originally published: 06/01/2025
Originally published in Jersey Jazz Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the New Jersey Jazz Society.
As a bassist growing up in the 1980s and ’90s, Marcus Miller was one of my musical heroes—an icon shared by countless others who saw in him the future of the electric bass. His blend of groove, virtuosity, and compositional brilliance made him stand out in every context, whether leading his band or holding down the bottom for musical icons. Back then, as I studied his music and technique, I could never have imagined I’d get to speak with him one day. But that’s precisely what happened.
We connected via Zoom, and from the moment his image appeared, Miller acted casually, bass by his side, sheet music scattered on the couch, and his signature pork pie hat perched perfectly upon his head—what was meant to be a short conversation stretched into an hour-long masterclass. With a resume that includes solo records and collaborations with Michael Jackson, Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock, Luther Vandross, Eric Clapton, and so many others, it was a true privilege to learn firsthand from one of the most influential voices in modern music.
Miller will bring his current band to the Carteret (NJ) Performing Arts Center on June 6. I started by asking him about his current band and its music.
“On drums, I’ve got Anwar Marshall—a tremendous drummer,” he said. “On keyboards, Xavier Gordon from Atlanta. He’s got range and depth in every style. Donald Hayes is on the saxophone. If you’ve been listening to gospel from the late ’90s on, you’ve probably heard him. He’s played on just about everything and brings so much energy. On trumpet, I’ve got Russell Gunn. He’s been with us for a few years—people know him from his Ethnomusicology records or from playing in Branford Marsalis’ Buckshot LeFonque. That was a cool, funk-jazz fusion band. And then there’s me—on bass, and occasionally on bass clarinet. We’ve been touring with this group for about three or four years.”
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“Repertoire-wise,” he continued, “I change it up a lot. We play some things from my last album, which came out before Covid. I’ve also written new stuff I haven’t recorded since then. And I like to return to songs I’ve written over the years—things I did with Luther Vandross, stuff I wrote with David Sanborn. And of course, we include some Miles stuff. I try to give people a sense of who I am. Show them how all this music is connected. I like exposing people to all of it.”
I asked Marcus how he first got into playing bass. “My dad was a piano player and organist—mostly classical music: Bach, Beethoven, Brahms. He also played hymns in church. It was an African Orthodox Episcopal Church, a West Indian version of the English Protestant Church. My grandfather, who was on my father’s side, was a bishop there. So, my dad played hymns. He could read those four-part harmonies like they were nothing.” Every Christmas, he’d pull out Handel’s Messiah, and we’d do special concerts at church. I joke about it now, but my brother and I had to be great sight-readers because we were the page-turners. We were eight, 10 years old. If you didn’t turn that page two bars from the end, you could mess up the whole Hallelujah Chorus. But we got good at it,” he laughed. “We were some bad page-turning dudes.
“The New York City school system had three instruments: clarinet, drums, or trumpet. I wanted to play drums, but we lived in an apartment, so that was out. My dad said, ‘You already play recorder, pick the clarinet.’ So, I did. And the clarinet opened the door to the saxophone later, but the early ’70s—R&B, soul, and funk were slamming. There wasn’t much room for a clarinet in that.
“I got into the Jackson 5, just like everybody else. And through them, I discovered Motown. They’d have three hits on an album; the rest would be Smokey Robinson and the Temptations covers. That’s how they filled out the records. I was getting a masterclass in James Jamerson’s playing without knowing who he was. One of my buddies got a bass for Christmas, and I was over at his house playing it all the time. Eventually, I convinced my folks to get me one, too, and the timing couldn’t have been better. It was a magical time for bass. The bass lines were amazing—Isaac Hayes, Kool & the Gang, Chic. Larry Graham, Sting, Bootsy, Stanley Clarke, Jaco. It was an incredible time. That’s when I got turned on.”
Miller credits much of his early musical foundation to his time at the prestigious LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts, which has launched countless music, theater, and arts careers.
