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The Guardian
04-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Heaven must be like this: D'Angelo's greatest songs – ranked!
For an artist no one could describe as prolific, D'Angelo has contributed a surprising number of exclusive songs to films. Good songs too, as evidenced by this, from the Space Jam soundtrack: a fine, funky, faintly Stevie Wonder-ish, mid-tempo example of his initial retro-yet-somehow-modern approach to soul. Questlove compared D'Angelo's third album Black Messiah to the Beach Boys' Smile. More people heard Sly and the Family Stone's There's a Riot Goin' On in its murky, moody sound, but Another Life was a relatively bright closer, a lovely hybrid of vintage Chicago and Philadelphia soul, decorated with sitar. D'Angelo is better known as a songwriter than an interpreter of others' material, but – quite aside from demonstrating his exquisite taste in vintage soul – his version of the Ohio Players' 1974 slow jam is magnificent: live-sounding, respectful, but not too cowed by the original to prevent the singer injecting his own identity. D'Angelo's debut was the album for which the term neosoul was literally invented (as a marketing tool), but it offered more than merely harking back to a golden era. Alright is resolutely a product of the mid-90s – the harmonies are lush, but they're set against a crackly sampled rhythm and subjected to dub-like echo. D'Angelo made his love for Prince explicit early on – covering She's Always in My Hair – and his spirit hangs over The Charade, both melodically and in its hybrid rock-influenced style. But the sound is too smeared, distorted and strange to count as homage; its lyrics about the 'systematic maze' of racism are glowering and powerful. D'Angelo's second album Voodoo took four years to make. Collaborator Questlove described the sessions as a 'left of centre Black music renaissance', but there's a potent note-to-self quality about The Line's lyrics, as if D'Angelo is urging himself to get the album done: 'I'm gonna stick to my guns, I'm gonna put my finger on the trigger, I'm gonna pull it'. The most recent D'Angelo track – released seven years ago! – was brooding, atmospheric and produced by U2 collaborator Daniel Lanois. It's understated but fabulous, carrying a hint of swampy New Orleans soul in its rhythm. If he can come up with something this good for a video game soundtrack, what might a fourth album sound like? Inspired by the birth of D'Angelo's son – and co-written with his then-partner, the late Angie Stone – Africa meditates on fatherhood and Black consciousness. It's resolute lyrically but low-key, introspective and somehow fragile musically, its electric piano sounding fractured over the rumbling funk of Questlove's drums. The overall effect is really moving. The perfect example of what one critic called the 'controlled chaos' of Black Messiah with funk so slippery the constituent elements feel as if they're on the verge of sliding out of sync entirely. D'Angelo laments the state of the world in falsetto: 'Tragedy flows unbound and there's no place to run.' The loverman side of Voodoo later gave D'Angelo pause – he was deeply uncomfortable with his sex-symbol status – but it's pretty irresistible on this cliche-free slow jam. The vocals are reverb-free and mixed forward, as if he's singing very close to you, the music moves drowsily along, the whole thing sounds like it's dripping with sweat. From the opening torrent of dextrous jazz guitar to the bumping hip-hop beat (from Chubb Rock's 1992 track The Big Man) via the meandering keyboard lines that suggest a band jamming live and the fine, but unshowy vocal, Smooth defines the new route for R&B laid out on D'Angelo's debut. It's also just a great song. If Black Messiah is the 21st-century There's a Riot Goin' On, maybe Sugah Daddy is its goofy Spaced Cowboy moment, its Princely lubriciousness undercut by its quirky tap-dancing rhythm, sudden key changes and warped swing-era evoking horns and backing vocals. The main piano and bass groove, meanwhile, is utterly, joyfully contagious. A collaboration with producer DJ Premier (who originally intended its beat to go to fleetingly famous rapper Canibus), Devil's Pie is also liberally sprinkled with magic by an uncredited J Dilla. Its attack on hip-hop materialism is stripped-back, bass-heavy and strafed with vintage electronics (sampled from Pierre Henry). Idiosyncratic and marvellous. The great D'Angelo cover. Smokey Robinson's original 1979 quiet-storm-classic is an incredible track but this version might be even better: a touch faster, a little more raw, the lush orchestration set over echoey funk. And D'Angelo's unruffled falsetto may be the best vocal he's ever recorded. Around Voodoo's release, D'Angelo described modern R&B as 'a joke'. The ensuing album was his alternative, 'the natural progression of soul', a description that fits Send It On perfectly: over the sample loops and elastic bass, the lovely song at its centre could easily have been sung by Otis Redding or Sam Cooke. When it comes to D'Angelo's biggest hit, take your pick from the original – a slow jam with a killer bassline courtesy of Raphael Saadiq – or the DJ Premier mix which is more hip-hop facing, with a guest verse from Nas-affiliated rapper AZ. Both are superb, carrying a faint undercurrent of darkness alongside declarations of love. At the heart of Voodoo's sound is incredible, virtuosic live-in-the-studio playing by D'Angelo and his fellow Soulquarians. It never sounds more incredible than the intricate, writhing groove of Spanish Joint: constantly shifting, always funky, the perfect backdrop for D'Angelo's vocals (and the Afrobeat-influenced horns) to glide around. A slow-burning dream of a song, its gorgeous, cyclical melody stunningly orchestrated and decorated with flamenco guitar: an arrangement so imaginative it makes you realise how unimaginative most pop arrangements are. The mush-mouthed vocal adds an odd sense of intimacy, as if you're hearing D'Angelo singing to himself. Untitled's video was simple – a naked D'Angelo singing direct to camera – and perhaps too effective. Subsequent attention from female fans disconcerted the singer into derailing his own career. But the song itself is amazing, a rule-breaking Prince-inspired bedroom ballad that slowly builds to an astonishing psychedelic climax. D'Angelo's catalogue might be slender, but it's rich, so much so that it feels almost unfair to pick his debut single as his best song. Doing so doesn't imply that it was all downhill from there – all of his albums are equally good – but there's no getting around the fact that Brown Sugar is a spectacularly great track. An ode to marijuana disguised as a love song, you could work out the real meaning just from its heady sound – like mid-70s Roy Ayers in a fog of smoke, plus snapping beats, ultra-cool organ, disorientating murmuring voices and a vocal with the rhythm of a rapper's flow.
