Joan Halifax, Zen teacher

i refuse to be defeated by ignorance
we can call out the multiple causes and conditions
there are so many
and right now, we have to come alongside a lot of anger and anguish
and then foster healthy solidarity to do what we can to mitigate the suffering that so many are facing and will face
and at the same time, remembering rebecca solnit’s, a paradise built in hell…
take these lessons and apply them wide-eyed and open handed
and one more thing, i myself refuse to play the fear card right now
how we choose to go forward will make a difference

Originally published on Facebook.

Rebecca Solnit

They want you to feel powerless and to surrender and to let them trample everything and you are not going to let them. You are not giving up, and neither am I. The fact that we cannot save everything does not mean we cannot save anything and everything we can save is worth saving. You may need to grieve or scream or take time off, but you have a role no matter what, and right now good friends and good principles are worth gathering in. Remember what you love. Remember what loves you. Remember in this tide of hate what love is. The pain you feel is because of what you love. The Wobblies used to say don’t mourn, organize, but you can do both at once and you don’t have to organize right away in this moment of furious mourning.

You can be heartbroken or furious or both at once; you can scream in your car or on a cliff; you can also get up tomorrow and water the flowerpots and call someone who’s upset and check your equipment for going onward. A lot of us are going to come under direct attack, and a lot of us are going to resist by building solidarity and sanctuary. Gather up your resources, the metaphysical ones that are heart and soul and care, as well as the practical ones.

People kept the faith in the dictatorships of South America in the 1970s and 1980s, in the East Bloc countries and the USSR, women are protesting right now in Iran and people there are writing poetry. There is no alternative to persevering, and that does not require you to feel good. You can keep walking whether it’s sunny or raining. Take care of yourself and remember that taking care of something else is an important part of taking care of yourself, because you are interwoven with the ten trillion things in this single garment of destiny that has been stained and torn, but is still being woven and mended and washed.

Originally published on Facebook.

Rhonda Magee

The sun also rises. May we begin again tomorrow making the world a bit better.

Originally published on Facebook.

Zenju Earthlyn Manuel, Zen teacher

One of the largest rituals this country engages in is casting votes, to make our marks, to say something. We may cast a vote, not only for oneself, but, for those who are ill or incarcerated, for those who are illiterate, for those who have lost interest. We do this knowing that the outcome of voting is actually something we cannot really see in an instant. We cannot see the results today or tomorrow. Because the outcome of the ritual is not only about who won and who loss. It is about our coming together every four years; our desires expressed, a chance to return love and honor to those who fought for the participation of all in this ritual. And yet, this ritual induces false security for some and doubt and fear for others.

Our fear that things will get worse, tends to lead to things getting worse. When driven by fear we fall to those who prey on our terror, rage, pain, loneliness, and need for salvation. Our collective fear today is whether or not anyone can live as who they are in this country or in the world, despite being right, middle, or left on the political continuum or off the linear political path all together. Our fear is whether or not our own strategy will eventually work even though it has failed many times. 

A week before this election, I spotted a large Silverado truck and a huge blue flag with red stars mounted in the back. The flag said, “Kamala sucks.” I had my eye on the truck but lost track of it as I headed to a doctor’s appointment. I wasn’t feeling very well. Although hatred is not a human right, it is a human flaw. Soon the driver was alongside me honking his horn. He started towards my car and made a great effort to forced me off the road with his truck. It must have been the thrill of his day because it’s very difficult to find a black woman alone driving anywhere in New Mexico. He thought he had scored in a game in which he was as invisible as me. He may have been telling me that I suck too. But this life that I am living is in the hands of something that wants me here, something more powerful than him. My life is also in the hands of my ancestors. This he did not know. He did not know his ancestors were also with him.

