"My playing started to develop through the Miles Davis stuff I was listening to"
About this Quote
There’s a quiet flex in Robert Quine’s phrasing: development isn’t framed as disciplined self-improvement so much as exposure, osmosis, a kind of musical contagion. “Started to develop” sounds modest, almost passive, but the engine is active listening - the “Miles Davis stuff” that rewired his instincts. Quine isn’t mythologizing talent; he’s crediting a specific pipeline of influence, the way a single artist’s choices can recalibrate another player’s sense of time, restraint, and danger.
The casual “stuff” matters. It refuses museum-glass reverence and treats Miles as usable material, not sacred text. That’s especially telling for Quine: a guitarist associated with punk and downtown abrasion, someone whose tone could feel like torn speaker cones. Invoking Miles suggests a lineage that’s less about genre and more about attitude - a commitment to mood, negative space, and the courage to leave notes unplayed. Miles’ genius was often editorial: the ability to imply more than he stated, to make understatement feel like provocation. Quine is pointing to that sensibility as formative.
It also hints at how musicians build identity in public. Quine’s name will always orbit louder brands (Richard Hell, Lou Reed), so citing Miles positions him within a canon that signals seriousness without pleading for it. The subtext is: my chaos has a method; my jaggedness comes from studying a master of control. It’s a reminder that even the most confrontational music scenes run on private listening habits, and that innovation often starts as an intimate act of attention.
The casual “stuff” matters. It refuses museum-glass reverence and treats Miles as usable material, not sacred text. That’s especially telling for Quine: a guitarist associated with punk and downtown abrasion, someone whose tone could feel like torn speaker cones. Invoking Miles suggests a lineage that’s less about genre and more about attitude - a commitment to mood, negative space, and the courage to leave notes unplayed. Miles’ genius was often editorial: the ability to imply more than he stated, to make understatement feel like provocation. Quine is pointing to that sensibility as formative.
It also hints at how musicians build identity in public. Quine’s name will always orbit louder brands (Richard Hell, Lou Reed), so citing Miles positions him within a canon that signals seriousness without pleading for it. The subtext is: my chaos has a method; my jaggedness comes from studying a master of control. It’s a reminder that even the most confrontational music scenes run on private listening habits, and that innovation often starts as an intimate act of attention.
Quote Details
| Topic | Music |
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