Tag: Kevin Toney (page 1 of 1)

Earthly Treats

Crab in black bean sauce, at least as it is served in American Chinese restaurants, starts with a whole crab, most likely Dungeness here in LA, still in the shell, chopped into sections, and stir‑fried until the shells are bright red. It’s then simmered in a fermented black bean sauce. The sticky, unctuous umami bomb was among my father’s very favorite meals.

We observed his birthday this past week as a family by ordering a take-out feast in which this signature dish took center stage. As we sat around my mother’s dining room table, sharing updates on the extended family, job interviews, what’s going on in our fair city, and anything else that came to mind, I imagined my dad there with us, listening and smiling as was common in these kinds of situations, content with letting the loudest voices in the room ramble on from topic-to-topic as love, friendship, and warmth filled the space.

While I’m sure we all had at least a bit of melancholy visit us on that day, it didn’t find me when we were together. 

Dave McMurray, a Detroit-born saxophonist, composer, and bandleader whose decades-long career spans jazz, rock, R&B, funk, and pop and includes work as a sideman with artists like Albert King, The Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan, offers a thesis statement about dealing with grief right at the start of his late 2025 release, I LOVE LIFE even when I’m hurting.

“I know despair don’t care, but be strong!”

It’s a matter-of-fact recognition of truth rather than an exclamation, yet it still stings like an unexpected slap back from the brink. McMurray’s album has been my soundtrack for finding a grounded sense of hope and optimism when those feelings of sadness and loss compound.

Throughout the work, he uses his mastery of the genre to show where and how he finds the will to keep going: in a smile, a joke, or a kind word (even if not explicitly for him), in music that can ignite something within. Beyond “This Life” and the title track, I’m drawn to “We Got By,” a cover of the tune from Al Jarreau’s debut album, with neo-soul vocalist Kem joining McMurray, honoring a lineage of Black resilience. The track is immediately followed by a cover of Yusef Lateef’s “The Plum Blossom” that knocks my socks off. McMurray picks up the flute here, and the performance never fails at lifting my spirits.

I first became aware of McMurray as a sideman on Kem’s debut album Kemistry, the 2003 release by the also Detroit-born singer and songwriter whose warm, romantic songwriting helped define a quieter, emotionally grounded lane of early-2000s R&B. Kemistry returned to regular rotation around this time last year because it was a connection between a friend who died unexpectedly and me. 

The opposite of staying stuck in that loop of sadness and despair is to turn to our creative sensibilities. A loss of his own inspired McMurray to say, “I love life even when I’m hurting.” He told Downbeat Magazine’s Bill Murkowski that, a month later, he’d write the track of the same name as a way to give form to what he had been feeling.

The opening track, This Life, was written last. While its original intention was to reckon with physical trauma, that same pain he’d seen in a friend that inspired the title song, he now sees its connection to the precariousness of this cultural and political moment, both at home and abroad.

It is difficult these days to escape the doomscrolling. With a flick of my thumb, real-world turmoil—uncertainty, anxiety, and violence that feels both distant and imminent—plays on an endless loop.

On one of the social media apps, a painter I don’t know asked, “Does art really matter right now?”

A friend replied to her with a quote from the American writer, filmmaker, and activist Toni Cade Bambara:

“The role of art is to make revolution irresistible.”

As McMurray’s work reminds us, living is not optional. Loving is not frivolous. Optimism is not a luxury reserved for easier times. Creating transforms that which ails us into something that might heal those wounds.

And sometimes you’re mended by wishing a silent happy birthday to your father while sharing one of his favorite earthly treats with the people he loved most.

Halloween 2025 and the Spirits of Los Angeles

As we got closer to Halloween, social media was filled with creators, influencers, and regular folks dressed to surprise, scare, or delight. The holiday has become a showcase for imagination, titillation, and referential humor, with little connection to the pagan or Christian rituals at its roots.

I sometimes lament not feeling as compelled to dress up as I once was. That won’t change, though. As I get older, I’m less interested in wearing a costume to amuse colleagues and friends. There’s nothing wrong with that. I love a good Halloween meme. Someone came to the office party dressed as a Labubu, and it was terrific.

But these days, I’m drawn to something else: remembrance. Why ignore, mock, or ward off the spirit world when the evils of our time don’t come from beyond? They are right here in human form, adorned in the clothing of authorities.

This Halloween, Tiffany and I took the Metro downtown for a night at the Mark Taper Forum to see Jaja’s African Hair Braiding. The show was her idea—a last-minute addition to our social calendar—but it turned out to be precisely what I needed. We arrived early and wandered through Grand Park, where the annual Día de los Muertos installation had transformed the plaza into a celebration of color, reverence, and resistance.

After my dad’s passing last year, I began reading about Día de los Muertos and the significance of the ofrenda, the altars families build to honor and invite departed loved ones back into their lives.

One of the exhibits invited visitors to write a message to someone who had passed. On a small index card, I wrote:

Dad (KT),

Dominique is getting married soon. Your presence is requested!

You are missed and loved.

—JT

It was the first time I’d written directly to him rather than about him. Usually, when I write or speak for the dead, it’s for myself or others. A way for us to process loss. But this felt like a conversation, a hope he might hear, and that with open invitation, he might make his presence known, especially at such a momentous occasion. This spirituality is so unlike me, but I meant every word. I hope he joins us.

The Grand Park installation also honored the living, especially those in Los Angeles whose lives are made precarious by our country’s immigration enforcement policies. With City Hall glowing behind it, the exhibit called out the trauma caused by ICE raids and border policies that tear families apart. Surrounded by marigolds and the righteous indignation of our Chicano brethren and sistren, I was reminded why I love this city. Los Angeles isn’t perfect, but it shows up. We fight for one another. We build community from loss and struggle.

