Eulogies for Gregory Hale Jones Memorial
I as mother, Charles as father, Greg's children, Katy and Evan, family, friends and colleagues are still trying to comprehend.
What we do know about our much loved Greg, we are compelled to speak, and since mothers tend to have selective memories, you might want to listen discriminately.
Greg was the perfect child, the perfect son. Now I am already suspect. We loved him unconditionally.
In the beginning as I nourished this new child with nutrients from my own body, I sang and read endlessly to him. I intuited that even though he didn't understand my words, the sounds and rhythms of language had immense meaning, and those were some of the happiest days of my life.
At the age of three, searching newspaper classified ads for a pet, I discovered he could read. Reading aloud to him while his eyes followed had worked magic. As busy teacher, parent, homemaker, I didn't have time to coach him. He was his own best teacher and he became mine.
He caused my stuck schemas to shift as his sparkling, creative, inventive mind saw new ways of looking at situations, new and fresh ways to understand human nature. I learned from him that age and insight have very little correlation. He steered us away from negativity and cautioned us against making unnecessary value judgments. He liked to say, "Thank you, I have no complaints."
By second grade in 1962, he was reading Poe. And while we were at Williamsburg, he asked us to drive up to Richmond to see the Allan house where Poe once had lived with his adoptive parents. There he stood discussing Poe's poetry and short stories with the docents.
In his third year, I received a call from his teacher saying a parent had complained about scary stories Greg was telling to his classmates on the playground. Was it the Pit and the Pendulum or The Tell Tale Heart?
He was a Cub Scout, a Boy Scout, earned merit badges, the Order of the Arrow, being the most challenging. Charles was his Scout Master.
Once after a small dinner party, he invited guests into the living room, had us sit on the floor in a circle, turned out the lights, and proceeded to assault our senses with varied percussion sounds, using pieces of wood, metal, sticks, and bongo drums.
He was an independent learner, an avid reader, a child who loved school, made good grades, played soccer, and took piano lessons, and above all loved music. For his high school senior recital he played Bach and Chopin. So we fed him, clothed him, welcomed his friends and took them on a five week tour of Europe. He played tympani in the Oklahoma City Junior Symphony for one year before moving away.
Charles and I were pleasantly surprised one evening at Fort Hunt High School on Back To School Night, to hear Suzanne Babcock, his Honor's English teacher, read a theme of his to his classmates' parents.
I can recall that with fever of 102, he got out of bed, against our better judgment, to attend Madame Nelson's French class and Mr. Wicks' band practice.
In those days, friends who saw our living room shuddered in disbelief. They viewed mazes of electrical cords and wires twisting their way across the floor from synthesizer to recorders to guitars. Marimba, drums, piano, flute, saxophone, all together created a make shift recording studio.
We listened to a lot of jazz, Beatle tunes, and at one point Charles said, "If I hear Feelings one more time, I think I'll have to get ear plugs." Quote: "Did we play it that much? But Dad, practice is so important."
Each fall as he returned to Oberlin in Ohio, we packed all his music gear into a U-Hall, and along with Tweeter the cat, pulled it out West, pulled it back East, eight times over four years.
This portion of a long letter from Greg came from Cal Arts: November 6, 1979
"The most exciting news is the orchestra piece that is finally nearing completion and received a preliminary reading three days ago. The players were quite cooperative, and the reading was taped. Now the exciting part was that Mel Powell (the Mel Powell who played with the Benny Goodman band when he was only 19, taught composition at Yale, founded Cal Arts, and is the highly respected grand old man of the composition department here, called me up that evening and talked to me at length about my work, and ideas that it had kindled in him. I was completely bowled over, and it was all I could do to be coherent on the phone. Mel! Needless to say I went around for the next couple of days thinking I was the 20th century's answer to Beethoven, but in the cold light of sobriety and on hearing the tape again, I have a little better grip on reality. I think I know what I'm getting myself into, and it looks like a lifetime project."
