Would you know greatness if you saw it? This is the eternal question for people like me, posting their supposedly well thought-out pontifications for anyone with a computer and an Internet connection to read. The issue of being able to distinguish what's good from what isn't seems like a job ill-suited for anyone who doesn't have the power of omniscience, or at least a good track record with uncovering genius. And yet, this is a request made by artists all the time-- that of acceptance, or some kind of recognition of what they've produced.

Maybe it's not really a matter of taste, but closer to keen perception and foresight. But while some folks may pride themselves in their ability to find interesting art, it takes popular consensus to brand a piece or work "great" or "revolutionary." Herein lies the dilemma: if you aren't able to recognize the inherent greatness of a particular piece of art, how can you appreciate any art at all? Or, if you do think you see genius somewhere, how do you communicate this to somebody else? These are the kinds of questions I have for the audience assembled for the Miles Davis Quintet performance at the Fillmore East in New York City on March 7th, 1970.

Live at the Fillmore East (March 7, 1970): It's About That Time is the official release of an oft-bootlegged performance of Davis' "lost quintet." His cohorts were Wayne Shorter, Chick Corea, Dave Holland, Jack DeJohnette and Airto Moreira. Not a bad lineup for a band that never existed, save a few fiery performances in 1969 and 1970. In fact, at the time, the status of Davis' proper quintet (featuring Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Tony Williams and Shorter) was a little hazy. Williams had left to run his own show with Lifetime, but Hancock and Carter would continue to play with the trumpeter on and off for a couple of years. Also, the issue of the new quintet actually being a sextet added to the confusion of just who, exactly, was a part of Davis' band.

One other oddity confronted the lucky few who were able to witness these guys live: almost all the music being played was unreleased, and unlike anything ever produced by jazz musicians. Most of the tunes performed at this Fillmore date (not to be confused with another release, Miles Davis at Fillmore: Live at the Fillmore East, recorded in June of the same year) were from the landmark Bitches Brew LP. Although Bitches Brew had been recorded the previous summer, it wouldn't be released until a few weeks after this performance. And as any of that album's millions of fans will tell you, its music isn't really the kind that sinks in on the first listen.

The Davis Quin/Sextet was opening for Steve Miller and Neil Young for these sets. But if the jazz community was bitterly divided over the notion of Miles Davis playing "rock" music, I can only imagine what was going through the heads of people accustomed to hearing "Cinnamon Girl," rather than "Miles Runs the Voodoo Down," for an encore. Judging by the audience response here, they probably didn't really know what to think. The applause is polite, but hesitant, and the two or three guys who wanted more at the end may have been anomalies, because it was pretty obvious the band had left it all onstage after the last number. To recognize greatness: it is elusive, and most likely, beyond the sensibilities of most hippies and/or mere mortals.

The first set begins as Holland, DeJohnette and Corea vamp to a furious funk groove. Heavy bass and some well-placed exotic percussion (supplied by the redoubtable Moreira, whose playing receives the ultimate dis by being labeled "superfluous" in the liner notes) kick things off, and by the time Davis enters, the brew is already quite hot. The tune is "Directions," and apparently, it refers to many at once. Miles seems to be aiming straight for the jugular while Holland takes the straight and steady, and when Shorter comes in, he leads DeJohnette and Corea on a path so ridden with turbulence and strife, it derails the entire tune. About five minutes in, it becomes impossible to remember that most of these same musicians had produced something like In a Silent Way, only a year earlier.

Afterwards, the band segues into "Spanish Key," one of the more straightforward pieces on Bitches Brew, but here already transformed into a three-headed monster by a band that obviously couldn't sit still on a bet. The three heads in question: a rhythm section which never actually came down from the highs of the previous rave, Davis, who was playing more aggressively and with more muscle than he ever had, and Wayne Shorter, who was playing like he never would again.

Of course, he wouldn't, at least with Davis. After this date, Shorter would leave the group to form the seminal fusion outfit Weather Report. When he first performed with Davis in the early 60s, he'd received the rap of being a Coltrane disciple (not a criticism, really), but had always possessed a natural calm that his spiritual mentor would discard in favor of pure expression and, often, fury. On this date, Shorter meets his maker, full of fire and machine gun lines on soprano and tenor sax that had only been hinted at on the great releases by the second Davis Quintet.

During the second set, whatever jazz history had not been rewritten got its due and then some. "Directions" (it appears twice, since these two discs document both an early and a late show) starts off innocently enough, with a low, humming growl from Holland, but quickly develops into the Apocalypse. There are moments when the music seems to cross over into the avant-garde and free jazz realms, especially whenever Shorter is playing a solo. Reportedly, Davis never considered himself a part of those camps, but it's clear he wasn't afraid to let his band steer the ship in that general direction, so long as they kept the groove alive. Corea brings it down a little with a few choruses of comparatively traditional playing, even if it isn't less intense than the others'.

The tune segues into "Miles Runs the Voodoo Down"; very different, far greasier and Fatter (with a capital 'F,' as you can see) than the studio version on Bitches Brew. It could almost pass for hard blues-rock, if not for DeJohnette's relentless cymbal attack and Davis' distorted howling. Here, though, it seems to serve as a kind of breather so the band can rev up for "Bitches Brew," arguably in its finest version anywhere on this CD. It begins with ominous, woozy percussion, and some agitated horn punches from the leader. Then, out of nowhere, everything gets funky. Holland lays down some serious dirty pimp low end, filtered through that infamous "ring modulation" to give it the extra ass-mangling quality so desired in serious jazz performance. After a bit, Shorter drops another trip-bop bomb, and then the quiet comes back. Davis takes it out with a few quick, muted jabs, while the beat simmers below. And if I never heard another track by that band again, I'd still rank them alongside Davis' other classic groups.

The set ends with a version of "It's About That Time" (from In a Silent Way), spliced with something called "Willie Nelson." The first part takes the original and applies the underlying aggression of this set to its once peaceful groove. The second half takes the bottom out, and showcases at once the band's penchant for repetitive riffing and complete irreverence towards the way jazz solos were supposed to be played (I'm not sure there's a straight chord progression on the entire record).

When the track is over, the audience, who probably weren't sure of what had just happened, offers cautious appreciation via some very polite applause. The emcee announces the group again (Miles never spoke during performances), and there are a couple of calls for an encore. Moreira lets everyone know it's over by blowing his whistle, and I surmise that many of the people there were letting out sighs of relief. There's no way to know if they were aware of the jazz revolution starting right under their noses. Over thirty years later, I'm not sure I understand what the preceding hour-and-a-half was all about, except what I consider exceptional musicians taking exceptional chances. It's undoubtedly pointless trying to reduce music to levels of "genius," so from now on, I'll take whatever those guys had to say without much inclination of trying to put it into words.

-Dominique Leone, October 11th, 2001