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Miles Davis Sketches of Spain

It is likely that if we want to learn jazz, you should not start by listening it or it or it, otherwise you risk quickly sicken of it altogether. I myself am a complete novice in this field. I know skin prick structures, and probably better. Jazz, I just recently put me there and I do not know how to speak properly; I'm naked, so to speak (as usually late evening). But then I came across something that speaks to me, and should talk to any person equipped with ears (I include even the fans of Jason Mraz and James Blunt, that's how I faith in human beings) and that allows me to open so beautifully our first foray into the subject: "Sketches of Spain" by Miles Davis. Already the title "Sketches of Spain". It's more poetic than "go shit in your vomit "For sure.

Besides being considered one of the most accessible albums of the master, saying that if is that it's really beautiful? The disc begins directly with the main dish, a replay of the hyper-dramatic Aranjuez Concerto , any restraint of violent and painful to the unease. I'm listening to now, fucking shit is something. Follows the lazy " Will of the wisp " If slow, so heavy, so sad looks like another. For "The Pan Piper ," the truth my brother looks like some phantasmagoric procession macabre, the truth! The rest is not quite in the future but still excellent. One thinks of Ravel
(especially on "Will of the wisp" and swirling pattern), inevitably: should say that the classic themes rather Hispanic are not really known legions, the Bolero , and Asturias of Albeniz (for fans of the Doors, that's where Krieger has drawn the intro to "English Caravan") and I believe that that's all. So yes you will think of Ravel, Morricone ... these climates there. Climates in which power is hugely evocative arrangements of Gil Evans.

But we also hear and especially what makes the originality of Miles Davis, this darkness that is pliable enough to contact her multiply the possibilities of listening. This ambiguity insinuating his music, some see it as an expression of "grief distilled" (Nick Kent), hear me well up above a diffuse threat, or a heavy regret, or a metaphysical evil, at least some something something impossibly overwhelming. There is always a moment where the music drifting toward something else, there's always something that derailed the brothel (and at 4: 45 during the concerto, the trumpet, muted so far, just pierce the relative calm that preceded and began to agonize). It will be understood, we do not listen "Sketches of Pain" in his pullover Ricoré morning.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll recluse for 72 hours to pass me this album repeatedly.

Vianney G.