A Cool Escape, A Multi-layered Revolution: Revisiting <Kind of Blue>

Even those who claim to know little of jazz have likely heard of Miles Davis's album, <Kind of Blue>. Recorded in just two sessions in 1959, the album, more than half a century after its release, still stands as one of the most celebrated jazz albums in the world, its legendary status continuing to grow. Its lyrical beauty, universal appeal, and innovative spirit are undeniable. However, I am certain that this album, now more than 60 years since it first saw the light of day, will reveal itself in a completely new light, with a newfound resonance, once one understands the foundational narrative that underpins it: a story of a fundamental "double rupture," two great acts of resistance, and a multi-layered liberation.

<Kind of Blue> is a monument to the second "Cool Fugitive," an escape that took place precisely when the fruits of the first escape had hardened into a new hegemony. It is a monument erected by a self-contained "Fugitive Community."

To understand this "complex genealogy of a great escape," I intend to unpack this album through the lens of a concept proposed by contemporary musicologist Marc Hannaford: "Fugitive Music Theory." When Hannaford reframes the history of jazz, we encounter a compelling narrative: <Kind of Blue> was not a singular revolution, but a second one—a struggle to break free from the new form of oppression forged by the triumphant first.

Miles Davis's Kind of Blue represents a "double rupture" in jazz, a story of resistance and liberation. The first escape was bebop, a "fugitive community" breaking free from Swing's commercialism and white-centric music field. However, bebop's virtuosity became a new "prison" for Miles. His second escape, guided by George Russell's Lydian Chromatic Concept, led to modal jazz, allowing lyricism and space to flourish. Kind of Blue was a "Complex Alliance" of diverse musicians, each "on the run" in their own way, who collectively forged this new path. The album exemplifies how marginalized artists create new frameworks rather than seeking recognition within dominant ones, demonstrating that today's sanctuary can become tomorrow's prison.

Kind of Blue (1959, CL 1355) album cover.jpg / Photographer: Jay Maisel / Designer: S. Neil Fujita

The First Escape – Bebop as Resistance

The "homeland" from which Miles Davis, the icon of the "second escape," was fleeing was, in fact, bebop itself. But first, one must understand that this homeland was itself a "Maroon Community," a liberated zone established by a successful first escape. Before the 1940s, the mainstream of jazz was Swing. In an era where a white bandleader reigned as the "King of Swing," jazz was primarily popular entertainment for dancing, and many Black musicians were confined to the role of entertainers providing exotic spectacles. The venues where Black musicians played for white audiences were, in the words of Hannaford’s mentor Philip Ewell, nothing less than a musical "plantation" where the "White Racial Frame" was in full effect.

Like a deep cotton field, the music grew, but the deed to that field was always in someone else's hands. Their Black fingers tilled the soil of music and harvested its fruits, yet the spotlight on stage always illuminated other faces. The unnotated memories, the freely appropriated reinterpretations, and the acclaim of the audiences of the day were not theirs. Bebop was a conscious "escape" from this commercialism and white-centric gaze. Black musicians like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Thelonious Monk gathered in late-night jam sessions at clubs like Minton's Playhouse in Harlem. This was a "sanctuary," a refuge from the commercial pressures of the white world, and the headquarters of a "fugitive community" plotting a new universe.

The music they forged was the crystallization of a "fugitive practice." Bebop's dizzying tempos, incredibly complex harmonic progressions, and the technique of "contrafact"—layering new melodies over the chords of existing songs—were not mere musical experiments. They were strategic, erecting technical barriers to "weed out" less skilled players and those willing to make commercial compromises. By speaking in "their own language" that was not easily understood, they protected their exclusive intellectual community. Rejecting the predictable 4/4 dance rhythm for irregular, explosive drumming was the musical expression of an act of refusal, turning away the dancing body from the front of the stage. Was not the bebop subculture—symbolized by berets, goatee beards, and unique "bop talk"—an act of shedding the persona of the "smiling entertainer" forced upon them by mainstream society, and instead, donning the armor of an impenetrable "coolness"?

In this way, bebop was a grand revolution that successfully escaped from the "plantation" of the Swing era and declared the artistic and intellectual sovereignty of Black musicians. However, like all revolutions, it carried within it a paradox: the liberated zone of one era can become the new "prison" for the next generation.

The Second Escape – From the Prison of Virtuosity

Miles Davis began his career at the heart of the bebop revolution. Yet, from the very start, he was a stranger in this "new sanctuary." The core values championed by bebop—overwhelming speed, flamboyant technique, and a spectacle of energy—did not align with Miles's nature. He spoke the language of bebop, but he could not fully subscribe to its grammar. While the heroes of bebop proved their existence by how many notes they could play at lightning speed, Miles was asking the opposite question. His later reflections clearly show this philosophical break: "I always listen to what I can leave out." Was his desire to focus on "the most important notes in the chord" instead of playing "a bunch of scales and shit" not a fundamental questioning of the bebop system itself?

