‘Quincy’ Is A Loving Homage To Legendary Musician And Producer Quincy Jones

Forget that bearded jagoff in the beer commercials, Quincy Jones is actually the most interesting man in the world. He’s also among the most talented. Rising up from poverty, he’s worked with the biggest names in jazz, pop, R&B and hip hop, produced movies and television shows, survived aneurisms and strokes, attended his own memorial service, had his music played on the Moon, and laid down with “some of the finest women in the world.”  As you might imagine, chronicling such a life is no easy task, though the new documentary Quincy, which began streaming today on Netflix, tries its darndest.

Co-written and co-directed by his daughter, the actor Rashida Jones (A.K.A. Parks and Recreation‘s Ann Perkins), Quincy is both a chronicle of his life and a portrait of the now-85-year-old lion in winter (the other co-writer/director is Alan Hicks). It begins with him having a stroke, from which he recovers and goes on tour, then a heart episode, from which he recovers to produce a star-studded musical gala to celebrate the opening of the National Museum of African American History and Culture. Mortality is on his mind, as he reflects on his many lost friends, but it doesn’t seem to be something he’s personally worried about. “I’m not going out. Not yet,” he says. “When I go out I’ll be ready for it.”

Born in 1933 on the south side of Chicago, Jones’ father worked as a carpenter for local black gangsters and his mother was institutionalized, taken away in a straitjacket following a schizophrenic breakdown. She would reappear throughout Jones’ life like a specter, an unwelcome reminder of past traumas as he scaled the towers of success. He lived with his grandmother, a former slave, before moving to Seattle with his father in 1940. He began playing piano as a boy, and later jazz trumpet. In the jazz world he found a place where a black man could live with dignity, style, and have a whole Hell of a lot of fun. “Music was one thing that I could control,” he says. “It was the one thing that offered me my freedom.”

Not yet 20-years-old, Jones joined jazz bandleader Lionel Hampton’s group and hit the road, sometimes playing 70 straight nights in a row. What Jones really liked to do though was compose. By the end of the decade he had moved to New York, where he apprenticed with his bebop heroes and became a sought-after writer and arranger. Already married with a family, success brought, “Women, money and work…and I embraced them all.”

In 1961, seeking steady employment, Jones became Vice-President of Mercury Records, the first black executive at a major label record company. He also continued producing and composing, and in 1964 was recruited by Frank Sinatra to do the arrangements for his album It Might as Well Be Swing, which produced the hit “Fly Me To The Moon,” later played by Astronauts during the first Moon landing in 1969. By then Jones was living in L.A. scoring films and later began a relationship with actress Peggy Lipton.

In 1978, while working on the film adaptation of musical The Wiz, Jones befriended Michael Jackson, then 18-years old and looking for a producer to reboot his recording career. Jones offered his services and the results would change both their lives and alter the course of popular music and culture. 1979’s Off The Wall and 1982’s Thriller broke sales records for a black artist and altered the musical landscape with their bold sonic adventurousness. Jones’ celebrity was at its height, as he arranged the all-star charity single “We Are The World,” and produced the movie The Color Purple. The pressures of fame and his longstanding workaholic tendencies, however, would cost him his marriage to Lipton, resulting in a nervous breakdown. But of course he bounced back. He always bounces back.

In between the historical vignettes we see Jones squeezing every last drop of his life in the present day. He’s mentoring young musicians, supervising recording sessions, hosting symposiums, traveling from Georgia (the country) to Sweden, back to America, then off to London, China, Dubai. When he finally collapses at a conference in Los Angeles, it’s no surprise. The guy’s in his early eighties, for Christ’s sake. At the hospital we overhear his daughter say, “He’s traveling too much.” Good luck slowing him down.

Quincy concludes with the opening ceremonies of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture, and its musical segment, which he put together. Ever the perfectionist, he makes personal phone calls to former Secretary of State Colin Powell to assure his attendance, adjusts the seating chart, and supervises last minute changes and rehearsals. On the night of the show we see practically every black celebrity of note plus Tom Hanks come by to press hands and pay tribute to him. The show is an emotional triumph, and Jones’ reflections on race afterwards are sobering considering the current racial divide in America.

Quincy is lovingly put together and recounts one of the most distinguished and interesting careers in American entertainment. However, it’s almost too much to fit into a single movie. After a while, you become numb to the never ending parade of incredible musical moments and amazing achievements (and, believe me, they are all truly incredible and amazing). The film might have worked better if it had been broken into two parts, then and now, though in a sense its giant scope mirrors Jones himself, who seems determined to fill every day with accomplishments, to finish another song, achieve another goal, to play just one more note in this ongoing solo called life. As he says early in the film, “You can’t live without water or music.” That explains everything.

Benjamin H. Smith is a New York based writer, producer and musician. Follow him on Twitter: @BHSmithNYC.

Watch Quincy on Netflix