Davis was famous for his dramatic silences in performance: the notes he chose not to play were almost as meaningful as those he did.
But this silence would last for nearly five years – during which he all but disappeared into his Upper West Side brownstone.
Visitors evoked a macabre dungeon swarming with prostitutes – drug dealers – hangers-on and corpulent roaches.
Davis – who styled himself as jazz’s ‘Prince of Darkness’ later confirmed the rumors with unabashed relish in his 1989 autobiography Miles – written with the poet Quincy Troupe.
Yet for all this decadence there was a noble almost monastic aura to Davis’s retirement at forty-nine after one of the most extraordinary careers in postwar music.
Davis had taken part in almost every phase in jazz’s evolution since the mid-1940s.
Born in 1926 into a prosperous black family just outside East St. Louis he arrived in late 1944 in New York.
His official reason was to attend Juilliard but this was a smokescreen to placate his father – an oral surgeon who owned a three-hundred-acre farm.
His real reason was to follow his idols the alto saxophonist Charlie Parker and the trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie who were revolutionizing jazz at clubs in Harlem and on West 52nd Street.
Parker – whose appetite for music was exceeded only by his appetite for heroin taught Davis bebop – a form of small-group improvisation characterized by extreme velocity and complex chord progressions and warned him to stay away from the needle—advice Davis ignored to his lasting regret.
He was a classic bohemian rebel – irresistibly drawn to the sound and the forbidden pleasures of the street.