For him, the hegemony of bebop was a "prison of virtuosity." It left no room for his greatest weapons: his lyricism, his unique tone, and his ability to utilize silence and space. The republic of bebop, built on the success of the first escape, had now become another "plantation" for him. To survive here, becoming more fluent in the language of bebop was not the answer. He had to dismantle the system itself and stage a second escape into a new world where his own voice could be central.

Discovering the Map: George Russell's Theory

To leave where you are and find a new place, a new frontier, you need a map to find your bearings. Miles found his map for this exodus and exploration in composer and theorist George Russell's 1953 publication, the Lydian Chromatic Concept of Tonal Organization (LCC).

From Marc Hannaford's perspective, the LCC, much like bebop, is another monumental "Fugitive Theory" independently created by Black intellect in opposition to mainstream Western music theory. Its core is revolutionary. It discards the major scale, upon which Western music had relied for centuries, and enthrones the Lydian scale—which is closer to the overtone series and more acoustically stable—as the center of everything. Russell defines functional harmony, which constantly creates and resolves tension to move forward, as a state of "Horizontal Becoming," and the self-stabilized, complete sound of the Lydian scale as a state of "Vertical Being."

This shift offered a vast expanse to the improviser. There was no longer a need to race through complex chord changes searching for a predetermined answer. Instead, one could paint their own melody within the expansive landscape of a single mode. This was an exodus from the prison of bebop toward a "horizontal" landscape of freedom.

<Kind of Blue> is the vivid sonic record of this second escape, undertaken with the LCC as its map. The album's first track, "So What," thus became a declaration opening the gates to a new world. Its simple structure, shifting between two Dorian modes a half-step apart, is an almost barren landscape compared to bebop. The final track, "Flamenco Sketches," takes this a step further, deconstructing even the familiar forms used up to that point. Five different modes are presented sequentially, and the soloist can remain on one mode for as long as desired before signaling a move to the next.

This was a complete escape from the harmonic and structural hegemony of bebop, successfully establishing a cool "sanctuary" where lyricism, space, and the individual voice took center stage. It also laid the methodological foundation for Miles's future innovations.

A 'Complex Alliance'

<Kind of Blue> was not perfected by the vision of Miles Davis alone. The album is the result of a "Complex Alliance" formed by outsiders who were, for different reasons and in their own ways, all 'on the run'. The musicians who participated in the album were themselves a microcosm of a "fugitive community" that deviated from mainstream norms. Miles Davis was the leader of this escape, setting out to find new territory after fleeing the new confinement created by the 'first liberated zone' of bebop's virtuosity. John Coltrane explored the world of modal jazz with Davis, but his own destination lay elsewhere. He was an adventurer, seemingly drifting yet resolute, toward his own revolutions—the "Sheets of Sound" and Giant Steps—and eventually, toward the uncharted territory of free jazz. The solos he unleashes on <Kind of Blue> reveal a simmering energy that, even within this 'cool sanctuary,' was destined to break out in yet another escape.

Among them, the most distinct and pivotal figure was the white pianist Bill Evans. Before he was a jazz pianist, he was deeply immersed in the French impressionism of Debussy and Ravel, a "fugitive" in another sense. It was he who "translated" Russell's abstract theoretical concepts into the dreamlike, lyrical atmosphere of <Kind of Blue>. His own identity as an outsider—a white man participating in an African American art form—allowed him to be the bridge connecting two disparate worlds: the theory of the LCC and the sensibility of European impressionism. From his complex position of "probationary whiteness," he made a decisive contribution to this fugitive community. Cannonball Adderley, meanwhile, was deeply rooted in the languages of blues and bebop. He infused this radical experiment with the power of established narratives. His presence demonstrates that this second escape was not a complete break with the past, but a process of moving toward a new future.

They were by no means a homogeneous group with a single goal. They were an alliance of individuals, each with their own history and trajectory, temporarily united under the new possibility of "modal jazz." Is it not the tension and harmony between them, the very coexistence of their different voices, that transforms this album from a monotonous experiment into a living, breathing organism?

The narrative of <Kind of Blue> is thus complex and multi-layered. The legacy of this "Double Fugitive" is profound. In its wake, jazz gained a map that would lead to unimaginable paths like post-bop and fusion. Crucially, these acts proved how marginalized artists and thinkers can open up new worlds not by seeking recognition within the dominant framework, but by creating new frameworks themselves. This album, and its interpretation through the lens of fugitive music theory, serves as a powerful musical testament to the historical lesson that the sanctuary of today can become the prison of tomorrow.

It reminds us that the most profound innovations are often born not from a fiery, declarative shout, but from a cool, deliberate, and relentless escape—a spirit that refuses to settle. Miles Davis wrote no music theory, but the spaces he left, his concision, his distortions, and the movement of his sound are themselves a dramatic example of a Fugitive Theory in practice. He positions himself not merely as an artist who evolved through styles, but as a perpetual escaper, an "auditory fugitive," constantly fleeing from dominant structures, linguistic systems, and musical plantations.