September 29, 1978
"I feel I'm in the process of being able to do something very meaningful with my life. So many people live and die and never get to realize their dreams. Well I'm doing that right now, and the thanks goes directly to both of you for giving me the tools to understand, the support and guidance and the freedom to be what I would be. I hope both of you feel that these things are important, too."
Greg was featured in the Boston Globe a week ago. Here are excerpts from his letter written July 18 to Scot Alarik who was researching Greg's music.
"So I painted these pieces one by one, playing instruments here, manipulating voices there, tuning the voice loops slightly so that the instruments would be in tune. I played piano, drums, and dulcimer. I edited the lyrics in many cases, juxtaposing them to get new meanings."
Marriage followed and two spectacular children, our Katy and Evan. A move to Minneapolis after the earthquake, two studios, commuting to San Francisco. His life was full. A quote from a movie producer: Greg always gave more than was required.
A move to Los Angeles, a new house, and new movies. He had a brilliant and successful career, respected and loved by friends and colleagues, all spoken to through tears at the Los Angeles memorial. Another will follow in San Francisco on September 10, where a showcase of his life's work in music and film has been amassed for everyone's pleasure. His legacy is his music.
July 22, last emails.
From Robert in Copenhagen to Greg:
"How delighted I was just to read that we might have the privilege of time together in Paradise Valley this August. I welcome the opportunity to visit with you and have some time just to be together and renew our bond. I have missed seeing you so much over the last few years. Mainly we will enjoy being together, and after all, that is the most important thing. I am excited about seeing you and look forward to our visit."
Robert to Charles and DeJuana:
"How happy I was to hear about our dear Greg! How happy I am that he will join us in Phoenix. Praise the Lord for his blessings and for the way He is watching over us and making 'Crooked straight and rough places plain' and working out our problems even when we least expect it. Tell Greg to bring his bathing suit. What a reunion we will enjoy together."
Greg's reply to Robert: July 22 9:30 AM.
"Hello Robert,
Your letter is so kind I can barely read it. I have to turn my head away and look out of the corner of my eye.
Thank you so much for your welcome. (How's that for an interesting sentence?) I hope it all works out.
Congratulations on your recent triumph at the Bolshoi in Moscow. All your spectacular success is really quite understandable as I think you are one of the kindest, most giving persons I have known. Maybe that's what it takes — talent and generosity (spirituality) equals lasting success.
I wish you the best as always, and look forward to seeing you in August.
Love, Greg"
At the end at 2:00 PM, prescribed chemicals resulted in an unpredictable aberration. I, as his mother, Charles as his father, Greg's children, Katy and Evan, and his friends are still trying to comprehend. Anything that we say about his passing is and, I quote Greg, an unnecessary value judgment. Our beloved son is gone. We have faith that God has taken one so dear into him arms and holds him close.
For 49 years we have known this man whom we have come to celebrate today. There is hardly a way to recount even the essence, let alone the events of those many years in just a few moments.
It is also impossible to express the love and gratitude our extended family feel for the great host of friends across this country who have shown such heartfelt, loving concern during this time of bereavement.
We thank you for honoring him with your presence, for in doing so, you also honor his family, and it delights us to be reminded of the difference his single life has made in the lives of so many others.
Greg Jones was a man of many wonderful qualities of character that made him fascinating. Greg was a man of great passion about everything. Greg could become ecstatic over a new experience such as seeing an opera for the first time. Several years earlier, he traveled to Milano, Italy where I was performing in the Strauss opera, "Salome" at the famous opera house, La Scala.
It was his first exposure to a Strauss opera. I remember as we sat together in a restaurant after the performance, how enthusiastic he was over the beautiful and powerful sounds of this magnificent composer, Richard Strauss. He shared with me about his plan to write his first opera.
Greg was a prolific and gifted composer. He had already enjoyed successes with his film work in Hollywood and had just finished a sound track for a major film called "MY TINY UNIVERSE."
