Treasuring the Moments That Matter
A Farewell to Uncle Ebo
This past weekend, the world lost a master. Ebo Taylor, the Ghanaian highlife legend whose guitar licks and arrangements shaped the sound of an entire continent, passed away at 90. The obituaries rightly celebrate his seven-decade career, his influence on Afrobeat, his timeless catalog. They speak of his importance to music.
But for his children, some of whom shared the stage with him for years, they lost a father.
And for those of us who work behind the scenes, who toured with him as recently as last year, when he was still commanding stages at 89, we lost something harder to name. Not a father, exactly. But something that had grown to feel almost as close.
There's a unique intimacy that develops when you tour with artists like Ebo Taylor. It goes far beyond the professional. It surpasses even the fan/idol relationship, though that's where it begins. You start in awe, and then gradually, incrementally, something begins to change: you become their road family.
You share meals with them after shows, when the adrenaline has faded and they're just hungry. You sit beside them in vans during long drives, watching the highway blur past. You wait together in airports, you board flights, you navigate the strange liminal spaces between cities and countries and time zones. And somewhere in all that transit, something shifts.
You earn each other's trust. Their affection. They learn your name, then your story. You learn theirs. You see them in vulnerable moments, exhausted, exhilarated, missing home. You hear their stories, not as anecdotes from a stage but as memories shared across a table. And they see you, too, all your human complexities, your off-days and your triumphs, your nervous energy before a big show.
In these maestros, we often see reflections of our own families. We see our parents in them. Our grandparents. We hear echoes of voices we've lost, mannerisms that feel like home. Uncle Ebo, with his warmth and his quiet dignity, carried that resonance for so many of us.
Sadly, this is not our first goodbye. We've said farewell to Roy Ayers, whose vibraphone felt like sunshine made audible. We've mourned João Donato, the Brazilian architect of cool who remained playful into his 90s. We've watched Mamão go—Mamão, whose very presence was radiant, whose energy was pure and boundless, who seemed to carry an infinite well of love that he gave freely to everyone in his orbit. Each loss hits differently, a different timbre of grief, a different absence in the world. But each one reminds us of the same truth: these moments are borrowed.
So we remind ourselves to treasure their presence while we still can. To attend their concerts, not just because the music matters (it does) but because our attendance is a form of conversation. To hear their stories from their own mouths, not from documentaries or tribute albums. To remember that for those who couldn't be there, their output is its own kind of presence, a door that never fully closes, a voice that keeps speaking.
But the lesson extends beyond these titans. In saying goodbye to Uncle Ebo, we're also reminded of our own limited time here. And that of the people we love most.
These are troubled, complex times. The world's weight presses on all of us. It's easy—so easy—to get lost in the big issues, to spend our emotional currency on problems vast and unsolvable. It's equally easy to become consumed by our own small problems and desires, the daily dramas that feel urgent but rarely are. In either direction, we risk forgetting the fundamental task of being alive: cherishing each moment with the people we love.
Ebo Taylor, recording JID 022
Think of someone close to you who you'll never see again. Let yourself go there. Remember the last time you were with them. The mundane details of that day. The hug that was too quick because you were running late. The thing you meant to say but assumed you'd have time for later.
If you'd known it was the last time, would you have held on a moment longer? Would you have said it?
This is not a question meant to haunt. It's an invitation.
So as we say goodbye to Uncle Ebo, to his gentle presence, his brilliant mind, his music that will keep playing, we remind ourselves of what matters. We remind ourselves to appreciate the people in our lives while they're still here. To not let any gratitude go unexpressed. To live each moment not as a rehearsal but as a performance, because in the end, there are no encores.
Rest well, Uncle Ebo. Thank you for the music, the meals, the miles, and that final tour. And thank you for the reminder: the time we have is the only time we get.
— The ArtDontSleep Family
Born from a shared reverence for heritage and innovation, EYEVAN for Adrian Younge reimagines vintage eyewear through Younge’s personal style and EYEVAN’s Japanese precision craftsmanship, balancing bold presence, meticulous engineering, and expressive lenses in timeless pieces.