Miles Davis stared at me over his trumpet while the rest of the Bitch’s Brew band cooked around him. As usual, his back was to the audience at the University of Miami outdoor concert. Wayne Shorter, Airto, Keith Jarette on freaked out electric piano, Jack Dejonette on drumset. I was standing behind Jack Dejonnette. My arm was in a sling, my right shoulder had eighteen stitches in it. I was full of codeine and still pissed about not being able to play. It was a long night. Miles and I got into a staring thing. People would talk about how hard it was to be eye to eye with Miles. His dark handsome face and wide eyes gave him a haunted aura. if you were the least bit paranoid he could scare you just by looking at you. We got an understanding that night. We didn’t talk, we just looked each other in the eye.
The Grove Pub was now getting hip. Bitch’s Brew was even on the jukebox. The Asylum had created a regular event there and people were coming forward to play and talk. It was a little home base. There was a lot of traveling, alot of playing. We played the first gig without Duane with the Allman Brothers in Miami out at the Sportatorium in the Everglades. The night was full of sorrow and apprehension. Could the Allman Brothers still be a band without Duane? That show was full of tears and inspired music. Berry came forward and led the band. He played Duane’s parts on his bass. It was incredibly inspiring to watch him yell and bully his band members into playing their hearts out.
But something had shifted in the fabric of reality. The magical moment was gone.
“Boogie!” Someone yelled from the audience. I had never heard that before. It had always been more of a spiritual experience.
Miles was defining the new mentality, and it was harsher and angrier than we had been used to. The world changes.