Whether it was keyboard, percussion, flute, sax, marimba, bass viol, or conducting, composing and arranging, he proved his musical versatility and to be very perceptive and innovative. Once when seeking for just the right feel for a southern down home atmosphere for a movie scene, he went to the Library of Congress to research folk tunes from this particular historical period. He found archival copies of unique ethnic tunes from this period and from the very region where the movie was being filmed. One of the tunes had been recorded by a black singer from Louisiana. The studio, having concerns about copyrights, sent a representative to negotiate a release. Though the singer was quite elderly and bed-ridden, a release was signed which paid the singer several thousand of dollars providing monies for the purchase of her first telephone and first dentures! Greg ingeniously arranged this musical material contributing an exciting and authentic ambiance for what turned out to be an outstanding award-winning film.
His work was not an external prop for his art on the stage of life or a complex machine to be manipulated to his will, or a tool for showing off, but rather a living dynamic extension of his very essence, his being, his most intimate part, his mind, his heart, his soul. With these immense talents he transported his musical vision out of a complex mind into the real world where he so generously shared them with the rest of us.
Greg's warmth, gentleness and kindness together with his superb talents will be greatly treasured for as long as we live and for generations to come.
A family will always have a cherished vision of their child, but what of others? What impact did they make on the world in the lives and hearts of others? What do we say about people at the conclusion of their lives. Few of us explore what they did for a living. Often we are in jobs or pursuits we don't consider part of our spiritual lives, so we look for definition in how they interacted and made a difference in the lives around us. Not so with Greg. He was one of those special souls who was able to do what he loved, his work was himself and his expression through his works poured out like a warm light illuminating our world and revealing not only what was inside him but what was inside of us.
As high school mates, our group (Greg, myself, my brother Gordon, and another friend named Scott) made an acidic brew of idle mischief, cynicism and sometimes sullen outlooks. Greg was that drop of elegant creativity that mellowed the brew and refocused our energy towards more positive ends. He grew up an only child and was lavished with affection and had every manner of support from his parents. In my experience such an environment might result in a spoiled brat. Our experience with Greg however was anything but typical. He was humble, giving, and talented. He encouraged by deed and made all of us believe in him as well as ourselves. So where did this come from then? His parents also dashed my flawed stereotype of the well to do. They were always gracious and inclusive. Their home was your home. I once brought a small tackle box with my inks and paints for my cartooning while visiting Greg. His parents had just gotten new carpet—you can no doubt anticipate the end of this story—yes the ink leaked out into the tackle box and was introduced to the carpet. I was never so mortified as on that evening. I learned the meaning of kindness—that class was not defined in the surroundings but by the people who inhabit them. I was immediately forgiven. We worked very hard to get the ink out but it was "black ink meets white carpet." The incident was never brought up again or leveraged against me. I remained as always an encouraged and welcomed guest. I saw the stock from which Greg's spirit was born at every visit.
I first knew Greg as a drummer in the band. I was prejudiced about drummers—"Oh he just plays drums, not a real instrument"—they seemed to do more playing around than performing. Greg always stood out as having a purpose. Later I learned that Greg was a percussionist, very different from just a drummer. Greg took the art to a whole new level, and he played keyboard and other instruments as well. He introduced me to music you don't hear on the top 40—more experimental, more complex, more interesting music. It expanded my world exponentially. I quickly learned that Greg had many layers to him, no matter what skill or attribute of his you wanted to explore. The more I got to know him the more I realized I was never going to hit bottom.
We teased Greg mercilessly. In our culture teasing was a male form of lavishing affection and we felt most affectionate towards Greg, to his misfortune. Most friends you just hang out with, but not Greg. Greg is who you went to when you wanted to be challenged. I remember going up to his room where he showed me his synthesizer and how to operate the sound envelopes at a time when few people knew of such technology. Later on I saw he was reconfiguring a synthesizer and had wires running all over the place. Greg never lorded his opportunities and skills talents and charms over you, you were always invited in to partake and share and enjoy and to be sharpened through his exposure to new ideas and educational experiences. We aspired to emulate Greg. He was one of the stronger influences for good in my life. If you can measure yourself by the friends you hang with, we all realized the treasure we had in making Greg our friend. He tempered us with the grace endowed to him by his family. He was our cultural sand paper, shaping us ever so slightly with each visit.
