This does seem strange until you remember that the legendary jazz trumpeter was long a musical chameleon who dug rock music and late in his career covered Michael Jackson tunes. Several of Miles' seminal 1960s works ("In a Silent Way" and "Bitches Brew," to name two) profoundly influenced rock musicians. Also recall (which very few people will) that he shared bills at Bill Graham's Fillmore West in San Francisco with the Grateful Dead, among other rock ensembles, and the fit was rather seamless -- or at least complimentary.
Despite a year's long effort to exorcise the notion that musicins shouldn't be gender benders, the dregs of the purist in me still bristle at the idea of Miles in the Rock Hall. I was the first kid on my block to endorse Joni Mitchell's embrace of Mingus. I welcomed the Dead's excursions into disco. And Willie Nelson more than does justice to a reggae song. But Miles in the Rock Hall?
What the heck. I'll get over it. Besides which, it's only rock 'n' roll.
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Stanley Crouch doesn't directly address the Rock Hall dust-up, but uses it as an opportunity to assesses Miles' legacy in a Slate essay. He proclaims "My Funny Valentine" his best recording ever, and it's hard to disagree.
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