Our shared suffering is less than one degree from each other. Our shared liberation must be the same. No matter who won this 2024 presidential election, twenty-four years into a new millennium, there is something that we all must do more than ever. We must keep faith in those around us. We must relish and cherish the relationships of family and friends no matter their human flaws. It doesn’t mean we have to suffer other’s suffering but the way to our liberation is to forge, with our heat, all that is broken in this country into a kind of freedom we never imagined we had the power to shape. I say this because it is only us that we have and only us who will need to stand at the doors to protect our free communities, free spaces, free loved ones, and more—not as protectors of people only but protectors of what has always been sacred and that is life itself. We must value all life even in the middle of all life not being valued. 

Are we ready and capable of dismantling the distorted perceptions we have of each other that are now strangling us, personally and collectively? No matter what gender, what skin tone—and there are more than two genders and two tones—we must ask what is it that causes us to do or fear not doing what we know shouldn’t be done? How will we lift the noose from around our own necks so we can do the same for another?

If possible we will live in the difficult and in the more difficult and in the difficult after that not because we are becoming stronger but because we know that freedom is tied to what we create out of what sits at our feet. Freedom is to not long for what a president, alone, could never give us. Can we feel the freedom we already have despite things causing us to feel otherwise?

Can we change the ritual? Look into someone’s frightened or confused face today and say, “I got you. I got you.” Saying it out loud is one way but saying it in your heart silently is also a way to access innate empathy, recognize the world’s grief, for the sake of everyone’s wellbeing. Can this be our sacred campaign forever? 

Lisa Ernst, Insight Meditation teacher

Taking Time to Pause with What’s Here

There is much well meaning advice going around about how to deal with this moment. Encouragement to not be afraid, to keep going and to stay away from despair. “Pick yourself back up immediately and press on.” But when we lose a loved one, most of us know we need time to grieve, to let our heart feel what it feels. For many of us, this is no different. Take your time, bring some compassion to your own heart, allow the sadness or fear as a felt sense and not a mistake. The spiritual principles and practices of boundless compassion, kindness and non-separation are still with us, but sometimes we need to stop, put it all down and just honor what’s in our hearts before going forward.

Originally published on Facebook.

Norman Fischer, Zen teacher

Would that words knew how, what to feel
To do
Would that the heart on the sleeve
Turn inside out with the terrible news clean fabric
Soldier on, those parts of the body in whose darkness
Sanity resides
Kindness as natural as wind
Blows through to some shaft of light
In which the truth scrolls show scraps and clear hints
Of what’s to come
That’s never as imagined
Humans have their many foibles fear elicits
But the body marches forward ever
Forward and round and round
This too passes
And passing refreshes
Every new moment’s a promise
That being human matters
On a green and greening earth…
And the trees hold steady

Originally published on Facebook.

Lama Karma Yeshe Chödrön, teacher in the Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism

Ignorance, hatred, and greed, are adventitious to mind’s loving, powerful, wisdom nature
Uproot them, and there is Buddha

Originally published on Facebook.

The post A Time for Bodhisattvas appeared first on Lion’s Roar.

Gear Me is a column in which we ask some of our favorite musicians about the racks, stacks, and instruments they love best. 

At one point during Ela Minus’s set at Brooklyn’s Knockdown Center in late September, the Colombian singer and producer’s hypnotic pop-techno made it feel like time had turned inside out. The lineup was stacked—Nourished By Time, Sofia Kourtesis, a Yaeji DJ set—but for 45 minutes the stage was Minus’ own intimate universe. She stood with her back to the audience, so that her giant rack of gear faced the crowd, while a camera projected her face in staticky black-and-white on the screen at the back of the stage. She looked like the tulle-swathed captain of a thumping holodeck. 

With a set-up that solved an age-old problem—how to entertain an audience while you’re twiddling with knobs, so to speak—Minus performed a set of elegantly mind-altering songs from her forthcoming second album, Dia (out in January on Domino Records), that almost no one knew. The audience was mesmerized anyway. “Broken,” the first single from Dia, sounded like careening through a sparkly wormhole. 

