In Memory of Anthony Jackson

The earth beneath my feet still trembles - not an altogether surprising thing when a giant falls.

This past weekend, we lost one of those rare giants whose artistry reshaped the landscape beneath us. I don’t believe the seismic impact of this loss will ever truly subside.

As a music-loving kid growing up in the ’70s, I could always count on my record-collecting mother to bring home the latest treasures — gospel, R&B, and jazz filled our home.

Music was the atmosphere we breathed, and The Sound of Philadelphia set the tone for so much of that era.

I still remember the uneasy curiosity I felt, at eight years old, listening to Billy Paul’s “Me & Mrs. Jones.” Not because I disliked it, but because I actually understood what was happening in those lyrics. LOL. That was my first taste of grown folks’ music.

I could spend hours talking about Anthony’s R&B work, but what has always resonated most deeply with me is the period when I was a young, wide-eared bass student — when his instrumental brilliance felt like pure revelation.

I first encountered that side of him through Lee Ritenour’s Captain’s Journey (1978). Anthony shares the title track with the great Abe Laboriel, who opens with a slapping groove before Part II fades in around the 3:45 mark.

What follows can only be described as sonic majesty. Anthony anchors the piece and becomes, fittingly, the true captain of that ship.

Even now, I’m overwhelmed by his sense of balance and restraint. He possessed limitless facility, yet used it sparingly — always in service of the song. No flurries of notes, no showmanship for its own sake. Just music — pure, thoughtful, deeply human.

From there, the journey deepened. I began seeing his name everywhere — Chick Corea’s The Leprechaun, Al Di Meola’s brilliant late-’70s records, and especially Tour de Force (1982), which I literally wore out.

His ability to move effortlessly between genres — always unmistakably himself — was astounding. No matter the musical setting, Anthony belonged everywhere.

Then came Steve Khan’s Eyewitness: Casa Loco, a recording that changed the way I thought about music.

A friend handed me the cassette, and from the first listen, it was like trying to drink from a fire hose. Familiar, yet foreign — traces of The Police, maybe, but in another dimension. It defied categorization.

Years later, I had the honor of meeting Anthony several times. I once told him, quite simply, that Casa Loco changed how I hear music.

He seemed genuinely surprised — almost unaware of how deeply his work had touched others. That humility spoke volumes.

Casa Loco offered one of the first full glimpses of his six-string contrabass concept — the foundation of his life’s artistic vision. Looking back, I realize it was only the beginning.

Anthony never stopped reaching — always striving toward the firmament, always exploring. And for those who knew, we gladly held on for the ride.

Dear Anthony — thank you.For your courage.For your discipline.For your brilliance and your humanity.

Thank you for showing us what it means to serve the music, elevate it, and live within it.

May the earth continue to tremble beneath our feet, carrying echoes of your sound through generations yet to come.

Rest in power, maestro.