When Jim Jones stepped out of his house, he was a public man. Internationally renowned musician. Walking encyclopedia of pop culture. Friend to hundreds. In his house, Jones was a private individual who enjoyed peace and seclusion. Monday, Jones passed away at home alone, during a phone conversation with a friend. He was 57.
"He seemed to be doing so well: We were joking, talking about a Paul McCartney DVD," says Dave Cintron, who played Jones in the band Speaker/Cranker. "Then he just stopped speaking."
Cintron called 911 at 11:20 p.m.
Shortly thereafter, Jones was found dead, in a chair in front of his TV.
An autopsy has not been completed, according to the Cuyahoga County Coroner's Office. But Jones had a history of heart problems, high blood pressure and other ailments.
For years, the illnesses prevented Jones from doing what he loved: performing live with bands.
But he will be remember for his musical achievements -- on and off stage.
Since the early 1970s, Jones was a staple of the Cleveland music scene. He played guitar and wrote songs and sang in legendary bands such as Pere Ubu, Easter Monkeys and the Mirrors.
"There were six degrees of separation between Jim Jones and Cleveland music," says longtime friend Char Rao. "He might not have known everyone, but everyone was somehow connected to him."
That connection began in the late '60s, when Jones worked as a clerk in the now-closed Record Rendezvous on Prospect Avenue, says Michael Weldon, longtime friend and author of the B-movie bible, "Psychotronic Video.
"Jim didn't just buy and sell records," Weldon said. "He played exciting singles and albums for you in the store and explained new groups and sounds."
The devotion to cool music new and old -- Jones also loved Indian, experimental and classical music -- broadened the sensibilities of Cleveland's 1970s generation of musicians, Weldon said.
When Cleveland's rock scene achieved national prominence, Jones found himself in the middle of it.
Jones worked as a roadie for legendary avant-garde rockers Pere Ubu. But more than that, he was an inspiration, said Ubu synthesizerist Allen Ravenstine.
"He'd make compilation tapes for us that included things that had nothing in common with one another -- at least that's what you'd think, at first," Ravenstine said. "But Jim had a deep understanding of music and saw how it all fit in."
After performing in an avant-garde band, Home and Garden, Jones joined a reformed, version of Peru Ubu in the 1980s. He played guitar and wrote songs, but also shepherded the band through a poppier sound, resulting in acclaimed discs such as "Cloudland."
"Jim was the only guy who could make Pere Ubu into a pop band," said longtime friend John Thompson, who founded record store and label Drome Records, in the 1970s. "He could play anything."
Jones -- a collector of movies, Ghoulardi and other Cleveland-related paraphernalia -- got his musical start playing saxophone in the marching band at Mayfield High School, where he graduated in 1968. In 1974, he joined the Mirrors, an influential psychedelic rock band.
But it's in the Easter Monkeys that he unleashed the raw power of his Fender Stratocaster. The late '70s band growled with reckless abandon, mixing and matching blues, punk, rock and noise.
Even when the band sounded evil and angry, ripping out songs such as "Take Another Pill" and "Nailed to the Cross," Jones seemed happy-go-lucking, playing jagged piercing guitar with a smile.
It wasn't just a pose.
"He was the nicest, kindest person I've ever known," Rao said. "He'd laugh at things you'd say and smile when talking with you and had this ability to make you feel funny and fascinating, even if you knew, deep down, that you weren't."
And yet he often kept to himself in his home in the Collinwood section of Cleveland.
"Jim didn't even want a memorial service," Rao said. "And he didn't keep in contact with his family. To him, his surviving family was his two dogs, Samantha and Rollo."
As his heart ailments progressed, Jones became more reclusive. Often, he wouldn't return calls or even answer the door when his closest of friends came calling.
"He lived alone as long as I knew him, but it never seemed to bother him," Ravenstine said. "That was the dichotomy of Jim: He was a private man who knew everyone."
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