The studio became part of the composition.

Not chaos —
direction.

Rhythm moved to the center
and stayed there,
low and circular,
like a thought that won’t resolve.

Texture replaced harmonic motion.

Improvisation was collective —
no one stepping out front,
just currents crossing currents.

Electric sound opened new space.

Tape hiss.

A razor blade lifting silence
and laying it somewhere else.

The music mirrors its historical moment —
voltage in the air,
streets unsettled,
nothing wanting to close.

Davis was always listening forward.

Jazz did not end here.

It changed.

And in the change
pulse overtook certainty,
groove kept widening,
and the lights in the control room
burned past midnight
while the future assembled itself
from fragments.

And listening changed too —
no more waiting for the solo to arrive
like a clean answer.

You had to lean in,
stay inside the weather,
let repetition become hypnosis,
let ambiguity breathe.

The listener became part of the mix,
not solving the music
but entering it —
finding meaning in the mystery of the world,
holding the pulse
until it began to reveal
what it never intended to explain.

This is a found poem composed from words and ideas from Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew by George Grella Jr. Feel free to share your experiences with this masterpiece of modern music.