I’ve got my finger on the pulse

In Chicago in 1944, an 11-year-old boy had begun to hang out with a gang of troublemakers in his rough-and-tumble neighborhood. In the community rec center, they picked a lock and broke into the kitchen to sample lemon meringue pies, and the boy noticed a piano sitting on a small stage nearby.

“I went up there, paused, stared, and then ran my fingers across the keys for a moment,” the boy wrote in his memoirs decades later. “That’s when I began to find peace. I was 11. I knew this was it for me. Music was it. Forever.”

That young boy would go on to be nominated 85 times for Grammy Awards, winning 28. He collaborated with the broadest array of musicians you can imagine — Duke Ellington, Snoop Dogg, Lesley Gore, Ray Charles, Sarah Vaughan, Michael Jackson, Frank Sinatra, Aretha Franklin, Donna Summer, Ella Fitzgerald, George Benson, and many dozens more.

That man was Quincy Jones, one of the most accomplished figures in the music business over the last seven decades. He died November 3 at age 91.

The incomparable Stevie Wonder said, “The most important thing Quincy taught me was, ‘Don’t stop until you know you got it like you want it, until it feels right, it feels good to you. Don’t settle for your vocals just being OK. Make sure that you give it all that you’ve got — not for the money of it, but for the art of it.’ You can look back and hear all of that when you hear the records he made.”

From the jazz records he made in the ’50s to the pop songs he produced in the ’60s, from the R&B LPs he cut in the ’70s, to the multiplatinum albums he produced for iconic stars of the ’80s, Jones showed an uncommon ability to understand and appreciate a wide variety of genres. As a producer, arranger, conductor, songwriter and instrumentalist, and later as a businessman and industry mogul, Jones made his indelible mark, influencing and mentoring many artists and protégés over his seven-decade career.

It might not have worked out that way. When he was just 7, Jones lost his mother to mental illness and institutionalization, and his father remarried and moved his family of eight children and step-children to Seattle. Jones was tempted by “the gangster life,” as he put it, but he was driven by an even stronger passion to create music. He learned trumpet and musical arranging, playing in marching bands and jazz combos alike. He earned a scholarship to Berklee School of Music in Boston but dropped out when jazz giant Lionel Hampton tapped him to join his touring band at only 20.

In New York, he worked with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra at CBS, where he played trumpet behind Elvis Presley’s first TV appearances on “Ed Sullivan.” Jones toured the world as trumpeter and musical arranger for Dizzy Gillespie’s band and also studied music composition and theory with world-renowned music teacher/composer Nadia Boulanger in Paris. “She taught me so much,” Jones said, “and gave me the best advice I ever got: ‘Quincy, your music will never be more nor less than you are as a human being.’ It made me realize the importance of treating people fairly and kindly, and to encourage people to be their best selves.”

Jones in the 1950s

In the late ’50s, he formed The Jones Boys, an 18-piece big band he led, who toured North America and Europe to enthusiastic audiences and rave reviews, but the earnings failed to cover costs, and the band was forced to dissolve. “We had the best jazz band on the planet,” Jones recalled, “and yet we were literally starving. That’s when I discovered that there was music, and there was the music business. If I was going to survive, I would have to learn the difference between the two.”

He began concentrating his efforts in recording studios, helping to produce, arrange and conduct orchestras for some of the biggest stars of the late ’50s and early ’60s — Dinah Washington, Billy Eckstine, Ray Charles, Peggy Lee. He produced all four of Lesley Gore’s million-selling singles (“It’s My Party,” “Judy’s Turn to Cry,” “She’s a Fool” and “You Don’t Own Me”).

For Frank Sinatra, Jones arranged and conducted on two of his most popular albums — “It Might As Well Be Swing” with Count Basie in 1964 (which included the award-winning “Fly Me to the Moon”), and his live LP “Sinatra at the Sands” in 1966. “He took me to a whole new planet,” said Jones. “Working successfully with Frank opened a lot of doors for me.”

Jones and Sinatra in the studio in 1964

But Jones had already opened a few doors through his own efforts in the front office at Mercury Records, where he rose to be vice-president, the first African-American to do so at a major label. By the mid-’70s, in a partnership with Time Warner, he created Quincy Jones Entertainment, which included the pop-culture magazine Vibe and Qwest Broadcasting. He later sold it the 1990s for $250 million.

