In 2018 Cypriot Dr Spyros Yiassemides who works at the Treasury in the Republic of Cyprus, wrote about his chance encounter with the American music great Quincy Jones, who has died at age 91. The music great left an enduring impression on the young couple, both accountants by profession.
“My encounter with this bigger-than-life musical genius may have lasted for only half an hour, but it had a tremendous impact on me, as everything about him – his swagger, the way he talked, the stories he uttered, his stare, carried an incredible energy that stayed with me for life. It’s like I took a piece of him that night, to have with me and treasure forever, Dr Yiassemides wrote to Neos Kosmos.
Quincy Jones had worked with some of Greece’s greatest musicians during his illustrious career. In 1965 he produced Manos Hadjidakis’s iconic album Gioconda’s Smile (Το Χαμόγελο της Τζοκόντας) which is considered one of the classic albums of 20th-century Greek music.
Quincy Jones also collaborated with Nana Mouskouri and beloved Greek composer Mimis Plessas who died earlier this year at age 99.
Dr Yiassemides shared a further anecdote from his encounter with Quincy Jones that involved Plessas.
“Back in the day, Quincy and the inimitable Mimis Plessas used to compete for the eyes of the same girl. Q won her over, so Mimis, from then on, used to call him “σκατάκι”. ‘That’s Greek for “little shit”’, I told him, excited as I was! ‘Yeah, I know man’, he told me. ‘Can’t shake it off my mind’!”
Below is Yiassemides original account republished here with permission.
A story.
It was April 2014. By a stroke of luck (and some serious dream chasing), Elena and I found ourselves in New York City, as guests of Robert De Niro, attending his Tribeca Film Festival.
It practically translated to two weeks of red-carpet premieres, champagne parties, press conferences, the works. Basically what we would do on a typical Saturday night in Cyprus. Not!
Needless to say, we were like kids in a candy store, trying to soak up as much stardust as possible.
On the night of the Holy Saturday, straight after church (the Archdiocesan Cathedral of the Holy Trinity at East 74th Street), we headed off to the after party for Keep On Keepin’ On, a music documentary co-produced by Quincy Jones, among others. We had missed the premiere in order to attend church service.
So we put away the candles, and rushed to the venue where the party was held. Upon entering, we bumped into Whoopi Goldberg who was just exiting the club, a bit tipsy, a lot of herself. She hailed a cab and disappeared into the night – POOF.
BOOM.
Anyway, we gave our names to the gorilla at the door, went past the velvet rope and straight to our table, in dire need of bottle service. Right after the first scotch, I turned my head to the right and observed the people at the table next to us. One person stood out. He was old, black, sported a thin, grey moustache, had a blazer over a purple shirt, and a colourful scarf around his neck. He was taking generous sips of red wine, talking loudly and laughing even louder.
The gentleman sitting next to us was Quincy Jones.
A few scotches down the road, I told Elena that I would go over and chat him up. Best-case scenario, we would exchange “good evenings”, take a picture, and part ways. Worst-case, he would dismiss me with an excuse. I was OK with the odds. After all, I was about to talk to the guy who discovered Oprah, was best pals with Sinatra, made Thriller happen, and produced my all-time favourite sitcom, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
So I got up, Elena on my side, walked the four steps to his table and greeted him.
“Good evening Mr. Jones!”
<DRAMATIC PAUSE>
“Oh hiya, man. Where are you from?”
“Cyprus!”
“Cyprus? That’s next to Greece, right?”
“Absolutely correct!”
“Grab a chair, man. Let’s talk. Always happy to meet somebody from Greece. So many good people in that country. So many memories running with them fellas back in the day.”
Next thing I know, we were chatting with “Q” himself, going from the Greek music scene of the 60s to Mikis Theodorakis, Nana Mouskouri and Mimis Plessas, then to Michael Jackson and his albums.
Just before parting ways, he extended his hand and showed us the gold ring on his pinky finger.
“You know who gave me this?”
I had absolutely no idea.
“Sinatra did, just before he died. It symbolizes our friendship. Now, every time I visit Italy, I never show a passport at the airport; I just flash the ring and they let me in!”
Wow, man. What a story.
We got up, took a picture to seal the moment in digital memory, shook hands, and left, not so much star-stricken, more so impressed by his larger-than-life persona. We then walked to our table, finished the bottle of scotch, savoured the moment, let it linger.
A couple of years later, I was interviewed by John Vickers for Gold magazine, and recollected this experience to him. He run it in the magazine, verbatim.
Last night I watched Quincy on Netflix, the 2018 documentary about the life of the legend that goes by the same name, on the recommendation of my baby bro, Stefanos. At one point in the film, Quincy recounts the origins of his gold ring. Hearing the exact same words that came out of his mouth that night in NYC some years ago, was true deja vu; an experience relived, the underlying emotions reignited.
I was, once again, speechless.
I said it before, I’ll say it again, a million times over – life is not measured by the number of breaths we take , but by the moments that take our breath away.
Fuckin’ A.
