By Wesley Morris
I possess a book titled “The Complete Quincy Jones,” published in 2008. It’s the type of impressive coffee table book that’s so filled with ephemera that it nearly overflows with images, reproductions of letters, sheet music, newspaper articles, and report cards. It’s a book that necessitates a strategy to bring it home from a shop. Some elements are attached to the pages, as if Jones, who passed away on Sunday, crafted it solely for my enjoyment, even though my name isn’t mentioned anywhere near Oprah Winfrey’s heartfelt “thank you” note. One of the loose news clippings, taken from a 1989 issue of The International Herald Tribune, has become a makeshift bookmark, awkwardly declaring: “Quincy Jones: Black Music’s Bernstein.”
It is a dazzling, celebratory, sophisticated volume, just like the music to which Jones dedicated the majority of his 91 years. As you delve into it, you begin to recognize how pervasive this man was. I was aware he had connections. (Maya Angelou wrote the preface. Clint Eastwood contributed the foreword, Bono offered the introduction, and Sidney Poitier wrote the afterword.) Yet, it wasn’t until I took the time to explore this book that I could genuinely grasp another aspect: how he was a connector, a vital link among people.
That quality is also present in his music. He played numerous brass instruments—including sousaphone, trombone, tuba, and horns—but ultimately chose the trumpet, quickly establishing himself as an exceptional arranger and producer, a person whose genius stemmed from knowing how to bring it all together. His musical style focused not merely on breaking down barriers but on the idea of fusion, blending various elements, combining some influences with others, and sprinkling in a few more. He melded bossa nova with jazz, integrated Donna Summer with Bruce Springsteen, and harmonized Eddie Van Halen with Michael Jackson. This approach manifested across records, films, concerts, with initiatives like “We Are the World” and in the pages of Vibe magazine. Connections.
This wasn’t mere iconoclasm, and formally, it wasn’t strictly about civil rights either. It was a vision intertwined with curiosity and taste that coincided with civil rights. Jones opposed the imposition of arbitrary boundaries on that vision. Thus, what you hear in all his music is a blend of everything—African rhythms, R&B beats, intermingling with lavish string arrangements and soaring falsetto melodies. It embodies whatever America aspires to represent. Frequently, he was the orchestrator of America’s sound, enriching it while understanding what gives it vitality. It’s noteworthy how his music kickstarted one of the most-watched television events ever (“Roots”) and that his production underpins the bestselling album of all time (“Thriller”). Two titles that encapsulate the richness and essence of the Quincy Jones journey.
However, there’s another, interconnected facet of that journey, showcased throughout “The Complete Quincy Jones.” In nearly every photo, he appears genuinely joyful to be where he is—standing alongside Hillary Clinton, conversing with Colin Powell, laughing next to Nelson Mandela, or sitting under a conductor’s podium next to Frank Sinatra and Count Basie. In one image, he has an arm around Sarah Vaughan and the other around Chaka Khan. Elsewhere, he is seen giving a kiss to Clarence Avant’s cheek, or playfully pressing his cheek to Barbra Streisand’s (she jokingly signed that one: “My big ole black butt is sticking out — isn’t it?”; and I’ll just note her outfit is dark). A significant feature on “The Color Purple,” which he produced and scored, includes a picture of him and Alice Walker, foreheads touching. There’s also a fascinating image of him gazing upwards with Leonard Bernstein, reportedly at the Sistine Chapel.
I know, I know: Sir, these are merely photographs. What else would he appear like? But there’s something deeper for me here. On one hand: I’m just name-dropping. On the other: This was a Black man born in 1933 who somehow navigated a challenging upbringing in Chicago (he recalls a moment when someone pinned a knife to his hand at age 7), and now he stands not just moving and shaking but attracting and influencing. Forgive me, but I have another name to mention: Delight—Jones’ middle name. His parents truly hit the mark with that one. He radiated it. His music made it a priority.
Delight serves as a crucial catalyst for his artistic success. Whenever I’ve felt hesitant about rushing to a dance floor upon hearing a DJ drop “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” or “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’,” I push aside my feelings of reluctance and recall the energy of those tracks, the electrifying opening bass line of one and the exhilarating climactic breakdown of the other. Those belong as much to Jones as to Jackson. I am captivated by the arrangement of what I hear, the freshness of it, and the creativity he drew out from musicians and technicians.
I started examining album liner notes because I wanted to uncover who contributed the distinctive sounds in the music Jones produced: the handclaps and vibrant drumming that keep Lesley Gore’s “It’s My Party” a classic; the chants and layers on George Benson’s “Give Me the Night”; all nine tracks on, say, my favorite Donna Summer album (“Donna Summer”); that haunting noise in Jackson’s “Speed Demon,” from “Bad”; or the elevated vocals Charles May and Patti Austin deliver on “Ai No Corrida,” a hit from Jones’ own “The Dude.” The names frequently appeared: Greg Phillinganes, Paulinho da Costa, Michael Boddicker, Steve Porcaro, Rod Temperton. Herbie Hancock! I discovered that the rhythmic squeak in Jones’ “Soul Bossa Nova” (now famously known as the “Austin Powers” theme) is produced by the cuica.
Extended engagement with Jones’ method highlights that part of a producer’s role is casting. For example, he recognized the unique delight in James Ingram’s voice and brought him from obscurity to R&B fame. Ingram’s heartfelt “woo” was akin to what Marilyn Monroe did for beauty marks. Jones had the foresight to understand that we would crave that. In the “We Are the World” documentary that’s been available on Netflix, it becomes apparent how demanding his role in sustaining that warmth can be. One scene depicts Jones needing to persuade his star-studded cast to temporarily cease their chatter and listen to Bob Geldof’s outline of the moral and humanitarian implications of the long evening they were about to spend together, singing. The call to leave their egos behind was evidently a concept he put forth.
That, I believe, is another underlying theme of “The Complete Quincy Jones,” essentially reflecting this man’s entire oeuvre. It showcases a miracle of selflessness. He clearly takes pride in his resilience, longevity, and remarkable accomplishments (one of the many foldout pages highlights his vast collection of awards). This pride permeates his productions; you can sense it just in how he orchestrates horns. Yet, he doesn’t appear to have ambitions of world domination. It’s not a mindset focused on manipulating everything for profit. However, it’s conceivable that some of his superstar producer descendants may have misinterpreted that omnipresence and joy. He embodied what he created. It wasn’t even about his being the entire world; it was simply that the world resided within him.
