Of all the lessons I learned from Quincy, one that always stays with me is something I read in his memoir, Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones, a beautiful, unparalleled story of music, civil rights, family and generosity. He was in his mid-20s, already a celebrated musician and arranger for Ray Charles and Dinah Washington, and he walked away from it all, packed up and moved to Paris to study music theory and composition under Nadia Boulanger, the famous composer and mentor.
Imagine reaching the pinnacle of success, especially as a young Black musician in segregated 1950s America, and saying thanks, but I’m starting over for the sake of chords and harmony. I fantasise about having that kind of courage. The guts to drop everything, leave the rat race and bury myself in theory and orchestration, and return a musical Jedi master, instead of freezing like a deer in headlights at Abbey Road while conductors toss around terms that may as well be in Klingon.
But that’s the peril of holding Quincy as a yardstick. He’s an impossible standard. For producers and arrangers like me, he didn’t just raise the bar; he hid it where no one could reach.
I was lucky enough to spend time with Quincy. I was once engaged to his daughter, Rashida, with whom I remain close to this day. Over the years, he would send me kind notes – he had a particular fondness for Amy [Winehouse] – and we’d often hang out whenever I played the Montreux jazz festival, his beloved stomping ground.
