Jesse Ed Davis was an unsung guitar hero – unless you were a legend like Eric Clapton, John Lennon, George Harrison, Bob Dylan, Rod Stewart, Conway Twitty, Taj Mahal, Jackson Browne, and countless others who played with him and revered his talent. The Oklahoma-born Davis became an L.A. session wizard who released three solo albums in the early 1970s. In ’88, he died of a heroin overdose at age 43.

Douglas K. Miller, a former touring musician and current professor of Native American history, has written an engrossing biography, Washita Love Child: The Rise of Indigenous Rock Star Jesse Ed Davis.

You say this biography takes a “cultural narrative” approach. What do you mean?
I feel like I’ve got to tell everybody, “Don’t skip the opening chapters.” I’ve been guilty of that: “Just get to the part where they’re making my favorite album and talking about the guitar they played!” I tried to explicitly say, “This is where Jesse comes from.” Of course, everybody comes from their family and their ancestry and their geographic place. But you cannot understand Jesse Ed Davis without understanding what his parents experienced.

Davis always seemed on the cusp of widespread fame.
Even at his highest point, when he was playing with George Harrison and John Lennon, he’s not a household name. The music intelligentsia knows who he is. Music fans probably know him from Taj Mahal records or some other affiliation. From the ’80s up to the present, or at least the last few years, it’s guitar aficionados who kept his legacy alive. If I talk to a guitar player, they know him as a Telecaster player.

With Jesse’s story, there are a few examples where he just misses the moment or he’s on the right path, then it falls apart. Often, it’s through no fault of his own, though occasionally it’s totally his fault. He joined the Faces for an arena and stadium tour early in summer ’75 and by December they’d broken up. That had nothing to do with him.

He wanted fame and success, but when he’d achieve a taste of it, he almost seemed embarrassed.
Later in his too-short life, he would say to friends that he was disappointed that he didn’t really get his due. And from what I’ve come to understand, not so much in an arrogant “I’m an incredible guitar player” way as much as just that he knew that he was good, he did a lot of work, and he did play with Bob Dylan, John Lennon, George Harrison, and Leon Russell. He might have attributed that to his own failings or his own illness with drug addiction.

He felt that he had achieved something that hadn’t quite been appreciated. He wasn’t a real showman – he didn’t carry on with long, self-indulgent solos. He didn’t use a lot of effects. He really played for the song. I think he understood that was what people wanted from him.

He was a sensitive player and a deeply sensitive person. There’s also modesty. And then there’s his Native American culture and upbringing. Among a lot of Native people, being loud and boisterous is not a virtue. Talking about yourself at length and flashing your talent isn’t a virtue. He experienced a lot of racism and resentment growing up that probably had a deep effect on his psyche. There were probably times he knew he was a great talent and was succeeding, but there were voices in his head saying, “You don’t belong here.”

Davis’ friends and family – even ex-girlfriends and ex-wives – still loved him and looked after him even when his addiction caused bad behavior.
I’ve researched Jesse for five years. I wrote a big book about him. The first draft was almost 600 pages. I have an unhealthy amount of knowledge about Jesse Ed Davis. People I interviewed, from family to Taj Mahal and Jackson Browne, said I was teaching them. They were more interviewing me.

There was something about him that was really magnetic, really powerful. People would never give up on him, no matter how bad he burned them. There had to be something special about this person, just to be in his presence, to play music with him, to share a meal, tell jokes, walk along Venice Beach, whatever it was. This was a powerful person who had a big effect on people.

You’re also involved in other upcoming Davis projects.
I co-produced Tomorrow May Not Be Your Day, a new two-LP collection of 17 previously unreleased songs from 1970-’71. I’m also co-curating “Jesse Ed Davis: Natural Anthem,” an exhibit at the Bob Dylan Center in Tulsa.

This article originally appeared in VG’s December 2024 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.