8/18/2019 Finding Miles

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FINDING MILES –  KIND OF BLUE

I grew up sheltered, in a non-creative home. My parents had both left school at the age of 12 to support their

families, my mother as a machinist and my father as a shepherd in southern Portugal. In hindsight I was never

expecting for them to expand my "creative consciousness"; they had been deprived of this and further education

 by that immutable, ugly fascist, Salazar.

It was not until I was 25, possibly 26, when I commenced expanding my inquisitiveness about anything creative.

It was an autodidacts’ approach. I wanted to learn but it was going to be on my terms, I was going to experience

this "shit" in my own head-space and see what "arose".

It was a hot afternoon in 1996 or 1997 and I walked into the HMV store on Queen Street Mall, Brisvegas, to listen

to some sounds and escape the heat. At the back of that store was a separate room that held an excellent

collection of jazz and world music. I would ask for a CD to be inserted into the player, close my eyes and drift into

nothingness (Nothingness has its forms of beauty. In meditation you "lose" your body and your interaction with

all matter; the universe and your experience in it becomes entirely vibrational, or at least that's the way Iunderstood it.) The guy in this backroom, a muso with long hair and Jim Morrison swagger, knew by then about

my musical inquisitiveness and he'd throw a couple of CDs and suggestions at me, including a band from

southern Spain "Radio Tarifa" which continuous to astound me today with its fusion of sounds - Iberian, with

north Africa and Middle East thrown in.

That day he said, "Have you ever listened to Miles Davis?" I said no. "Well," he said with a glint in his eyes, "I'll

put on this cat and tell me what you think. Sit down man, and chill out. You do like Jazz right?"

"Yeah sure," I replied. It was an automatic and self-conscious response. In reality, I hadn't listened to much jazz

 before.

I put the headphones on and what came out was the universe in a trumpet , a sound so beautiful, that like a good

opiate, it wrapped me in a warm blanket I never wanted to escape from. I lost time, human consciousness, and

 became something else, like the "nothingness" mentioned, but something more profound.

I sat on that chair for what seemed an eternity until Jim Morrison tapped me on the shoulder. I pulled the

headphones to the side.

"Who, what the fuck is that man?" I said.

"Miles Davis, Kind of Blue," he said, the glint still in his eyes, a drug dealer that was glad I was hooked.

"Man, I'll take it. You got anymore?"

"Yeah man. I've got a couple of the cat's live recordings and they're even better."

"Surely nothing can be better than what I've just heard. That shit was something else."

I bought Kind of Blue and another two CDs of the great man.

 As soon as I exited the store onto the Queen Street Mall, I put on one of the live albums onto my CD player. It

immediately stopped the chaos in my head, and the feeling of inadequacy in a world I felt I didn't belong to, and

feel to this day I do not belong to, until I listen to beautiful music. Thank you Miles.

(c) John Castanho