“It’s named after Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia, who was committed to giving New York City youth access to a broad range of educational opportunities. The education was rigorous, but also flexible enough to support different paths. You got an excellent music education there, but it wasn’t just about training for a performance career. It was an incredible environment.
“You had to audition to get in, so you were constantly surrounded by other talented young musicians. Being around those peers was at least as valuable as what I learned in the classroom. I remember Béla Fleck was there—I didn’t know him well, but that was the environment it was. This amazing clarinetist, David Krakauer, and drummers like Omar Hakim and Kenny Washington were there. It was like the high school version of going to Berklee College of Music —you were part of a real music community. I read clarinet music daily—Tchaikovsky, Charles Ives, you name it. That foundation helped me later. I started doing studio work when I was 18 or 19. At the time, there was a need in the studios for bass players who could read music. A lot of bassists came up learning by ear—playing rock, funk, whatever. But there weren’t many great readers. The working guys—Will Lee, Neil Jason, Anthony Jackson, Francisco Centeno—could all read.”
Miller’s big break came through legendary percussionist and producer Ralph MacDonald. “Ralph was a big deal,” Miller said. “He played on everybody’s records. He wrote ‘Where Is the Love’ for Roberta Flack, Donny Hathaway; ‘Mr. Magic’ and ‘Just the Two of Us’ for Grover Washington Jr. and Bill Withers, which I’m on. He asked me, ‘Can you read music?’ I said, ‘Yeah.’ He said, ‘Don’t bullshit me, man. I’m about to recommend you for these jingles.’ I said, ‘Man, I play classical clarinet.’ He said, ‘All right.’ And he put my name out there. Next thing I know, I’m working from 9 a.m. to midnight—doing jingles in the morning, recording dates starting around noon, then playing downtown at clubs like Sweet Basil or Seventh Avenue South at night. It was an experience that I don’t even know is possible anymore, but it all started with that Music & Art training—learning how to navigate arrangements, and, most importantly, being surrounded by other deeply talented musicians.”
As technology began to evolve, the landscape for working musicians shifted. Drum machines, synthesizers, and, eventually, computers began replacing live players. I asked Marcus how he remained active—and in demand—through that transformation.
“Well, you know, the computers changed everything, man. First, somebody walked into the studio with a drum machine, and then bass synthesizers started coming into fashion. So, all the bass players were like, ‘Oh man, this is not good!’ Now you just had to pay the arranger to program the whole thing, and then get some singers to sing about whatever the product was. So I changed my style to find a space the computers couldn’t reach. I started playing more with my thumb—that slap style, like what Larry Graham introduced to the world in R&B. But once it got to the ’80s. I’m playing alongside all these sequencers, I started using a brighter bass sound that could cut through the machines.”
Our conversation shifted toward jazz, specifically, whether Miller ever felt the need to play upright bass in a traditional jazz context. “Not long after I got into R&B, a guy named Kenny Washington—a great drummer and classmate of mine—turned me on to jazz. That was in high school. Around that same time, I also met Omar Hakim, who lived in my neighborhood. Omar introduced me to all the bad, bad musicians I didn’t know about. They played funk and straight-ahead jazz with equal intensity. Our concerts would go from A Love Supreme by John Coltrane straight into ‘Slippin’ into Darkness’ by War—with the same respect and energy.”
“I didn’t feel the necessity to look at the upright,” he explained, “because, in that era, there were a lot of jazz musicians using electric bass. You had Herbie Hancock, Weather Report, Sonny Rollins with Bob Cranshaw on electric… so it didn’t seem necessary. As I got deeper into jazz, I became more interested in the upright. I had access to one but was already carrying a double case from school because I was playing clarinet. I loved the sound of the upright, but I didn’t love standing on Broadway trying to hail a cab with it, so I found a way to make the electric swing.”
Naturally, any conversation with Marcus Miller eventually turns to Miles Davis. Although he has undoubtedly talked about his connection with the trumpet innovator many times before, he seemed more than willing to discuss his connection to the master.