A few days after the show, Minus and I met at Domino’s cavernous Brooklyn office, where I asked her about bridging the gap between emotionally connecting with the audience and focusing on her instruments. “The way I play live, every decision I’ve made, comes from tapping into that teenage girl that went to a really good show and my life was changed forever,” she said. “Every decision I’ve made comes from that intuition of, ‘How do I make myself feel that magic that we all feel when we go to a show?’”

The gear is integral to the magic. Minus was first drawn to electronic sounds as a student at Berklee College of Music, and later got a job designing synthesizers for the boutique instrument company Critter & Guitari. I was curious about the heavy-looking synths she was carting around, but her favorite was a palm-sized and button-covered wooden one called the Pocket Piano, which she likes so much she wrote a song about it (“Pocket Piano,” from her debut album Acts of Rebellion). When she first handed it to me, I had no idea what to do with it, but she let me mess around and, as someone who can make my way around the 88 keys, I can confirm—though it doesn’t look much like a piano, it does play like one.

Below, Ela Minus demonstrates the power of the Pocket Piano. 

So, what’s your gear?

This is called a Pocket Piano. I don’t know if you know about the Pocket Piano?

I do know about the Pocket Piano, thanks to your song.

I built this one myself. I don’t really work for this company anymore, but they’re like my family. This specific model is older. They don’t make it anymore. Their new pocket pianos are more—“technological,” is the grandmother way to say it. They’re more advanced. But this one is super simple. Even though I have all of the new ones, this is the one I use live. I improvise a lot with it, precisely because it doesn’t look like a piano.

Did you also invent this?

No, but I designed the Organelle, one of the newer ones. It was really hard for me, because the original is the coolest thing ever, because of how simple and unpretentious it is. So it was hard for me to help design a better version of it, because I feel like it was perfect. I do use the Organelle a lot in the studio, but live, the original is just like—maybe it’s an emotional thing because I’ve used it for so long.

What draws you to an instrument like this? Is it the hands-on aspect?

When I was at Berklee, I was studying drums and music synthesis, and everybody was making electronic music on laptops. I was also doing a minor in coding, and my ear got really used to recognizing the sound of laptops. That made the experience of going to shows like ugh, a fucking laptop! Not visually, I could hear it. It all sounded the same. I was like, maybe hardware is more where I gravitate. There are so many beautiful and interesting machines. 

Somebody gave me the Pocket Piano as a birthday present. It’s beautiful, and it does not look like a piano or any other synth. And that immediately makes me play music differently, because I’m not seeing white and black keys. My hands have to physically be in a different shape, so I don’t go to the typical chords I would usually play. 

When you saw it, you were like, “What the fuck is this?” But I also feel like it’s so immediately musical that anybody can play something. When I got it, I thought, This is amazing because a kid could play it and make something musical. I was obsessed with it. I sent them an email as a fan, and that somehow turned into a job, eventually. 

Basically every time I’m improvising live—a lot of it comes from how I still, even after so many years, get surprised at what comes out of this thing when I’m playing it. I’m just like, Oh, my God, this is so beautiful. Even though I have expanded my synth vocabulary to so many more complicated synthesizers, I always keep coming back to this because of the musicality, the portability, and how everything I play with it turns into something I like. 

The Times Tech Guild is on strike, and asks players not to play the Times' games

The post PSA: Break Your New York Times Games Streak Today appeared first on Aftermath.

This interview originally ran on February 7, 2018. We’re republishing it following Jones’s death at 91.

In both music and manner, Quincy Jones has always registered — from afar, anyway — as smooth, sophisticated, and impeccably well-connected. (That’s what earning 28 Grammy awards and co-producing Michael Jackson’s biggest-selling albums will do.) But in person, the 84-year-old music-industry macher is far spikier and more complicated. “All I’ve ever done is tell the truth,” says Jones, seated on a couch in his palatial Bel Air home, and about to dish some outrageous gossip. “I’ve got nothing to be scared of, man.”

