Originally published in JAZZIZ December 2008, with permission from Insight Editions
Introduction to The Complete Quincy Jones: My Journey & Passions
By Bono
Quincy Jones was too cool for cool … so he reinvented the whole concept … made aloof engaged, made elitist get off the bus and press the flesh. His rebirth of the cool involved intense heat, his cool would be hot like a Brazilian beauty, hot like an African queen, hot like the sticky streets of New York in the summer, the sweat of the rhythms he would bring to popular music. The intense warmth of the man himself offered a new kind of sexiness to the way a music mogul could carry himself.
I have a picture in my head — I think it was taken by the great Herman Leonard — of Q in the studio with Miles Davis in the the late ’50s, conducting the room (and himself) in a silent and elegant way that just makes all the huffing and puffing, pushing and pulling of musical ambition look so … eh … un-cool.
That must be why I first attempted to glue myself to the man.
Irish people were not brought into the world to be cool … noisy, funny, literate, maybe … musical, verbose, feisty, fighty, maybe … but not cool. This is lucky for me … ’cos I couldn’t have been there if I tried. Even Frank Sinatra, when he first saw us, told a Las Vegas audience, “Wow, these Irish guys are number one, but they haven’t spent a dime on their clothes.”
I went to study the new cool at Quincy’s house in Los Angeles about 20 years ago to the day as I write this. Myself and Ali were late, on our way home from somewhere, and talking about my wife’s still favorite subject: Who was I going to be when I grew up? I offered the name Quincy Jones as a person I have always admired but could never hope to be, the man who has, more than any other, made music uniquely relevant to five decades. In what felt like an instant, Charlie, who was driving us, without saying a word, pulled up outside Quincy’s house. He’d called and had gotten us invited over. It was 2 a.m., and we still remember the shock of entering Q’s late-night world in every detail.
There was the man himself, elegant as always, soft spoken and a little more interested in the company of women than men, making Ali feel at home in his home and pointing out to the rock star a large bronze sculpture of an exaggerated figure of a Black man sticking his neck out, in the hall.
“It’s called attitude.”
“What? Owning a piece like that?” I inquired.
“No, the piece is called Attitude.”
Q doesn’t know how to not be himself, and he makes everyone around him want to be themselves. In fact, it’s when you are not yourself with him, that’s when you get in trouble. Everyone was welcome in this place as long as they brought their actual selves with them … My guess was that a new idea was the price of admission, that and old-school loyalty. Lionel Richie was there that night, another scholar from the school of true gentlemen. Quincy, it appeared, went fishing at night for friends, for fun, for ideas, for music. He would hang his hat anywhere that there was a hook, but over the years there were more hooks in Q’s house than anywhere else.
“Everybody’s welcome” meant every genre was welcome. It’s why he could work with Peggy Lee once day and Chaka Khan the next. As a record producer, Q does not try to turn singers into vehicles for his voice. He brings out their voice.
On that night in 1988, Quincy told me about getting a call from Sinatra about going back into the studio to start a new album. The Chairman had simply said, “Q, it’s time to shake up the citizens.” “Shaking up the citizens starts at home, doesn’t it?” Quincy said. “We got to challenge ourselves, though.”
We left as an orange sun lit his trees and began to fill his glass house. He kissed us goodbye.
“It’s great to be alive,” I said.
“Great to be alive?” he said.
“GREAT TO BE ALIVE?? … IT’S CRUCIAL, MAN.”
Think forward a hundred years or so. In 2108, most music fans may not be certain of the sequence of music from the 20th century. Did Elvis Presley come before or after hip-hop? Was Louis Armstrong around at the same time as Eminem? Chronology gets fuzzy with distance. In the future, all music will be set on permanent shuffle.
But music lovers who are not yet born will remember the records that Quincy produced, arranged, wrote and/or played on. They will know Ray Charles, they will know Thriller, Lena Horne, Sarah Vaughan, Sanford and Son, Count Basie, Roots, Norah Jones, Body Heat, Duke Ellington, In the Heat of the Night, Dizzy Gillespie, Frank Sinatra, Miles Davis, “We Are the World” and “It’s My Party.”
The wonder will be that one man could have fit so much music into one lifetime. Q had better get his evidence in order now, or in centuries to come historians will wonder if there were two, three, four of him. Archaeologists will be excavating for a Q cloning factory; scientists will be trying to identify a Q gene. He will be known as a musical Shakespeare: Could one person really have done all that?
But we know Quincy not only did all that, he did all that while scoring for Steven Spielberg and Bill Cosby, while doing charity work from America to Africa, while raising seven remarkable children and while always having a good time.
Q is the sort of man you want to have with you whether you’re going to church or robbing a bank. He appreciates the high life and a bit of the low life, as I say. He doesn’t care where you are from; it’s your story he’s interested in. His story told here is an extraordinary one. A musical genius, an effortless showman, an old-fashioned gentleman, whose brain is as big as his heart and nearly as big as his libido. It’s rare in this world to meet someone who is equally relaxed on the stage in Vegas, in a back alley in Accra, at Carnaval in Bahia — where we were nearly trampled to deah — or in the grandeur of the Vatican.
I can personally testify to this; I am a witness. In 1999, Quincy and I traveled to meet Pope John Paul II together. We were involved with the Jubilee 2000 Drop the Debt Campaign, a worldwide attempt to get governments to cancel the old, unpayable debts of the poorest countries. We headed for the outskirts of Rome on a mission to enlist the Pope’s support. I cannot speak for Quincy, but I confess I was a little intimidated as we entered the Castle Gandolfo, impressed by the sense of mystery and authority, by the Swiss Guard with their muskets and their uniforms designed by Leonardo da Vinci [often attributed to Michelangelo, but actually designed centuries later]. The Pontiff was very frail. I was moved by the heroic effort he made just to stand and greet each one of us. Amid all the grandeur and trepidation, Quincy whispered to me, “Check … out … the shoes.” The shoes of the fisherman on this particular day were burgundy wingtips with light tan ribbed socks. Q said softly with admiration in his voice, “The cat is wearing some pimp shoes. Stylin’!”
Quincy does not distinguish high and low. Only good and bad. “We Are the World” is not only the title of his greatest hit — it’s how he looks at life. As a musician, what an honor it is to have lived in Quincy Jones’ century; as a person, what a privilege to call him a friend. No matter what shoes you wear.
If God has a jukebox, I know which name is on more of the selections than any other. It starts with Q. It ends there, too.