When the history of Miles Davis is told, the story tends to lean heavily on the major turning points: his early bebop years, the Birth of the Cool sessions, the modal revolution of Kind of Blue, the explosive second quintet, and the seismic shift of the early electric period.
But Miles’ late-1980s studio work is far less often discussed — not because it lacks quality, but because it occupies an unusual space: a legendary musician at the end of his career, experimenting with new producers, new sounds and a different sense of groove.
Amandla, released in 1989, is the third and final of Miles’ late-period studio albums made in close partnership with multi-instrumentalist, composer and producer Marcus Miller.
Together with Tutu (1986) and Music from Siesta (1987), it forms a distinct chapter in Miles’ catalog: a period defined by tight compositions, bold production choices and an approach to electric music that is of its time, rather than an attempt to recreate earlier innovations.
It is the sound of Miles Davis in his last active years — choosing to move forward rather than look back.
Miles breaks his silence
To understand Amandla, you have to understand the silence that came before it.
Miles Davis’ first electric period — the stretch from In a Silent Way in 1969 through Get Up With It in 1974 — saw him reshape the language of small-group jazz with amplified instruments, extended grooves and a new relationship with rhythm. But by late 1975, after years of intense work, deteriorating health and personal struggles, Miles retired from public music. The hiatus lasted roughly six years, from 1975 until 1981.
During those years, electric jazz continued to evolve without him. The musicians who had worked with Miles — Wayne Shorter, Joe Zawinul, Herbie Hancock, Tony Williams — took elements of his approach into new contexts. Weather Report rose to global prominence. Jaco Pastorius redefined the electric bass. Jazz-rock fusion mutated into a thousand forms.
When Miles returned in 1981, the world had changed. His comeback album, The Man with the Horn, was not an attempt to re-start the 1970s. In the 1980s, Miles turned toward younger collaborators and producers who came from a different musical generation. Among them, Marcus Miller would become the most important.
Marcus Miller and the late-’80s sound
The Miles-Miller partnership is one of the most fascinating late-career collaborations in modern jazz.
Miller — only in his twenties when they first worked together — brought a very different skillset into Miles’ world: composition, bass, bass clarinet, keyboards, arranging, drum programming, and a feel for contemporary Black music that was rooted in the 1980s rather than the fusion era.
At the same time, he understood Miles’ musical philosophy: subtraction, not addition; space, not density; a melody that says one thing clearly instead of many things at once.
Tutu was the breakthrough — a Grammy-winning album that placed Miles inside a new sonic environment. Amandla followed two years later and, in many ways, is the mature form of the approach: a little warmer, more organic, and less focused on the shock of the new. The production remains precise, but there is more air in the room.
The lineup reflects this shift. Alongside Miller’s multi-instrumental approach, the album features a band that blurs roles between jazz players and session specialists: Kenny Garrett on saxophone, Foley on lead bass (an unusual decision, echoing Jimi Hendrix’s concept of the bass taking the guitar’s role), George Duke, Michael Urbaniak, and others.
Amandla: Late-Period Groove
Amandla doesn’t attempt to revisit Bitches Brew or the early fusion storms. Instead, it explores a groove language that is smoother on the surface but still built on Miles’ core ideas; layered rhythms, strong melodic hooks and simplified harmony, whilst keeping the trumpet in the spotlight.
The title track, “Amandla,” is a good example: a clear groove, a memorable horn line, no unnecessary density, and a sense of pulse that’s locked rather than floating. It’s not modal improvisation — it’s a composed scene where the horn is the lead character.
Listeners expecting the chaos of On the Corner will not find it here. But listeners open to hearing Miles speak softly to a new generation will find an album with personality and intention.
“Mr. Pastorius” — the tribute at the end
The final track on Amandla is “Mr. Pastorius”, a composition by Marcus Miller named for the late bassist Jaco Pastorius.
Jaco had died in 1987, at just 35, after a period of declining health. The tribute arrives without fanfare — placed at the end of the album, quiet and reflective.
Miles and Jaco never recorded together. Their timelines missed each other: Miles’ electric revolution happened in the first half of the 1970s; Jaco’s rise began in 1975 with Weather Report, almost exactly when Miles stepped away. And by the time Miles returned in the early 1980s, Jaco was already struggling with serious personal challenges.
Yet the connection is clear. Many of the musicians who shaped Jaco’s world — Wayne Shorter, Joe Zawinul, Herbie Hancock — had been shaped by Miles. The harmonic and rhythmic space that allowed Jaco to transform the bass was opened, in part, by Miles’ earlier experiments. “Mr. Pastorius” feels like Miles acknowledging that lineage — a line drawn across two generations.
The way it sits in the album is telling. No speech. No introduction. Just a name in the title, a melody, and a closing moment of respect.
Reception and legacy
Amandla received positive reviews on release and won the Grammy Award for Best Jazz Instrumental Performance (Group) in 1990. While some jazz critics of the time were unsure how to contextualise Miles’ late-period sound — it was neither “fusion” nor “straight-ahead” — the album found a loyal audience among listeners who followed Miles’ entire journey rather than a particular era.
Today, Amandla is often heard as the final chapter of Miles’ musical evolution. It is not a retrospective album. It is a document of Miles Davis in his late fifties, curious and open, working with younger musicians and refusing to become his own museum. That alone makes it valuable.
For listeners discovering Miles for the first time through the classic records, Amandla can feel like a surprise. But for anyone who understands Miles’ career as a continuous search, it makes perfect sense. The approach is different — but the principles are the same.
Why it matters today
Miles Davis was never interested in repeating past successes. In the late 1980s he could have toured on his legacy alone. Instead, he chose to make records with a new aesthetic, guided by younger collaborators, with technology and musicianship from a different generation.
Amandla is not the sound of Miles Davis trying to become anyone else. It’s the sound of someone who had already changed music several times, and still believed that the point of art was to move — even if the destination was uncertain.
The album stands as a reminder that innovation doesn’t always look like a revolution. Sometimes it looks like a conversation between generations — a short phrase on trumpet, a bass line from a producer half your age, and a closing track named for someone you never met, but understood.
Looking for more? Check out our round-up of the career-defining albums of Miles Davis or our dive into the music of Jaco Pastorius.