Currently in the midst of an extended victory lap ahead of his turning 85 in March — a Netflix documentary and a CBS special hosted by Oprah Winfrey are on the horizon — Jones, dressed in a loose sweater, dark slacks, and a jaunty scarf, talks like he has nothing to lose. He name-drops, he scolds, he praises, and he tells (and retells) stories about his very famous friends. Even when his words are harsh, he says them with an enveloping charm, frequently leaning over for fist bumps and to tap me on the knee. “The experiences I’ve had!” he says, shaking his head in wonder. “You almost can’t believe it.”

You worked with Michael Jackson more than anyone he wasn’t related to. What’s something people don’t understand about him?
I hate to get into this publicly, but Michael stole a lot of stuff. He stole a lot of songs. [Donna Summer’s] “State of Independence” and “Billie Jean.” The notes don’t lie, man. He was as Machiavellian as they come.

How so?
Greedy, man. Greedy. “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” — Greg Phillinganes wrote the c section. Michael should’ve given him 10 percent of the song. Wouldn’t do it.

What about outside of music? What’s misunderstood about Michael?
I used to kill him about the plastic surgery, man. He’d always justify it and say it was because of some disease he had. Bullshit.

How much were his problems wrapped up with fame?
You mean with the way he looked? He had a problem with his looks because his father told him he was ugly and abused him. What do you expect?

It’s such a strange juxtaposition — how Michael’s music was so joyous, but his life just seems sadder and more odd as time goes by.
Yes, but at the end Michael’s problem was Propofol, and that problem affects everyone — doesn’t matter if you’re famous. Big Pharma making OxyContin and all that shit is a serious thing. I was around the White House for eight years with the Clintons, and I’d learn about how much influence Big Pharma has. It’s no joke. What’s your sign, man?

Pisces.
Me too. It’s a great sign.

You just mentioned the Clintons, who are friends of yours. Why is there still such visceral dislike of them? What are other people not seeing in Hillary, for example, that you see?
It’s because there’s a side of her — when you keep secrets, they backfire.

Like what secrets?
This is something else I shouldn’t be talking about.

You sure seem to know a lot.
I know too much, man.

What’s something you wish you didn’t know?
Who killed Kennedy.

Who did it?
[Chicago mobster Sam] Giancana. The connection was there between Sinatra and the Mafia and Kennedy. Joe Kennedy — he was a bad man — he came to Frank to have him talk to Giancana about getting votes.

I’ve heard this theory before, that the mob helped win Illinois for Kennedy in 1960.
We shouldn’t talk about this publicly. Where you from?

Toronto.
I was at the Massey Hall show.

Really? The Charlie Parker concert with Mingus and those guys?
Yeah, man. I saw the contract after. The whole band made $1,100. I’ll never forget that. At the time it was just another gig. It wasn’t historical. Like with Woodstock, Tito Puente told me he wanted to go out to that gig. Those festivals ain’t my thing. Elon Musk keeps trying to get me to go to Burning Man. No thank you. But who knew what Woodstock would turn out to be? Jimi Hendrix was out there fucking up the national anthem.

Wasn’t Hendrix supposed to play on Gula Matari?
He was supposed to play on my album and he chickened out. He was nervous to play with Toots Thielemans, Herbie Hancock, Hubert Laws, Roland Kirk — those are some scary motherfuckers. Toots was one of the greatest soloists that ever fucking lived. The cats on my records were the baddest cats in the world and Hendrix didn’t want to play with them.

What’d you think when you first heard rock music?
Rock ain’t nothing but a white version of rhythm and blues, motherfucker. You know, I met Paul McCartney when he was 21.

