Ultimately, this book kind of pissed me off. It's certainly thorough, so there's that. But the writing is really dull. Chambers goes into excessive detail of every recording session ever, yet never manages to capture who Davis WAS. It's a lot of facts, and in many cases those facts are interesting, but you need more to make a compelling story. You need a PERSON at the center, and Miles never quite shows up in this book.
Another major problem is the way Chambers, though he tries hard to write in a flat, objective style, trashes the music he doesn't personally like. So Miles's output from '72 to '75 is described "objectively," yet Chambers makes sure we know how worthless it all was.
Which is the standard opinion of the times among the jazz mafia, of whom Chambers is obviously one. That is, people who "know" what "jazz" is, and who were somehow deeply wounded by Miles playing something else in the '70s. These people are all the same and it's tiresome to hear their idiot opinions over and over again. "He sold out!" they say of the insane, unique, wild music that didn't sell, and that critics despised. I think they're a bit unclear on the concept.
Maybe they just couldn't help themselves. The book was written in '83, and it wasn't until the '90s that Miles's '70s music was finally seen for what it is: fucking genius. Like he traveled to the future and brought back the electronic sounds of the '90s and '00s and recreated it with musicians in the '70s.
So, yeah. The book was informative enough to keep me going, but to hell with Chambers and his jazz elitism. Music is music, and Miles was a genius.