Behind the Music: Quincy Jones’s Ex-Wife Reveals 8 Secret Relationships in the Shadows

Peggy Lipton paints a vivid picture of late-night recording sessions stretching until dawn, locked doors, overlapping hotel room schedules, and hallway cameras mysteriously losing footage.

These were not just moments of professional collaboration; they were intimate encounters hidden from public view, protected fiercely to preserve careers and reputations.

The first revealed relationship is with Al JRo, a rising jazz fusion vocalist in the 1970s.

Their connection began in the studio, evolving into private all-night sessions where doors remained closed until morning.

Witnesses recall finding two pairs of men’s shoes side by side and two men lying close together under a blanket—moments never officially acknowledged but never forgotten.

Next is Billy Preston, whose 1975 tour in New York included a discreet late-night meeting with Jones.

Security cameras caught them leaving separate rooms after a night of quiet closeness—a fleeting kiss on the cheek the only public sign.

Management swiftly tightened hotel access and cut late-night meetings, ensuring the secret stayed buried.

Leon Ware’s story unfolds in Hollywood, where a private listening session ended with a brief, meaningful hug backstage.

A demo tape from that night was locked away, never released, symbolizing the silent code of discretion that governed these relationships.

Norman Connors, bridging jazz and funk, shared long studio nights with Quincy in Philadelphia.

Their closeness was palpable—a shoulder touch, a brief embrace—yet nothing official was ever confirmed, only understood by those present.

Roy Ayers, a beloved figure in San Francisco’s jazz funk scene, experienced a relationship marked by whispered warnings to “not write the name in the book.”

Their private moments remained hidden behind side doors and quiet rides through foggy streets.

Lamont Dozier, a Motown powerhouse, engaged in late-night meetings with Jones where creative boundaries blurred.

A song discussed during one such session was locked away, never to be released, signaling the unspoken nature of their connection.

Donny Hathaway, a fragile genius, found solace in extended studio nights with Jones during a difficult period.

Their relationship quietly ended without explanation, leaving behind an unsettled crew and unanswered questions.

Finally, George Benson’s sessions in Los Angeles often involved last-minute room changes and late-night meetings.

A discreet smile and shared departure marked their closeness, shielded by the industry’s accepted practice of secrecy.

Throughout these stories, silence was the strongest force—an agreed-upon habit to protect children, careers, and the music machine itself.

Peggy Lipton does not cast judgment but reveals the human cost of maintaining this delicate balance.

These backstage fragments, drawn from anonymous witnesses, offer a glimpse into a hidden world where power, music, and secrets collide.

The full truth remains locked away, waiting for those brave enough to listen.