Greg challenged our heads as well as our hearts and made us appreciate the conceptual possibilities. If you put someone in a room with an instrument, a mobile, some light sensors and other odd audio equipment, they may arrange it nicely and leave it at that. If they are musical they may arrange it and play with the audio and put some tracks together, but leave it with Greg and you're apt to get performance sculpture, where lights hit the mobile, bounce off to hit light sensors which trigger sequencers which generate real-time performance compositions. He was always given to doing these kinds of things, forcing you to look beyond the self evident into the uncharted possibilities. By always examining, experimenting, looking at the world with the newness of a child, he made you realize that each moment of your life could be squeezed to produce so much more than you thought possible.
I remember after high school graduation when he was heading out on his great adventure to California to start his new life and make his mark. He told us of his plans, and about his route and showed us his van speakers all wired up to provide the soundtrack (Tubular Bells and Terri Riley among other cutting edge music for the times) for back dropping the adventure upon which he would embark with his cat as his faithful companion. Here was a guy full of optimism who knew how to start a new life's chapter with style.
After graduating from Oberlin Conservatory Greg embarked on his next quest, his omnipresent goal of music. Every chapter seemed to get better and better in this book, with connections in the music industry. Exposure of his music started out small but eventually worked into feature films, independent film tracks, producing albums, work in television and documentaries. I will be in keeping with his humble nature and not reveal all his accomplishments, lest the magnitude of them compete here with the memory of Greg the person. For an eye opener, review the bio page at www.gregjones.com. Ok, a hint—Disney, MTV, Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, 2 Emmys, etc. Again the world was learning what those who knew him all along already knew; that there was no hitting the bottom of his capabilities.
As in Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet, not every story that starts out with such hope and potential ends up as we would like. In fact the greatest tragedies are setup by the most empathetic of heroes. Greg did shine so very brightly, and shared his gifts with the world, and as we come to know the great creative forces of our history through their works, generations not yet born will come to know, and hear and learn of Greg through the legacy of Greg's powerful music. Greg leaves a big wake, in it he has spawned many little universes of which only one is my own personal love and pursuit of music, and to be kind and patient and to look for the potential in each moment and person, and to nurture it. These are the qualities Greg Jones imparted on my life and I shall miss him for it. When a life is lost this way it is a book not completed; the last pages have been cruelly ripped away. Let what Greg has brought to our lives spawn new waves and let them spread, to continue this journey which passes from Greg's story to our story.
Honored and proud to be counted among Greg's friends,
Jim Gray
I remember the first time I met Greg. In high school. The year was 1972. I was a junior and we became friends through a mutual friend Scott Sanders. Those were terrific years and we used to do a lot together, Greg, Scott, my brother Jim and myself. We grew our hair long, made movies, created sound compositions on Greg's sound synthesizer, read Zen Buddhism and led the type of creative life that would profoundly affect me and shape the rest of my life. For this I am grateful to Greg. It is only now that he is gone that I realize how much he influenced me and of course, how much he meant to me. It is impossible to think he is no longer here. His creativity was so much about the affirmation of life.
After high school during our years in college I often wrote to Greg about new ideas I was exposed to regarding formal and conceptual art. It was Greg that exposed me to one of the more rewarding of these conceptual formal entities. He called it a "sound cloud". And although you couldn't see it you seem to feel its presence not only in the temporal context of sound but also in space. Mark Rothko the abstract expressionist came closest to creating a visual picture of these beautiful ephemeral entities. With these clouds Greg taught me as a visual artist how not to be an eye chauvinist. Greg created these along with so many other new and wonderful musical compositions during this time at Oberlin College.