He also showed a talent for composing and producing film scores, beginning with 1964’s “The Pawnbroker.” He wrote more than three dozen, including “Walk, Don’t Run,” “In Cold Blood,” “Cactus Flower,” “$ (Dollars)” and “The Getaway.” Most notably, he scored the Oscar-winning “In the Heat of the Night” in 1967, with Ray Charles singing the title song. “I loved scoring films,” he once said. “It’s a multifaceted process, an abstract combination of science and soul.”

For a few years in the early ’70s, he recorded several solo albums that fared well on both pop and R&B charts, especially “Walking in Space” (1969), “You’ve Got It Bad Girl” (1973), “Body Heat” (1974), “Mellow Madness” (1975), “Sounds…and Stuff Like That! (1978) and “The Dude” (1981). He also wrote the theme music to such top TV series as “Sanford and Son” and “Ironside” and the first episode of the groundbreaking “Roots” miniseries. During that same period, he worked on successful album projects with Aretha Franklin, The Brothers Johnson, Rufus with Chaka Khan, Donny Hathaway and Billy Preston.

His most famous collaboration came when he supervised the adaptation of the Broadway score for the 1978 film “The Wiz,” where he met Michael Jackson. They hit it off immediately, and Jackson insisted on Jones as producer of what would become his landmark solo album, 1979’s “Off the Wall.” Jones remembered Jackson having very strong opinions about how the tracks should be recorded, and they sometimes disagreed. “I recall Michael thought we needed to get rid of the strings during the intro to ‘Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.’ I said, ‘No, Michael, those will be like a siren calling everyone to the dance floor.’ Sure enough, I was right about that one.”

Jackson and Jones with their multiple “Thriller” Grammys in 1984

Their studio chemistry peaked three years later when they recorded 30 tracks and then selected the best nine to comprise the universally appealing “Thriller,” widely regarded as the biggest selling album of all time. It held the #1 slot for nearly 40 weeks in 1983-84, and Jackson credited Jones with pushing him to reach further, higher, deeper. “He’d make you do a thing until it’s perfect,” Jackson said in 1985. “He’d say, ‘It’s beautiful, Michael. We have a take!… Now, can you give us one more?'” It was also Jones who came up with the idea to bring in Eddie Van Halen to record the electrifying guitar solo on “Beat It” and Vincent Price to handle the spooky narration that closes “Thriller.”

Jones went on to produce Jackson’s third multiplatinum album, 1987’s “Bad,” with its five chart-topping singles, and he also shared his studio talents with Donna Summer, producing her 1982 LP and co-writing its hit “Love is in Control (Finger on the Trigger),” and George Benson’s “Give Me the Night” album in 1980.

Jones (second from left) with Lionel Richie, Daryl Hall, Stevie Wonder and Paul Simon in 1985

Some have called his leadership role as producer of the extraordinary “We Are the World” recording session in early 1985 as his crowning achievement. Lionel Richie, who co-wrote the song and helped shepherd the project, said he assumed they would bring in the numerous stars one by one to sing their parts and then put it all together afterwards, but Jones said, “No way, man. We’ll be here for three weeks. We’re going to bring them all together, put ’em in a circle with all the mics, and everyone will sing it looking at each other.” It seemed daunting, but Jones managed to control the concentration of major celebrities by famously posting a sign at the studio entrance: “Check your egos at the door.” Said Richie, “Quincy had everyone’s complete respect and attention, so it worked. He got everyone to cooperate. It was incredible. He was a master orchestrator, not only of music but of personalities.”

Jones still wasn’t done. In 1991, he won the Album of the Year Grammy for his LP “Back on the Block,” which brought together more than a dozen major stars from three generations, including Miles Davis, Sarah Vaughan, Dionne Warwick, Luther Vandross, Ice-T, Barry White, Al Jarreau and Ray Charles. The album topped R&B charts and spawned multiple singles like “I’ll Be Good to You” and “The Secret Garden.”

Wonder and Jones

He followed that up with “Q’s Jook Joint” in 1995, another star-studded affair he produced that topped jazz charts and merged musical styles. Stevie Wonder said, “There was one track where he had Ray Charles, Bono and me doing ‘Let the Good Times Roll.’ The three of us weren’t in the room together, we did our parts separately, but Quincy put it together like we were there at the same time. It’s kind of like making a movie. You have to make it feel like it was right there and then. And he was able to do that, put the pieces together and come up with a great track.”

Jones said at the time, “Music transcends time, and it bridges generations. Bebop and hip-hop, in so many ways, they’re connected. A lot of rappers remind me so much of bebop guys in terms of improvisation, beats and rhymes.”

