I expected to be immersed in tales of his immense talent and impact when it began, but there’s a moment about 20 minutes into the Netflix documentary “Quincy” where Rashida Jones is looking at her dad with her arms crossed, skeptical at his insistence about how he’s taking care of himself a few months after a major health scare, that shifted my view. That was too real; I’ve given my dad that identical look in similar circumstances. With all the magic Quincy Jones has brought to the world and my life, what his daughter provided and nailed for me the most is not his impact on entertainment, but on the people he loves. An extraordinary man with ordinary concerns – missing friends he’s lost, looking back and forward at his influence, and cherishing time with his family.
Also, he can get anyone on the phone at any time to do anything.
About those gifts, Mr. Jones, thank you for these and so many others:
Tevin, Tamia, “The Dude” album playing on Sunday mornings in the living room while my mom vacuumed the house, “The Secret Garden” cassingle playing on repeat in high school, “Q’s Jook Joint” CD playing on repeat in my dorm, The Wiz, Off the Wall, Thriller, We are the World, putting Oprah on a larger screen, and putting the Fresh Prince in a town called Bel-Air.
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