And that spirit carried into the theater.

Los Angeles is the final stop for Jaja’s African Hair Braiding’s initial touring company and likely the last time so many members of the original ensemble will perform together. To do so here feels right. As playwright Jocelyn Bioh said, “to culminate in such a special city that understands the power of community and coming together, that doesn’t feel like an accident.”

Set in a Harlem salon where a group of West African women—many working under tenuous visa conditions—build a makeshift family, the show is sharp, funny, and profoundly human. It captures what it means to chase the American Dream while being told you don’t belong.

By the time the curtain fell, I felt grateful. For the play, for this city, for the way art challenges me to stay open and engaged in my community: to remember, to listen, to love.

To fight.

I love L.A.

A Morning with Kevin Toney and Friends

Lush Life, the first song on my father’s final album, runs eight minutes and eight seconds long. The live recording is billed as Kevin Toney and Friends, but this opening salvo is about him. Besides his adept command of the ivories, you only hear laughter as he improvises playfully in parts. Then, at the end, he speaks, his voice as confident and bright as his performance, like rays of morning sunlight. I’m listening to the whole album as I type this.

It’s the first anniversary of his death today. As clouds, cold, wind, and rain arrived in Los Angeles last week, so did melancholy. It has been nearly a week since I wrote in my journal, avoiding whatever emotion might escape from my fingers on the keyboard I’m most comfortable playing. I have been replaying last year’s events, imagining them as giant dominoes tumbling and unable to escape their path. I hear each block fall, the sound echoing in my ears, the shadow and threat growing ever larger. As it happened, I worried about the weight of it all. I worried so much that my body expressed it as ailments, first shingles and then appendicitis. However, when my mother called to tell me the news, I wasn’t crushed under those tumbling blocks; I was uplifted by the relief that his suffering was over. 

Grief is a never-ending journey, however, and that weight has returned. There is so much uncertainty in the world, and it is the terrible realization that one of the things I am sure of is that Kevin Toney isn’t here to experience it with us. While he brought joy to so many through his music, I am mourning his absence in our family’s everyday lives. His exuberance for youthful delights and overt expressions of love are absent. We have our memories, and we may seek to substitute what he did and how he did it with our versions, but my dad’s way was his way, and there’s no replacing that, no matter how much we might want it.

My sister has entered the recording and is performing a jazzy rendition of her song I Can’t Take That. The song is about the end of a romance with the lyrics, “Hurt doesn’t go away, the memories will never fade.” Later, she vamps and riffs around the refrain, “It left me distraught.” 

Tears aren’t easy for me, but this sadness is worth crying over. Yesterday evening, as the sun set and I sat in my car in a scene reminiscent of Monday, March 18th, 2024, when that fateful call came, I accepted my feelings and allowed them in. There was nothing to do but to be with that hurt and submit to its heft. I was neither crushed by the weight of that pain nor comforted. 

I was, and grief was. I am, and grief is.

This morning, though, with light coming through my windows, there was something else: a desire to hear his voice and his gifts. Kevin Toney and his friends are performing Duke Ellington’s In A Sentimental Mood. There is one more song left on this live recording. My father is acknowledging Azar Lawrence on saxophone as the crowd cheers. 

That’s it. 

While I may be in a sentimental mood at this moment, I’m no longer distraught. Those giant dominoes have been replaced with the black and white patterns of piano keys, and with my dad at the helm, what emanates is never a threat. 

Kevin Toney’s legacy is a sound of love.

Alive in the Room

This past Wednesday, my family hosted a musical tribute to my father, Kevin Toney. I wasn’t an active participant in the production or planning. Outside of doing half of a rough draft of a script for the M.C., I tapped out.

“This is not for us,” I said. “This is for everyone else.”

It was more than that, of course. It was my mother’s gift to his musical legacy. The show was a retrospective of his work in a way he had not done during his life. It spanned eras and genres. It merged his faith with his soul-stirring compositions.

It was expertly performed by his talented friends and loved ones, including my sister, Dominique Toney. Video of him talking about and performing his work played throughout, allowing him to speak for himself even though he was gone.

Despite this spectacular show, it couldn’t give me the one thing I wanted: Kevin Toney alive in the room.

The show closed with a video of my dad alone on stage at a piano. The audience can’t be seen, but you can feel their presence. They are in awe as his outstretched fingers glide across the keys. It’s Kevin Toney, the entertainer, in all his glory. One foot is on the pedals, and the other rests under the bench. He was tall with long arms, so he leaned away from the instrument, giving himself room to move. I watch as he hears the sounds in his head before they exit from the strings on the piano. A phone rings. It’s his. It’s my mom. He finally banters with the crowd a little bit, and they chuckle at this break in seriousness from the maestro. He turns back to the piano and closes with a flourish.

It’s quintessentially him, and what I felt intensely in that moment was his absence.

Everyone did right by him, but Kevin Toney was not on that stage. My father is gone.

In the three months since he passed, the primary feeling I have had is relief. I’ve been relieved that he was no longer in a hospital attached to machines and stuck in bed. I’ve been relieved that the stress of being his advocate was no longer a burden for my mom. I’ve been relieved not to make myself physically sick with worry for all of us. I’ve been relieved for life to be taken off pause.

I’d been dreading the show, though, as I sensed some new emotions creeping in as it approached: sadness and loss.

During the tribute, a montage of photos was played on the video screens. One image took my breath away: a picture from my parents’ wedding reception. My father shared the frame with my grandmother and my uncle, Mike.

Michael Saunders and Kevin Toney are the two most influential men in my life, and they are both gone now.

On this Father’s Day, I’m allowing that reality to wash over me and accepting this next stage of grief.

In what ways is my life a tribute to theirs while I’m the one alive in the room?