After Oberlan he was to continue his studies at California Institute of the Arts. It was here that he matured as a composer. During this time he would compose electronic music using new hieroglyphic like notation. However instead of performing his music on crisp sounding synthesizers, which was very much the fashion in those days, he would use real live musicians with violas and pianos and violins. He knew the acoustical sound would resonate with his listeners. And for this he was ahead of his class. He also knew that it was the listener as well as the composer and the composition that completed the triangle of expressive & poetic meaning we call art.
Greg was to take this maturity from the academic world to the professional one. Anyone in the arts knows how difficult this is to do. Among other challenges is how to earn enough money to provide for your family and yourself. During this time our paths diverged. I was to go on to New York to launch what turned out to be an unsuccessful art career until I finally sold out to find a job on Wall street. I work there still. Greg was to stay the straight and narrow earning 2 Emmys, 2 CINE Golden Eagle awards, a Bay Area Critics Circle award, a MTV Broadcast Design award, & NY Art Director's Club award. In addition he has created sound tracks for four major motion pictures as well as many television and short films and music cds. In addition to these impressive accomplishments Greg was to continue to produce his own innovative music and collaborate with other artists to always push the creative envelop. I knew Greg and I knew his passion for music burned very deep. Like a constant steady coal fire. It's hard to describe this to people who haven't felt it. I feel sad for those who never will. Perhaps the greatest thing we can hope for in life is to have a deep felt passion for something. Greg had this passion. It is the one thing I understood about him best. We all need people like this. Inspired people, artists and composers and those that strive to find meaning & beauty in life and share it with those that will listen.
I think it is a great thing to be a composer. To be remembered as a composer. It is a profession that is unique and special and timeless. It is how I chose to remember Greg with the wonderful works he leaves for us to remember him by. And like his beautiful lighter than air sound clouds he reminds me that the most important things in life seem barely to exist. Seemingly intangible things like our spirit, and beauty, and God & the memory and the soul of our dear friend Greg. We cannot see him or touch him but he will always be there.
Gordon Gray
My dear family and friends of Greg Hale Jones,
Allow me to add my voice to this occasion celebrating his creative life.
Yes Greg
I know too well the order
of this song
and got the tempo
down by heart.
First the shock
and then with sleepless nights,
the first wave of breathless grief
and the anger and depthless fatigue.
Followed by dissonant outbursts
of grotesque hilarity
and fragments of memories
followed then by the utter silence.
This chorus repeats,
Adagio,
and the dance section begins,
a vast and massive spiral
with the arms of the Milky Way
infinite in scale
and surrounded by true darkness.
The pain is so acute and specific
that it almost goes unnoticed
when the whole song cycle
starts to contract
towards the center
spinning and
repeating again
in smaller pulses of shock,
grief and anger
and then
in prayer
as it closes in on itself.
And it becomes so close
so personal,
so particular,
so individual
that it is profoundly finite
in nearness.
That because it is
so infinite in mass
and so individual in scale
the very light of a galaxy
is reduced to a travel spot
that finds us all,
each of us,
at the center of our own stage.
Each of us
in loss.
Each of us
embracing life,
and singing and dancing
to this now greatly diminished orchestra
and this more vacant stage.
Greg has left the stage. He did not wait for the second act he did not wait for the curtain and he took no encore. For my part I would gather up the roses and give them back to those who loved him one at a time.
As it is I would leave you with this bit of recitative from a piece we were working on in 1990 based on the notion that if we started with the last note of The Rite Of Spring and took it to its best conclusion we could create work that might make music once again an organic and positive transformative force across cultures. This piece we called the Spirit of Sacrifice.
Around each axis the great wheel spins
grinding diamonds to the dust
blown across the landscape within
with the end it is our part
to find the light in the dark
when every soul must ascend
and we are humbled by our grief
because this is where the story ends
with the spirit of sacrifice
unless we wake with open eyes
we will sleep once more
in the still hands of time
and our death
the world need not mourn
but rename itself
and in time be reborn
I still believe this is possible but it now profoundly more difficult without him.
Yours, Stuart Cudlitz — September 2004, NYC