What were your first impressions of the Beatles?
That they were the worst musicians in the world. They were no-playing motherfuckers. Paul was the worst bass player I ever heard. And Ringo? Don’t even talk about it. I remember once we were in the studio with George Martin, and Ringo had taken three hours for a four-bar thing he was trying to fix on a song. He couldn’t get it. We said, “Mate, why don’t you get some lager and lime, some shepherd’s pie, and take an hour-and-a-half and relax a little bit.” So he did, and we called Ronnie Verrell, a jazz drummer. Ronnie came in for 15 minutes and tore it up. Ringo comes back and says, “George, can you play it back for me one more time?” So George did, and Ringo says, “That didn’t sound so bad.” And I said, “Yeah, motherfucker because it ain’t you.” Great guy, though.

Were there any rock musicians you thought were good?
I used to like Clapton’s band. What were they called?

Cream.
Yeah, they could play. But you know who sings and plays just like Hendrix?

Who?
Paul Allen.

Stop it. The Microsoft guy?
Yeah, man. I went on a trip on his yacht, and he had David Crosby, Joe Walsh, Sean Lennon — all those crazy motherfuckers. Then on the last two days, Stevie Wonder came on with his band and made Paul come up and play with him — he’s good, man.

You hang out in these elite social circles and doing good has always been important to you, but are you seeing as much concern for the poor as you’d like from the ultrarich?  
No. The rich aren’t doing enough. They don’t fucking care. I came from the street, and I care about these kids who don’t have enough because I feel I’m one of ’em. These other people don’t know what it feels like to be poor, so they don’t care.

Are we in a better place as a country than we were when you started doing humanitarian work 50 years ago?
No. We’re the worst we’ve ever been, but that’s why we’re seeing people try and fix it. Feminism: Women are saying they’re not going to take it anymore. Racism: People are fighting it. God is pushing the bad in our face to make people fight back.

We’ve obviously been learning more lately about just how corrosive the entertainment industry can be for women. As someone who’s worked in that business at the highest levels for so many years, do all the recent revelations come as a surprise?     
No, man. Women had to put up with fucked-up shit. Women and brothers — we’re both dealing with the glass ceiling.

But what about the alleged behavior of a friend of yours like Bill Cosby? Is it hard to square what he’s been accused of with the person you know?
It was all of them. Brett Ratner. [Harvey] Weinstein. Weinstein — he’s a jive motherfucker. Wouldn’t return my five calls. A bully.

What about Cosby, though?
What about it?

Were the allegations a surprise to you?
We can’t talk about this in public, man.

I’m sorry to jump around —
Be a Pisces. Jam.

If you could snap your fingers and fix one problem in the country, what would it be?
Racism. I’ve been watching it a long time — the ’30s to now. We’ve come a long way but we’ve got a long way to go. The South has always been fucked up, but you know where you stand. The racism in the North is disguised. You never know where you stand. That’s why what’s happening now is good, because people are saying they are racists who didn’t used to say it. Now we know.

What’s stirred everything up? Is it all about Trumpism?
It’s Trump and uneducated rednecks. Trump is just telling them what they want to hear. I used to hang out with him. He’s a crazy motherfucker. Limited mentally — a megalomaniac, narcissistic. I can’t stand him. I used to date Ivanka, you know.

Wait, really?
Yes, sir. Twelve years ago. Tommy Hilfiger, who was working with my daughter Kidada, said, “Ivanka wants to have dinner with you.” I said, “No problem. She’s a fine motherfucker.” She had the most beautiful legs I ever saw in my life. Wrong father, though.

Would your friend Oprah be a good president?
I don’t think she should run. She doesn’t have the chops for it. If you haven’t been governor of a state or the CEO of a company or a military general, you don’t know how to lead people.

She is the CEO of a company.
A symphony conductor knows more about how to lead than most businesspeople — more than Trump does. He doesn’t know shit. Someone who knows about real leadership wouldn’t have as many people against him as he does. He’s a fucking idiot.

