Remembering Quincy Jones and
His Influence on My Life and Music.

This morning, I woke up to the news that Quincy Jones had passed. I was shocked at first, but somehow, I wasn’t. Just last week, I’d put my iTunes on shuffle, and, as if on cue, it kept serving up Quincy Jones’s music—from The Dude to Back on the Block. It wasn’t random; his music was front and center. So many songs he either wrote, produced, or had a hand in, including Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall, Bad, Thriller, all of it. And every time my iTunes list does this, it’s a signal for me. I can almost feel it in my bones: that person’s energy has transitioned or is about to, even if they’re still alive.

I first felt this kind of thing back when my dad passed in 1990. On my way to the hospital, I felt his energy pass right through me—so strong I could smell him. Not just any scent, but his exact smell, the way he’d smelled my whole life when he stood close by. It was a Tuesday, and I was stuck in traffic, drenched in a downpour on the Cross Island Parkway. It was gridlock, cars stopped cold, rain pouring so hard that we all had to come to a standstill. And I was anxious, knowing that my dad was in that hospital, and suddenly I felt like he was either gone or slipping away. When I finally got there, he was still alive, laughing on the phone with his girlfriend. But from that moment on, I knew he was going to transition any day. Sure enough, by the end of that week, he was gone.

It initially happened with Michael Jackson in 2009. Suddenly, I started hearing all his stripped-back music and old remixes popping up on the radio. I’d downloaded a ton of his music, and somehow it kept resurfacing in my playlists. Within days, he was gone too. These days, I recognize the signals more clearly. This time, with Quincy, it felt familiar.

There isn’t much I can say about Quincy that hasn’t already been celebrated. He was in a league of his own, and his influence on music is beyond words. But for me personally, Quincy was everything. Along with Lionel Richie. He influenced my whole approach to music—how I write, produce, and arrange. In fact, like Quincy, I have started involving guest artists to perform songs I’ve written for up coming releases and albums. I’m modeling a lot of my current career the way he did his. It’s a style of creative collaboration that he championed, and it resonates with me deeply.

Friends of mine have affectionately called me “Q” for the past 30 years, a term of endearment that always makes me smile. It’s a reminder that my music, in some small way, reflects the essence of Quincy Jones. I know I will never reach his level, and that’s fine. 

What matters is that I shared this world with him and that his music was already shaping life when I came along. He was already doing his thing when I was growing up in the ’60s and ’70s, and as I got older, I saw him do things that made me feel like, “Yeah, I can do this too.”

So, Quincy, your transition didn’t surprise me, but you’ll be missed by millions, including me. And someday, way down the road, I’ll join you. But until then, keep the music going out there in the real world. Keep that energy alive, as I know you will.


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