In a sort of “full circle” symmetry, one of Jones’s early recorded pieces, “Soul Bossa Nova” (1962), was prominently featured in the 1997 box-office smash “Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery.”

He was married three times, most famously to actress Peggy Lipton (1974-1990), and had seven children. His daughter Rashida, an actress who starred on the “Parks and Recreation” TV series, described her father as “a genius, a giant, an icon, a culture shifter.”

In a 2018 TV interview, Jones was asked how he “worked his magic” in the studio. “I listen to the orchestra like an x-ray machine,” he noted. “I’ve been around it all my life. If it’s too thick, too thin, too slow, too fast, wrong key, whatever, I can just tell. And we do another take and modify it accordingly. I don’t go by surveys or focus groups. I go by my goosebumps. If it gives me goosebumps, it’s right.”

“If an album doesn’t do well, some people will say, ‘it was the producer’s fault,'” Jones said, “but if’s that’s true, then if it does well, it should be his ‘fault,’ too. The tracks don’t just all of a sudden appear. The producer has to have the skill, experience and ability to guide the vision to completion.”

When asked for any words of wisdom, Jones talked about the need to remove negativity from his life. “Holding grudges, allowing anger in, it’s all a big waste of time. Some words from Mark Twain still overwhelm me: ‘Anger is an acid that does more harm to the vessel in which it’s stored than to anything on which it’s poured.‘ Isn’t it amazing it took me until I was 85 to figure that out?”

Rest in peace, Quincy Jones. You’ve brought positive vibes to music lovers everywhere, and you’ll be sorely missed.

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The Spotify playlist below provides a cross section of material Quincy Jones has written, produced, arranged and conducted and/or performed on during his half-century in the business.

Let me live in your blue heaven when I die

Apologies to bass players everywhere, but the average music fan doesn’t give much thought to you and what you might provide to a band’s sound. Singers, guitarists, keyboard players, sax players, even drummers all seem to get more attention than the guy or gal off to the side who dutifully plays that four-stringed instrument.

There are exceptions — extraordinary bassists like Paul McCartney, James Jameson of Motown’s “Funk Brothers” house band, John Entwistle of The Who, Jack Bruce of Cream, Carol Kane of LA’s “The Wrecking Crew”, Chris Squire of Yes — but even these virtuosos’ names aren’t necessarily familiar to casual rock music followers.

I’m NOT a casual follower. I’m more of an obsessed fanatic who has been accused of having encyclopedic knowledge of classic rock music and its players. And yet, I concede I’m guilty of not having mentioned the name of Phil Lesh when I’ve listed the top-flight bass players of his age.

Lesh, who died last week at age 84, anchored The Grateful Dead from inception to dissolution, a 30-year span in which he participated in 14 studio albums, eight live albums and somewhere in the neighborhood of 2,300 concerts. That in itself is a monumental achievement but, because I was never what you’d call a huge Dead fan, I wasn’t really aware until after his death how influential, how imaginative, how remarkable his bass playing was.

As Jim Farber put it The New York Times: “Lesh’s bass work could be thundering or tender, focused or abstract. On the Grateful Dead’s studio albums, his lines held so much melody that one could listen to a song just for his playing alone. At the same time, he shared his bandmates’ love for unusual chord structures and uncommon time signatures. In constructing his bass parts, he drew from many sources, including free jazz, classical music and the avant-garde.”

Unique among rock bass players was Lesh’s background as a classical violinist and trumpeter, an orchestral composer and student of avant-garde musical genres in the years preceding his joining the original lineup of The Warlocks, the band Jerry Garcia founded from which The Grateful Dead was born. Lesh had never played a bass before but told Garcia he wanted to learn it. Said Lesh years later, “It never really mattered to me very much what instrument I was playing, so long as I could make some music.”

It was his lack of experience with the instrument that allowed him to reimagine its role in rock music, drawing inspiration from the harmonics present in works he admired by Bach and the jazz bassist Charles Mingus. It was this unique montage of influences, Lesh wrote in his autobiography, that resulted in the sound that he and the Dead devised as “not rock, jazz or blues, but some kind of genre-busting rainbow polka-dot hybrid mutation.”

Lesh used the bass to provide continually evolving counterpoints to Garcia’s ethereal lead guitar lines, as well as the forceful chords of rhythm guitarist Bob Weir, the dynamic synchonicity of drummers Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, and the appealing keyboards of Ron “Pigpen” McKernan (until his death in 1973). In particular, the exciting interplay between Garcia and Lesh was probably the band’s most important feature. The two men complemented and contrasted each other’s styles to such a degree that they could go off on lengthy improvisations with little risk of alienating listeners.