Is Hollywood as bad with race as the rest of the country? I know that when you started scoring films, you’d hear producers say things like they didn’t want a “bluesy” score, which was clearly code-speak. Are you still encountering that kind of racism?
It’s still fucked up. 1964, when I was in Vegas, there were places I wasn’t supposed to go because I was black, but Frank [Sinatra] fixed that for me. It takes individual efforts like that to change things. It takes white people to say to other white people, “Do you really want to live as a racist? Is that really what you believe?” But every place is different. When I go to Dublin, Bono makes me stay at his castle because Ireland is so racist. Bono’s my brother, man. He named his son after me.

Is U2 still making good music?
[Shakes head.]

Why not?
I don’t know. I love Bono with all my heart, but there’s too much pressure on the band. He’s doing good work all over the world. Working with him and Bob Geldof on debt relief was one of the greatest things I ever did. It’s up there with “We Are the World.”

There’s a small anecdote in your memoir about how the rock musicians who’d been asked to sing on “We Are the World” were griping about the song. Is there more to that story?
It wasn’t the rockers. It was Cyndi Lauper. She had a manager come over to me and say, “The rockers don’t like the song.” I know how that shit works. We went to see Springsteen, Hall & Oates, Billy Joel, and all those cats and they said, “We love the song.” So I said [to Lauper], “Okay, you can just get your shit over with and leave.” And she was fucking up every take because her necklace or bracelet was rattling in the microphone. It was just her that had a problem.

What’s something you’ve worked on that should’ve been bigger?
What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never had that problem. They were all big.

How about a musician who deserved more acclaim?
Come on, man. The Brothers Johnson. James Ingram. Tevin Campbell. Every one of them went straight through the roof.

From a strictly musical perspective, what have you done that you’re most proud of?
That anything I can feel, I can notate musically. Not many people can do that. I can make a band play like a singer sings. That’s what arranging is, and it’s a great gift. I wouldn’t trade it for shit.

A few years back there was a quote you supposedly gave — I couldn’t find the source of it, so maybe it’s apocryphal — where you dismissed rap as being a bunch of four-bar loops. Is that an opinion you stand by?
That’s true about rap, that it’s the same phrase over and over and over again. The ear has to have the melody groomed for it; you have to keep the ear candy going because the mind turns off when the music doesn’t change. Music is strange that way. You’ve got to keep the ear busy.

Is there an example from the work you did, maybe with Michael, which illustrates what you’re talking about?
Yeah, the best example of me trying to feed the musical principles of the past — I’m talking about bebop — is “Baby Be Mine.” [Hums the song’s melody.] That’s Coltrane done in a pop song. Getting the young kids to hear bebop is what I’m talking about. Jazz is at the top of the hierarchy of music because the musicians learned everything they could about music. Every time I used to see Coltrane he’d have Nicolas Slonimsky’s book.

Yeah, he was famously obsessed with the Thesaurus of Scales and Melodic Patterns. That’s the one you’re talking about, right?
That’s right. You’re bringing up all the good subjects now! Everything that Coltrane ever played was in that thesaurus. In fact, right near the front of that book, there’s a 12-tone example — it’s “Giant Steps.” Everyone thinks Coltrane wrote that, he didn’t. It’s Slonimsky. That book started all the jazz guys improvising in 12-tone. Coltrane carried that book around till the pages fell off.

When Coltrane started to go far out with the music —
“Giant Steps.”

Even further out, though, like on Ascension —
You can’t get further out than 12-tone, and “Giant Steps” is 12-tone.

But when he was playing atonally —
No, no, no. Even that was heavily influenced by Alban Berg — that’s as far out as you can get.

Do you hear the spirit of jazz in pop today?
No. People gave it up to chase money. When you go after Cîroc vodka and Phat Farm and all that shit, God walks out of the room. I have never in my life made music for money or fame. Not even Thriller. No way. God walks out of the room when you’re thinking about money. You could spend a million dollars on a piano part and it won’t make you a million dollars back. That’s just not how it works.

