I always wanted to write how Miles Davis talked: abrupt, profane, contemptuous, in a stiletto rhythm that jabbed and stung and threw off unexpected sparks of enlightenment and tenderness. Of course, that was a voice that defied imitation.

Fortunately, Quincy Troupe did the next best thing in writing Miles’ Autobiography, where you can almost hear his jagged, bristling voice talking shit, spreading gossip, telling lies that somehow reveal deep truths. We need voices like that now, fearless and defiant. What’s more, we need the kind of music Davis played, improvised music that kept time with the times. Jazz, if that’s what you want to call it, says what words can’t.

Jazz is music made in the moment and our moment is an increasingly perilous one. As a writer trying to keep up, I often feel as if I’ve exhausted the power of words to describe where we are, how we got here and where we’re going. There’s only so much you can say in response to every new outrage, trauma and travesty without repeating yourself and........

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