly. He was a musician himself and like most everyone else on this station, was a volunteer. The operation worked on that basis, raising money via individual subscription and donation. This was no principle this was a basis that got the job done. These people were in love with music and with the musicians who create it. So they ended here on this wee radio station not only working for nothing but paying for the privilege. I heard stuff here I never heard elsewhere; bands and folk I thought dead and gone forever. One specialized in Hawaiian music; one in Celtic, another in west and southern African; one from the Indian Subcontinent, Mexican Ranchero, Native-American; be-bop, doo-wop & hip hop. This night the old guy was playing a composition by Miles Davis. Several seconds into the track he broke in, stopped it playing. I thought his machine had broken down. It hadnt. The old guy was talking softly, No no no, no. No, no man no, no no noohh old Miles no, he would turn in his grave man I cannot do it I am sorry folks, I began this too too soon man way too soon, old Miles, oh no, ssh, ssh … here now here now we just go easy, eaassy, ssh, counting eight …

And silence. Nothing for a beat of eight, allowing this most proper portion of space which is peace,

peace,

then the quiet early sound of that horn beginning bip bip bip bip bip just where Miles intended it should. He intended that quiet early sound to begin in, or begin from, silence. It required silence or it could not begin. It began from silence and Miles relied on that. Fucking hell. Can ye imagine. Break down that word “begin,” be-gin. I see it as “be in” and “being-in.” That was something. Respect for the music, for someone’s art. And of course fun, it was fun. You felt like Miles was there and watching and he was a quirky edgy bastard and would have been grumping and groaning. Of course he was there, yes he was there. That was his music. How could he be anywhere else? The artist becoming present. And the musician-deejay understood all that.

I was lying there sprawled on the armchair, no curtains on the window, watching faraway airplanes, seeing the night, feeling very much alone, really. I was alone, but I was kind of liking that, away doing some kind of event and Hannah not able to come with me, home with the kids, and I had the uisqué in my hand and I knew about him, fuck, man, this guy he really did know, he knew, he knew. My eyes were wet. That was the comical side, how that deejay was in anguish at the very idea of messing up Miles’ music:

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