Is there innovation happening in modern pop music?  
Hell no. It’s just loops, beats, rhymes and hooks. What is there for me to learn from that? There ain’t no fucking songs. The song is the power; the singer is the messenger. The greatest singer in the world cannot save a bad song. I learned that 50 years ago, and it’s the single greatest lesson I ever learned as a producer. If you don’t have a great song, it doesn’t matter what else you put around it.

What was your greatest musical innovation?
Everything I’ve done.

Everything you’ve done was innovative?
Everything was something to be proud of — absolutely. It’s been an amazing contrast of genres. Since I was very young, I’ve played all kinds of music: bar mitzvah music, Sousa marches, strip-club music, jazz, pop. Everything. I didn’t have to learn a thing to do Michael Jackson.

What would account for the songs being less good than they used to be?
The mentality of the people making the music. Producers now are ignoring all the musical principles of the previous generations. It’s a joke. That’s not the way it works: You’re supposed to use everything from the past. If you know where you come from, it’s easier to get where you’re going. You need to understand music to touch people and become the soundtrack to their lives. Can I tell you one of the greatest moments in my life?

Of course.
It was the first time they celebrated Dr. King’s birthday in Washington, D.C., and Stevie Wonder was in charge and asked me to be musical director. After the performance, we went to a reception, and three ladies came over: The older lady had Sinatra at the Sands, I arranged that; her daughter had my album The Dude; and then that lady’s daughter had Thriller. Three generations of women said those were their favorite records. That touched me so much.

I’m trying to isolate what you specifically believe the problem with modern pop is. It’s the lack of formal musical knowledge on the part of the musicians?
Yes! And they don’t even care they don’t have it.

Well, who’s doing good work?
Bruno Mars. Chance the Rapper. Kendrick Lamar. I like where Kendrick’s mind is. He’s grounded. Chance, too. And the Ed Sheeran record is great. Sam Smith — he’s so open about being gay. I love it. Mark Ronson is someone who knows how to produce.

Putting aside the quality of contemporary songs, are there any technical or sonic production techniques that feel fresh?
No. There ain’t nothing new. The producers are lazy and greedy.

How does that laziness manifest itself?
Listen to the music — these guys don’t know what they’re doing. You’ve got to respect the gift God gave you by learning your craft.

Are you as down on the state of film scoring as you are on pop?
It’s not good. Everybody’s lazy. Alexandre Desplat — he’s good. He’s my brother. He was influenced by my scores.

Again, when you say film composers are lazy, what does that mean, exactly, in this context?
It means they’re not going back and listening to what Bernard Herrmann did.

Do you see a future for the music business?
There isn’t a music business anymore! If these people had paid attention to Shawn Fanning 20 years ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But the music business is still too full of these old-school bean counters. You can’t be like that. You can’t be one of these back-in-my-day people.

You’re talking about business not music, but, and I mean this respectfully, don’t some of your thoughts about music fall under the category of “back in my day”?
Musical principles exist, man. Musicians today can’t go all the way with the music because they haven’t done their homework with the left brain. Music is emotion and science. You don’t have to practice emotion because that comes naturally. Technique is different. If you can’t get your finger between three and four and seven and eight on a piano, you can’t play. You can only get so far without technique. People limit themselves musically, man. Do these musicians know tango? Macumba? Yoruba music? Samba? Bossa nova? Salsa? Cha-cha?

Maybe not the cha-cha.
[Marlon] Brando used to go cha-cha dancing with us. He could dance his ass off. He was the most charming motherfucker you ever met. He’d fuck anything. Anything! He’d fuck a mailbox. James Baldwin. Richard Pryor. Marvin Gaye.

He slept with them? How do you know that?
[Frowns.] Come on, man. He did not give a fuck! You like Brazilian music?

Yeah, but I don’t know much beyond Jorge Ben and Gilberto Gil.
Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso are the kings! You know, I visit the favelas every year. Those motherfuckers have a hard life. They’re tough, though. You think our shit in America’s bad? It’s worse there.