Last week, Weir offered this summary of Lesh’s influence on his and the band’s development: “Phil turned me on to the John Coltrane Quartet, and the wonders of modern classical music with its textures and developments, which we soon tried our hands at incorporating into what we had to offer. This was all new to most peoples’ ears.”

Indeed, Lesh’s work with the Dead was held in such high regard by the fan base that his most ardent followers would often position themselves at concerts in an area that became known as “the Phil Zone,” in order to better see and hear what he was bringing to the overall sound.

Lesh also chipped in some of the backing vocals to the multi-voice harmonies the Dead showcased. More important, he made major songwriting contributions to the group’s catalog, writing or co-writing such iconic tracks as “Truckin’,” “St. Stephen,” “Cumberland Blues,” “Box of Rain” and “Unbroken Chain,” the last of which also featured Lesh on lead vocals.

While I admired their musical chops and what they were able to achieve in their three decades in the business, I would say I’ve been no more than a modest fan of The Dead over the years.  I own the two marvelous LPs from 1970, “Workingman’s Dead” and “American Beauty”; the awesome triple album, “Europe ’72”; and their surprising commercial comeback in 1987, “In the Dark.”  But if I were to list my favorite rock artists, The Dead wouldn’t make my Top 30.

Part of the reason, I think, is that I felt like I wasn’t really part of the one-of-a-kind bond the band shared with its core audience.  I felt like an outsider, even though I was sympathetic to the sweet devotion, sharing and general kindness that were the hallmarks of the relationship between the band and its fans, who are lovingly referred to as Deadheads.  I feel as if I missed that era.

Lesh noted, “An article in a music magazine once stated, ‘The real medium of rock and roll is records.  Concerts are only repeats of records.’  The Dead represent the opposite of that idea.  Our records are definitely not it.  The concerts are it, but we’re not in such total control of our scene that we can say, ‘Tonight’s the night, it’s going to be magic tonight.’  We can only say we’re going to try it again tonight.  Each night was like jumping off a cliff together.”

Still, Lesh said he was incredulous when the band made the seismic shift from jam band in 1969 to a purveyor of conventional length songs with pleasant melodies and engaging harmonies. “The almost miraculous appearance of these new songs on ‘Workingman’s Dead’ and ‘American Beauty’ would also generate a massive paradigm shift in our group mind: from the mind-munching frenzy of a seven-headed fire-breathing dragon to the warmth and serenity of a choir of chanting cherubim. Personally, I was thrilled that the band could make such a complete musical about-face while still maintaining the flat-out weirdness that I’d come to know and love.”

As the story goes, the name Grateful Dead happened serendipitously when Garcia opened a big book and saw the two words positioned opposite each other on facing pages. It turned out the phrase had a deeper meaning: It refers to folk tales in which “a dead person, or his angel, shows gratitude to someone who, as an act of charity, arranged for their proper burial.”  They found this act of kindness in keeping with their overarching spirit of community. Stumbling on that phrase in a book was just the sort of cosmic randomness that fascinated the group, and it came to dominate how the band would exist throughout its lifetime.  “Every night that we went out on stage, you never knew what might happen,” said Lesh.  “We rarely had a prepared set list.  We just played what felt right at that moment.  I just loved that about us.”

Lesh compared the Grateful Dead’s music to life itself. Both, he said, were “a series of recurring themes, transpositions, repetitions, unexpected developments, all converging to define form that is not necessarily apparent until its ending has come and gone.”

In 1994, a year before Garcia’s death brought the band to its end, The Dead were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Lesh played in the offshoot bands the Other Ones, the Dead and Furthur, as well as with his own assemblage, Phil Lesh and Friends, releasing the surprisingly strong “There and Back Again” in 2002 (a few tracks are included on the Spotify playlist below). He retired from regular road work in 2014 following a series of health challenges, including a liver transplant, prostate cancer and bladder cancer, and back surgery.

“I would have to say that music and performing are as essential as food and drink to me, but even more so as I get older,” he said in 2005. “While it can sometimes be more of a challenge physically than it was when I was a young whippersnapper, I’ve found that age brings wisdom, and with that comes musical experience and knowledge that I didn’t have when I was younger.”

Added Weir, “Phil wasn’t particularly averse to ruffling a few feathers. We had our differences, of course, but it only made our work together more meaningful. Given that death is the last and best reward for ‘a life well and fully lived,’ I rejoice in his liberation.”

R.I.P., Mr. Lesh. You can be proud of the music and life experiences you shared with the world.

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