Most people think of 1959's Kind of Blue as the beginning and end of the conversation when it comes to Miles Davis. It’s the "cool" bible. But if you really want to understand the man—and the weird, beautiful tension of his career in the early sixties—you have to look at 1961. Specifically, you have to look at Someday My Prince Will Come.
It’s a strange record on paper. Miles takes a sugary, wide-eyed waltz from Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and tries to turn it into a jazz masterpiece. It shouldn't work. It’s a song about a cartoon princess waiting for a savior, played by a group of hardened jazz musicians in the middle of a shifting cultural landscape. Yet, somehow, Miles Davis Someday My Prince Will Come became the definitive version of the tune, transcending its fairy-tale roots to become something haunting, sophisticated, and deeply personal.
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The Love Story Behind the Cover
You can't talk about this album without talking about the woman on the front. That’s Frances Taylor, Miles’s wife at the time. Honestly, she’s the heart of the whole project. Before this, jazz album covers were often abstract or featured the (usually male) artist. Miles changed that. He started demanding that Columbia Records put Black women on his covers, and Frances was his muse.
He didn't just put her on the jacket; he named the track "Pfrancing" (a play on her name) after her. Miles later said in his autobiography that he was "Frances' prince," and the album was his tribute to their life together. It’s probably the most romantic Miles ever got on record. When you hear him blow that muted trumpet on the title track, he isn't just playing a Disney tune. He’s playing a love letter.
The Night John Coltrane Walked In
The real "holy crap" moment of the album happens on the title track, Someday My Prince Will Come. At this point in 1961, the legendary "First Great Quintet" was over. John Coltrane had already left to lead his own group and was becoming a massive star in his own right. Hank Mobley was the new guy on tenor sax, and he was doing a great job—his style was rounder, more "mellow" than Trane's aggressive "sheets of sound."
The story goes that during the recording session at Columbia’s 30th Street Studio, Coltrane just... showed up. He had finished a gig at the Apollo Theater and dropped by to see what Miles was up to.
Miles, being Miles, didn't waste time with small talk. He basically pointed at the booth and told Trane to get his horn out. What follows on the recording is a fascinating study in contrasts. Mobley plays a solo that is perfectly tasteful and melodic. Then, Coltrane steps up.
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It’s like a jump-scare.
Trane’s solo is intense, harmonically dense, and almost violent compared to what came before. He pushes the song into a different dimension. Some critics at the time, like Ira Gitler in DownBeat, were floored by it. Others felt it was out of place. But that’s the magic of the track—it’s the only time you get to hear Mobley and Coltrane side-by-side like that. It was the final handoff. After this, Coltrane was gone for good, heading toward the spiritual avant-garde of A Love Supreme.
What Most People Get Wrong About the "Commercial" Tag
Because of the Disney connection, some jazz snobs over the years have dismissed this album as a "commercial" move. They see it as Miles playing it safe after the experimental peaks of Sketches of Spain.
That’s a massive oversimplification.
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Sure, the title track is a standard, but listen to "Teo" (named after his producer, Teo Macero). It’s dark. It’s modal. It has this driving, Spanish-influenced rhythm that feels like a precursor to the fusion stuff he’d do a decade later. Even the ballad "Drad Dog"—which is "Goddard" spelled backward, a nod to Columbia president Goddard Lieberson—is harmonically sophisticated. It revisits the "Blue in Green" vibe but adds a new layer of weariness.
The rhythm section of Wynton Kelly (piano), Paul Chambers (bass), and Jimmy Cobb (drums) was perhaps the most "swinging" unit Miles ever had. Kelly’s piano playing on this record is a masterclass in "comping"—the way he supports the soloists is legendary. He’s got this bouncy, bluesy feel that keeps the record from ever feeling too heavy or academic.
Why It Still Matters Today
We live in an era where everyone is trying to be "disruptive." Miles Davis was the king of disruption, but Someday My Prince Will Come shows he also knew the value of beauty. He took something "low-brow" like a cartoon song and found the "meat on the bones," as some musicians like to say.
It’s a bridge. It’s the bridge between the 1950s bebop era and the 1960s "second great quintet" with Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock. If you skip this album, you miss the moment Miles realized he could be both a romantic icon and a radical innovator at the same time.
Actionable Insights for the Modern Listener
To truly appreciate this record, don't just put it on as background music while you wash dishes. Do this instead:
- Listen to the Title Track Twice: The first time, focus on the transition from Hank Mobley’s solo to John Coltrane’s. Notice how the energy in the room shifts. It’s the sound of jazz changing in real-time.
- Watch the Bass: Paul Chambers is the unsung hero here. His "throbbing" pedal point on the intro sets the entire mood. Without that tension, the song is just a lullaby.
- Compare it to Disney: Go back and listen to the original 1937 version from the movie. It’ll make you realize just how much Miles "deconstructed" the melody to make it cool.
- Check out "Blues No. 2": If you have the 1999 reissue, listen to this track. It features Philly Joe Jones on drums. It’s a bittersweet "last call" for the old guard and shows a completely different energy than the rest of the album.
Someday My Prince Will Come isn't just a placeholder in the Miles Davis discography. It’s a snapshot of a man in love, a band in transition, and a genre of music that was about to explode into something entirely new. It’s proof that you can find soul in the most unlikely places—even in a princess’s song.