I read that as a young man you used to carry around a .32.
Yeah.

Did you ever fire it?
Yeah.

At what?
[Grins.] Just practicin’.

Okay, let me ask you a left-field question. In your memoir, there’s a section where you talk about —
Being a dog?

That’s not what I was thinking of, but yeah, that’s in there. I was thinking of a section where you describe having a nervous breakdown not long after Thriller. You talk so often about your ups — I’m wondering if maybe you can talk about one of your downs.
What happened was that I was a producer on The Color Purple. Spielberg and me are still great friends, man. He’s a great fucking guy. I loved working with him.

Yep, but what happened on The Color Purple that caused your breakdown?
What happened was that I was a producer on that movie and everybody went on vacation after we finished filming — everybody except me. I had to stay home and write an hour and 55 minutes of music for the movie. I was so fucking tired from doing that, I couldn’t see. I put too much on my plate and it took its toll. You learn from your mistakes and I learned I couldn’t do that again.

What’s the last mistake you learned from?
My last record [2010’s Q: Soul Bossa Nostra]. I was not in favor of doing it, but the rappers wanted to record something as a tribute to me, where they’d do versions of songs that I’d done over my career. I said to them, “Look, you got to make the music better than we did on the originals.” That didn’t happen. T-Pain, man, he didn’t pay attention to the details.

What’s something positive you’ve been feeling about music lately?
Understanding where it comes from. It’s fascinating. I was on a trip with Paul Allen a few years ago, and I went to the bathroom and there were maps on the wall of how the Earth looked a million-and-a-half years ago. Off the coast of South Africa, where Durban is, was the coast of China. The people had to be mixing, and you hear it in the music — in the drums from both places. There are African qualities to Chinese music, Japanese music, too, with the Kodo drumming. It all comes from Africa. It’s a heavy thing to think about.

You’re about to turn 85. Are you afraid of the end?
No.

What do you think happens when you pass?
You’re just gone.

Are you religious?
No, man. I know too much about it. I knew Romano Mussolini, the jazz piano player, the son of Benito Mussolini. We used to jam all night. And he’d tell me about where the Catholics were coming from. The Catholics have a religion based on fear, smoke, and murder. And the biggest gimmick in the world is confession: “You tell me what you did wrong and it’ll be okay.” Come on. And almost everywhere you go in the world, the biggest structures are the Catholic churches. It’s money, man. It’s fucked up.

On the subject of money, I have a crass question. You spent the first half of your career working in jazz, which isn’t especially lucrative. When did you start to make serious money?
When I started producing after Lesley Gore. I was the first black vice-president at a record label [Mercury], which was great — except that meant they didn’t pay me for producing her. You know how they do; you know your country. But after that, in the ’70s, when I started producing for other artists, and then with Michael of course, that made me a lot of money. And big money came from TV producing — The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, that was huge for me. Mad TV was on for 14 years. That syndication money is great, man.

How much did your upbringing — the difficulties with your mother and growing up in real poverty — affect how you perceive success?
Of course it affected it. I appreciate the shit I have because I know what it’s like to have nothing.

What about having a fractured family? How did that change you?
Same as with money, man. I appreciate what I got.

How often do you think about your mother?
All the time. She died in a mental home. Brilliant lady, but she never got the help she needed. Her dementia praecox could’ve been cured with vitamin B, but she couldn’t get it because she was black.

When you think about her now, what comes to mind?
That I wish I could’ve been closer to her. What happened to her — for kids, that’s a bitch.

What’s the most ambitious thing you have left to do?
Qwest TV. Everybody is excited about it. It’s going to be a musical Netflix. It’s the best music from every genre around the world. So if kids want to hear something great, it’ll be right there for them. I can’t believe I still get to be involved in things like this. I stopped drinking two years ago and I feel like I’m 19 years old. I’ve never been so creative. I can’t tell you, man — what a life!

This interview has been edited and condensed from two conversations.