Miles Runs the Voodoo Down

This is the track where the electricity becomes feral. A grinding, circular riff locks in beneath layers of wah-inflected guitar and electric piano that churn rather than shimmer, and the drums push with a kind of controlled aggression. Miles's trumpet here is raw-edged, howling at points, stripped of the cool detachment that defined his earlier work — he's playing into the heat rather than above it. The whole piece has a ritualistic quality, like something being summoned rather than performed. Emotionally it sits in a zone of charged intensity without a clear narrative arc, which is precisely the point: this is sensation as structure. It belongs to a specific late-sixties mood of urban tension and psychedelic disorientation, rock and jazz and funk colliding at full speed. You'd put this on when you need music that matches an interior state of controlled chaos — driving at night in heavy rain, or working through something that won't stay still.