July 14, 2019, seemingly began as just another scorching summer day in New York City. By this point in time, Lyle and I had known each other for a little over a year, and had spent the majority of that period working together on our book, The Music of Lyle Mays.
The process had been an absolute joy thus far, and we were both delighted with the first draft that was taking shape before our eyes. Although we could sort of see the finish line for this monster project, progress had been slowing down a bit which had me slightly concerned. Even though we had ramped up our friendship and working relationship extremely quickly, we always respected each other’s privacy when it was required, so I didn’t ask any questions. Such boundaries can be difficult to maintain, especially when the person you’re working with happens to be your biggest musical hero as well as an individual that you care about deeply.
On this hot Sunday in July, things did indeed feel a bit different. I woke up to several consecutive emails and texts from Lyle, which was not a typical occurrence. I was trying my hardest to sleep in and recover from a brutal, late-night Saturday gig, but my senses quickly pushed me out of the bed with a sense of urgency. I promptly responded to Lyle and without wasting a moment, he eagerly responded. He then asked that I sit down and relax at my computer for a little while, as there were a few important things that he wanted to discuss with me. A sequence of well-thought-out emails followed, and I read them nervously.
The first was a very personal and detailed explanation of some health challenges he had been facing recently. While this temporarily alleviated some confusion on my part, it simultaneously brought on a great deal of heartache. There is no way to prepare for such a serious conversation with someone you love, respect, and idolize. After a few back and forth exchanges, Lyle took a left turn and asked if we could pause our work on the book for the time being. I was heartbroken but understood that it was essential for him to focus on getting better as soon as possible. I soon realized that getting better was only a part of Lyle’s agenda. There was much more to talk about.
Lyle proceeded to describe an insatiable fire in his belly, a renewed sense of urgency to record a piece of music that had been kept in the vault for so many years. I was stunned. “Check your email,” he said. Attached, was a 13-minute long mp3 file. It was a fully-mixed, synthesized MIDI demo of a piece called, “Eberhard.”
“I would like for you to listen to it several times if you don’t mind,” he asked. I complied, with pleasure.
Of course, the piece was astounding. I followed orders and listened to the demo over, and over again until complete sections were internalized. I could go on for days (in a separate essay…) about why this composition is Lyle’s crowning achievement— his best-constructed and most thoughtfully organized work. It is his magnum opus. I remember crying, a lot. I was upset because I was worried about my friend, but also emotionally impacted by the beauty of this composition.
“I would like for you to score this for me, and help with some new parts and arrangements,” Lyle said. “I would like for you to be in on the ground floor. Our work begins immediately.” “Count me in. I’m on board,” I replied enthusiastically, after giving it virtually zero thought. What followed was without a doubt, one of the most difficult and intensely creative periods I’ve experienced in recent memory.
Work began the very next day with the scoring of all four vocal parts. We toyed with all sorts of formats, fonts, sizes, page orientations, etc. Lyle and I spoke all day, every day. I was deeply entrenched in the mind of a genius, watching his every move, his every calculation. I could feel his firing synapses from across the country; it was so riveting, and it was very hard work. We quickly moved on to score piano and keyboard parts, woodwinds, strings, mallets, bass, drums, guitar, and all the rest. I assumed the role of a musical doctor-on-call of sorts, and quickly developed the strange habit of carrying my laptop with me everywhere I went. Errands as mundane as grocery shopping were always accompanied by my computer bag and iPad, just in case Lyle needed something. The creative beauty born from urgency cannot be understated. It was extremely important for Lyle to have a good team of people that he could always count on. I was beyond honored to be included in this top-secret mission.
After a week or so of working on Eberhard, I decided to travel to Los Angeles so that I could see Lyle in person. My trip, which was scheduled for the very next month (August of 2019) was the first and only time Lyle and I ever met in person. We spent a few days together and I had the time of my life. We went out for Japanese food (Lyle’s favorite) several times, listened to music, and talked about life for hours on end. I have many fond memories of watching Lyle drive way too fast down the 101 with the windows rolled down. He was a total badass. Our brief encounters in person after spending 1,000 hours on the phone, were exactly what we needed.
When I got back to New York, our work on Eberhard continued until December of 2019. By this point, the recording process was wrapping up. The last part I scored was for Bill Frisell. While the break that followed was very much needed, I was already starting to miss Lyle, deeply. I missed his texts and dozens of daily emails. The piece was nearing completion, and mixing sessions were already scheduled. Lyle’s amazing friends Jon Papenbrook and Ryan Andrews updated me frequently on how things were progressing out in L.A. Lyle and I would bug each other at least once per week just to say hello and catch up, since we really didn’t have any work to do together. I could feel that Lyle was very carefully allocating his mental and physical resources for only the most important work, so I never bugged him about finishing our book. He was fighting like hell to save every ounce of energy and focus that he had, for his art. Our last communication together was via text. He was describing some new piano parts that he had composed and recorded underneath Bob Sheppard’s saxophone solo.
It seems like just moments after Lyle’s untimely departure, the world was turned upside down. Covid-19 reached our shores here in the U.S., we locked down and sat in our homes confused and still grieving the loss of our friend. Thankfully as time slowly marched on, things did indeed start to fall into place for Lyle’s legacy. Eberhard was mixed and mastered, and turned out to be more beautiful than I ever could’ve hoped. Since I will forever hear the piece as it sounded in Lyle’s synthesized demo, hearing the real recording is extra special for me. I spent an uncountable number of hours listening to Lyle’s initial demo, as well as the MIDI instruments in Sibelius while I worked on the parts and scores during those months, so hearing the final product is intensely emotional for me. With the support of Aubrey Johnson, Joan Johnson, Ryan Andrews, Jon Papenbrook and Joe Vella, I was also able to finally push through and finish the book that Lyle and I had started in 2018. I do hope that Lyle would be proud not only of what his friends and colleagues managed to accomplish posthumously on his behalf, but of the sheer beauty he was able to manifest in Eberhard during those incredible few months. He has left us a timeless parting gift— one that will keep on giving for the most enthusiastic and informed listeners. I feel tremendous excitement for those who have not yet heard the piece, and would do anything to return to that moment on July 14, 2019 when I heard it for the very first time.
- PIERRE PISCITELLI (AUGUST 2021)
Photo credit: Beth Herzhaft & Dylan MacDonald