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Greg Phillinganes, a keyboardist from Detroit, was in Stevie Wonder‘s Wonderlove band in the early ’70s when prolific producer and composer Quincy Jones invited him to play on a session with jazzman Billy Eckstine. The collaboration led to a nearly 50-year relationship, in which Phillinganes appeared on “Q”-produced classics such as Michael Jackson‘s Off the Wall and Thriller, plus albums by Patti Austin, George Benson, James Ingram and Jones himself. By phone from New York, where he is working with Pink Floyd‘s David Gilmour on his Luck and Strange tour, Phillinganes remembers Jones, his friend and mentor, who died Sunday at 91.
The first time I met him, I was still in high school. I was 18, living in Detroit. Quincy was in town for a signing of his new album You’ve Got It Bad Girl [in 1973]. I left school early and I went downtown to Hudson’s [department store] to meet him. I bought an album and stood in line. I remember shaking hands with him, we talked for a couple minutes and I told him I was a musician. I remember him asking me what I play, and I said keyboards, and he asked me if I had a Fender Rhodes. I told him, “No, but I get to use one in the band I play in.” He was supportive and wonderful and encouraging.
It led to another meeting, which happened after I joined Stevie’s band. He had me come down to A&M Studios to play on a little ditty that he was producing on Herb Alpert. The name of the song was “The Best Thing,” which was a single for this little artist named Billy Eckstine [the great jazz singer]. Not too long after that, I ended up on most everything [Jones] did. The thing about Quincy is, if he invites you in, it’s assumed you are worthy of being there.
He has a gentle way. If he’s sweating, he never lets you see it. He’s always able to bring out not only the best in you, but qualities in you that you didn’t even know you had. It’s only after the fact that you realize you’re a better musician than before you went in.
That was a wonderful surprise, to be called to participate in Michael Jackson’s first solo record [Off the Wall]. [Jones] asked me to arrange the song “I Can’t Help It” that was written by Stevie. We got the demo, we’re in the studio, we heard it. It was an up-tempo Latin feeling. Quincy gave me the responsibility of handling it. I thought, “Great, I’m going to do the same kind of thing Stevie did, and really amp it up and make it jazzy.” I did a demo. I had Sheila E. playing on it and Michael sang on it. I played it for Quincy and he said, “No.” Quincy said, “No, we have to slow it down and make it sexy.” Quincy was trying to establish Michael as an adult. When I understood that assignment, I jumped all over it and put a beautiful Rhodes on it and sexy synth bass and these gorgeous lush synths and overdubs. That is the version that’s on the record.
I had a nickname that was not from Quincy. It originated from junior high school in Detroit. This guy started doling out nicknames to people, and I happened to be there. He got to me and said, “We’re going to call you Mouse.” From that day on, everybody called me that. When I got older, it got less cute to me. “Hang on, I’m an adult, and I’m already small in stature, I don’t need to be reminded of it.” I grew in popularity quite heavily in Detroit, and I was playing in bands around town, everybody knew me by that name and it just stuck. I moved to L.A. in June ’75 and I felt this sense of freedom: “I’m starting a new life and nobody knows who I am — and more importantly, no one knows me by that dreaded nickname.” But guess what? There was a buddy of mine, another musician who also played keyboards, who started working with Quincy before I did. He told Quincy about me, but he told him that name. So the second time I met Quincy, the first thing he said to me was, “How you doin’, Mouse?” I went, “AAAAIEEEE! AAAAAGGGGHH!” Not just him. He would introduce me to friends of his, like Arthur Ashe, Colin Powell — he would say the nickname. It’s like, really, Quincy? Really?
When he developed the talk show Vibe [in 1997], he called me in his office and said, “I want you to be the musical director of this show.” I said, “This is incredible, I’ve always wanted to have a band on a TV talk show.” He paused and said, “There’s this one thing. I want you to use that name.” I said, “Aw, come on, man, you’ve got to give me a break on that. People are going to spot me in the mall and go, “Hey, that’s Mouse.” He looked at me and said, “That’s the idea.” Well, you couldn’t fight that. It got to the point where I accepted it from him, because his tone of voice, the way he called me that, it was just so endearing.
The last time I saw him was June 17. It took months of planning. I’d been desperately trying to contact him and it was so tough because the family were really keeping things tightly monitored, and understandably so. It was finally arranged and we talked and reminisced. He said things like, “Life is amazing, isn’t it, Mouse?” He was sitting in a chair and I stood behind him and he held my hand and kissed it. Just so beautiful and intimate, and I will never forget it.
It goes back to the directive that his mentor [French composition and orchestration teacher] Nadia Boulanger told him, and he has since told me, and I have since told every kid I meet: “You are never more of a musician than you are a human being.” Quincy was one rare, loving, passionate, soulful, funny and generous human being.
— As told to Steve Knopper