“Miles was in retirement from around ’75 or ’76 until 1981,” Miller recalled. “He was a total mystery. Even more mysterious than he already was when he was playing. People would say, ‘Man, I think I saw Miles in the back of a club…’—like he was a ghost. That changed thanks to Dr. George Butler at Columbia Records. Dr. Butler convinced Miles to come out of retirement. He’d visit him at his house and keep working on him. Eventually, Miles called Dave Liebman, looking for young players. Liebman recommended saxophonist Bill Evans. Bill Evans then recommended me.
“So, one day, I got the call. ‘Can you make this record date with Miles Davis?’ I got over to Columbia Studios, and that was it. I’ve told the story a million times—he gave me these contradictory instructions. He’d say, ‘Play this.’ Then when I’d play it, he’d say, ‘That’s all you gonna play?’ Then I’d switch it up, and he’d say, ‘You playing too much—just play what I told you!’ Eventually, I found the middle ground. He invited me to his house the next day and asked me to join the band. I stayed for about two years. Our first gig was at a club in Boston called Kix. Our second was Avery Fisher Hall in New York. Then we went to Japan—I don’t think I’ve ever played for more people, except maybe Live Aid with Bryan Ferry. You couldn’t even see the end of the audience.
“Miles wasn’t in the best health. But during that time, he married Cicely Tyson. She brought him back to life. After two years, I told him I needed to focus on producing and composing. I was nervous as hell, but he gave me his blessing. Then Tommy LiPuma was producing at Warner Bros., and he knew I’d been writing for David Sanborn and other Warner artists. He said, ‘Hey, Miles is over here now. Got anything?’ That’s when I came up with Tutu, which started our second phase. We did Tutu, the movie score, Siesta, and Amandla. We got really tight. That’s when I started hearing all the bebop stories. One day he said, ‘These designers made me some clothes, but I can’t see what I look like in them. Come over here and put them on.’ So, I walked around acting like Miles, and he goes, ‘I don’t like that—you keep that.’ I stuffed it in my bag!”
As our conversation wound down, the topic turned to legacy—and the pressure young musicians feel trying to live up to giants. “I’ll tell you what—the most important thing I learned was that these guys are human beings. People study them like gods, and it can get unhealthy. If you think they’re unattainable, you’ll never try to do what they did.
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“Imagine if Miles had revered Dizzy Gillespie forever,” he said. “At some point, he had to say, ‘I’ve got my own thing.’ Same with Charlie Parker, who started out mimicking Johnny Hodges. Same with Coltrane. They all eventually found their own space. That’s what inspired me. Not that I could be them, but I could try to find my voice. I was a Jaco [Pastorius] head. Stanley Clarke, Paul Chambers, Ron Carter, Rocco Prestia—I loved them all.”
“Omar Hakim told me in high school, ‘Okay, we’ve finished listening.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ He said, ‘We’ve got to find our own thing. Then I met Jaco Pastorius in a hotel room. He asked me to play. And I thought, ‘If you’re gonna sit in front of the guy and play his stuff, you’re gonna feel like a fraud.’ That’s when I knew I had to move on. Meeting your heroes will do that—it’ll inspire you to carve your path.”
It’s been a few years since Miller’s last album as a leader, and I asked him if he had any plans to do another. “Oh yeah, I’m working on a new record now. I’ll probably have something out in the next month or so—or at least start putting out singles that will lead to an album. I’ve been working extensively on it for the last three or four months. The album will feature my current touring band, with some special guests. I’ll be adding other people, which I like to do. People call it a ‘phone book album,’” he says, laughing. “But I’ve been doing a lot—just returned from International Jazz Day in Abu Dhabi with Herbie Hancock, playing with incredible musicians. We’ll see how many of them I can get involved.”
The New Jersey Jazz Society is a non-profit organization of business and professional people, musicians, teachers, students and listeners working together for the purpose of advancing jazz music. Their mission is to promote and preserve America’s original art form – jazz. The Society seeks to ensure continuity of the jazz art form through its commitment to nurture and champion local talent, along with showcasing outstanding national and international artists providing for the younger generation via arts education programs.
Top Photo by Thierry Dubuc
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