One question has raced through my head about Quincy Jones. It’s been there long before his passing on Monday became international news. But the question is simple yet complex.

How did one man live that life?

Jones was born two months after the inauguration of Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1933 and died days before Donald Trump won the 2024 presidential election. In between, Quincy Delight Jones Jr. lived a singular American life and had no problem telling anyone who’d listen about his journey. Jones never seemed addicted to the spotlight. Instead, the spotlight was enamored with his natural charisma and gift of gab. His stories were braggadocious because, given who he knew and what he experienced, how could they not? 

Throughout his seven-decade career, Jones amassed over 4,000 song credits. Many of the songs are embedded into the fabric of this country’s story, with many artists who have come to define the sound of American music, from Michael Jackson, Frank Sinatra, and Count Basie to Donna Summer, Dinah Washington, and so many more. The greatest-selling album of all time, Jackson’s Thriller, doesn’t happen without Jones’ genius. Cultural critic Bomani Jones said Jones’ signature talent “was making everyone else better.” That much is undeniable. Jones’ musical legacy is as unparalleled as there has ever been or will be.

That’s partly because Jones’ music wasn’t relegated to the studio or the radio. The depth of his catalog and ability to command a story through music was also deeply reverberated in film and television. Jones’ musical fingerprint is felt in culture-shifting works like Roots, The Italian Job, Sanford & Son (Jones created the theme song), composing the score for The Color Purple, In the Heat of the Night and a king’s ransom more. For the scores Jones produced, his assists were just as prolific. Jones nearly composed the soundtrack for the 1995 classic Waiting to Exhale but quietly recommended Babyface get the look instead. The soundtrack became one of the most beloved in film history.

But with Jones, what comes to mind is just how incredible the stories he told over the years were. Jones’ storytelling abilities were audacious. His 2018 Vulture interview became an instant classic as he recalled memories with everyone from Marlon Brando — and his alleged sexual proclivities — to Michael Jackson and even Donald Trump, a man he described as a “crazy motherf—“ and a “f— idiot” who was “limited mentally” and that he “couldn’t stand him.” Then 85 at the time, Jones’ grandfatherly ability to speak with no filter led him to discuss who assassinated President John F. Kennedy and his love, yet artistic disdain for The Beatles.

“They were the worst musicians in the world,” Jones said about the group. “They were no-playing motherf—s.”

That was just the tip of the iceberg. Jones’ life and interviews can serve as a masterclass in research. Go back through decades worth, and you’ll find a man who has been tapped into so many critical points in American history. He once claimed that Detroit Red was his band’s dope dealer long before he became Malcolm X. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar recalled holiday memories with Jones at his house and family. Jones’ decision to help launch VIBE in 1993 was a bold one that paid off tenfold and changed how people looked at music magazines. VIBE became one of the signature voices of authority on hip-hop and R&B, a decade that saw both genres skyrocket in popularity and influence.

Mentorship was part of his storytelling lore, too. Jamie Foxx credited Jones with helping him properly prepare for his Oscar-winning role as Jones’ best friend Ray Charles in Ray. The late Nipsey Hussle listened to interviews Jones gave throughout the years on the making of Thriller. Hearing Jones wax poetic about how he and Jackson curated the album directly led to Hussle adopting the same process in his own seminal project, the Grammy-nominated Victory Lap. Tupac Shakur, who once criticized Jones for his interracial marriages, nearly became Jones’ son-in-law and was engaged to his daughter Kidada at the time of his 1996 murder. Will Smith said Jones, a Fresh Prince of Bel-Air producer, “let me use his wings until mine were strong enough to fly.” 

Trying to list every story Jones has ever told and every life he ever touched is an exercise in futility. Quincy Jones lived 91 years, but it’s impossible to know how many lifetimes he actually lived in that span. He was a walking multihyphenate, collecting titles such as jazz musician, producer, composer (in 1957, he moved to Paris to study composition with Nadia Boulanger and Olivier Messiaen), people connector, filmmaker and countless more. Jones used his power to empower others. He was an influencer of the highest regard long before social media corrupted the term. It’s even more impossible to know how many lives Jones altered along the way. Lives of the uber-famous and lives of the everyday man or woman were impacted by a man who got the most out of life in seemingly every way possible. With Jones, I often wondered if he realized how valuable his own memories were. I’m sure he did, which is why he spoke about them so much. 

One of the most important positions in the Black community has always been the historian. It’s how our stories are passed down. It’s how immortality is achieved. I look at America and where it is inevitably headed. Books are being banned. History, in particular Black history, is being barred from being taught exactly how it occurred. People like Jones mattered because he told the truth in ways that can’t be quantified. 

The music he created reverberates into corners of the universe still yet to be discovered. I hear Tevin Campbell’s lyrics on Jones’ 1989 classic “Tomorrow (A Better You, A Better Me)” in my head. 

“I hope tomorrow will bring a better you, better me. I know that we’ll show this world we got more we could be,” Campbell sings. “So you should never give up on your hopes and dreams.”

In a country that Jones never shied away from critiquing, these 35-year-old lyrics resonate in ways they perhaps never have. We have to continue to tell ourselves we’re closer to heaven than hell, even if we can feel the embers of the fire on our necks. Jones lived that mantra across decades, across generations and several different shades of makeup America tried to put on to disguise its true identity. Now, Jones is no longer here. Preserving Black stories is perhaps the greatest tribute to Quincy Jones any of us could hope to do. Because, now more than ever, their survival has never been in greater peril.