Roy Ayers – Rest in the Sunshine
I thought I’d find out from the internet. Instead, I got a call
In My Life in the Sunshine, I speculated how I might learn about my father’s death:
I probably wouldn’t get a call from anyone. I’d likely find out from a customer—one of the many self-employed musicians or designers who ritualistically read internet news in the morning and then came by the shop around 11:00 a.m. to talk about music while sipping their coffee.
“Man, I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” they’d say.
And I’d likely play along, rather than further expose our lack of connection. I imagined my face becoming hot and my stomach twisting as I walked to the computer to search my father’s name, followed by the word “death.”
I spent 40-something years not wanting to talk about my father, then two years talking about him constantly, shining as much light as I possibly could on the absence of a relationship. In the best way possible, I’ve been inundated with messages from friends, and my heart warms every time I’m sent Kamala’s beautiful tribute post. But now, the first words I’ll hear from everyone I know will likely be “I’m sorry,” while strangers post awkward questions and comments online. I knew this was inevitable—part of making my complicated relationship with him so public. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. Grateful? Exhausted? Both?
Thankfully, instead of hearing the news from a stranger or the internet, my cousin called me. I then called my newly discovered sister, Lauren—who lives in London and also isn’t in touch with Roy—and gave her the same gift of finding out from family. I happened to be in London for work, so we were lucky to spend the afternoon together, sharing our short list of memories and, more than anything, just being together. I didn’t need more proof, but this moment confirmed that the relentless way I’ve connected with my newfound family has been worth it.
Last week, my uncle—my mom’s brother, Alan—called me. We talk all the time about spy TV shows, great meals, and whatever’s next musically for Alan. This time, Alan casually mentioned seeing a video for the first time of Roy Ayers performing in Herbie Mann’s band at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1967, how incredible it was, and that I should watch it.
That video is one of many that surfaced online this week. The full set is something to behold. But this one-minute clip really got me, not only because of Roy’s incredible playing or the shots of the mesmerized audience, but because of what happens in the last second. If you watch closely, you can see Herbie Mann enter the frame during Roy’s solo, casually walking the stage in a tight turtleneck. Then Herbie, chest puffed out, glances at the audience as if to say, “Are you fucking seeing this!?”
I’ve felt many ways about my father over the decades—mostly ambivalent, sometimes angry, and occasionally proud. Pride has always felt the farthest away. But this was one of those rare moments. Watching that clip, I found myself wishing I could have seen it with him, just to ask what it felt like in that moment—to be the guy making people feel that way, and to keep doing it for more than half-a-century after that performance.
Rest in the sunshine, Roy.
All 20 episodes of my podcast, Identified Season 1 are live now. Episode one is with Karen Ayers, a living descendant of the man who enslaved my paternal ancestors. After that, it’s a rapidly growing list of musicians, comedians, authors, chefs and friends talking about family. Identified is available on all major podcast platforms, 100% free and ad free. You can watch short video clips on YouTube and Instagram. Watch for Season 2 in 2025.
Listen: Apple Spotify Amazon Bandcamp Website
My memoir is called My Life in the Sunshine. You can order it here, or listen to the audiobook on Spotify.
I hope to see you somewhere soon. Upcoming events are always listed here, and now include Mississippi and Connecticut (with Henry Rollins!) in April 2025.
Nabil Ayers / Brooklyn
This is so moving, thank you for sharing it. My deepest condolences ♥️
❤️🧡💛❤️🧡💛❤️🧡💛❤️🧡💛