The Guardian
03-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Heaven must be like this: D'Angelo's greatest songs – ranked!
For an artist no one could describe as prolific, D'Angelo has contributed a surprising number of exclusive songs to films. Good songs too, as evidenced by this, from the Space Jam soundtrack: a fine, funky, faintly Stevie Wonder-ish, mid-tempo example of his initial retro-yet-somehow-modern approach to soul. Questlove compared D'Angelo's third album Black Messiah to the Beach Boys' Smile. More people heard Sly and the Family Stone's There's a Riot Goin' On in its murky, moody sound, but Another Life was a relatively bright closer, a lovely hybrid of vintage Chicago and Philadelphia soul, decorated with sitar. D'Angelo is better known as a songwriter than an interpreter of others' material, but – quite aside from demonstrating his exquisite taste in vintage soul – his version of the Ohio Players' 1974 slow jam is magnificent: live-sounding, respectful, but not too cowed by the original to prevent the singer injecting his own identity. D'Angelo's debut was the album for which the term neosoul was literally invented (as a marketing tool), but it offered more than merely harking back to a golden era. Alright is resolutely a product of the mid-90s – the harmonies are lush, but they're set against a crackly sampled rhythm and subjected to dub-like echo. D'Angelo made his love for Prince explicit early on – covering She's Always in My Hair – and his spirit hangs over The Charade, both melodically and in its hybrid rock-influenced style. But the sound is too smeared, distorted and strange to count as homage; its lyrics about the 'systematic maze' of racism are glowering and powerful. D'Angelo's second album Voodoo took four years to make. Collaborator Questlove described the sessions as a 'left of centre Black music renaissance', but there's a potent note-to-self quality about The Line's lyrics, as if D'Angelo is urging himself to get the album done: 'I'm gonna stick to my guns, I'm gonna put my finger on the trigger, I'm gonna pull it'. The most recent D'Angelo track – released seven years ago! – was brooding, atmospheric and produced by U2 collaborator Daniel Lanois. It's understated but fabulous, carrying a hint of swampy New Orleans soul in its rhythm. If he can come up with something this good for a video game soundtrack, what might a fourth album sound like? Inspired by the birth of D'Angelo's son – and co-written with his then-partner, the late Angie Stone – Africa meditates on fatherhood and Black consciousness. It's resolute lyrically but low-key, introspective and somehow fragile musically, its electric piano sounding fractured over the rumbling funk of Questlove's drums. The overall effect is really moving. The perfect example of what one critic called the 'controlled chaos' of Black Messiah with funk so slippery the constituent elements feel as if they're on the verge of sliding out of sync entirely. D'Angelo laments the state of the world in falsetto: 'Tragedy flows unbound and there's no place to run.' The loverman side of Voodoo later gave D'Angelo pause – he was deeply uncomfortable with his sex-symbol status – but it's pretty irresistible on this cliche-free slow jam. The vocals are reverb-free and mixed forward, as if he's singing very close to you, the music moves drowsily along, the whole thing sounds like it's dripping with sweat. From the opening torrent of dextrous jazz guitar to the bumping hip-hop beat (from Chubb Rock's 1992 track The Big Man) via the meandering keyboard lines that suggest a band jamming live and the fine, but unshowy vocal, Smooth defines the new route for R&B laid out on D'Angelo's debut. It's also just a great song. If Black Messiah is the 21st-century There's a Riot Goin' On, maybe Sugah Daddy is its goofy Spaced Cowboy moment, its Princely lubriciousness undercut by its quirky tap-dancing rhythm, sudden key changes and warped swing-era evoking horns and backing vocals. The main piano and bass groove, meanwhile, is utterly, joyfully contagious. A collaboration with producer DJ Premier (who originally intended its beat to go to fleetingly famous rapper Canibus), Devil's Pie is also liberally sprinkled with magic by an uncredited J Dilla. Its attack on hip-hop materialism is stripped-back, bass-heavy and strafed with vintage electronics (sampled from Pierre Henry). Idiosyncratic and marvellous. The great D'Angelo cover. Smokey Robinson's original 1979 quiet-storm-classic is an incredible track but this version might be even better: a touch faster, a little more raw, the lush orchestration set over echoey funk. And D'Angelo's unruffled falsetto may be the best vocal he's ever recorded. Around Voodoo's release, D'Angelo described modern R&B as 'a joke'. The ensuing album was his alternative, 'the natural progression of soul', a description that fits Send It On perfectly: over the sample loops and elastic bass, the lovely song at its centre could easily have been sung by Otis Redding or Sam Cooke. When it comes to D'Angelo's biggest hit, take your pick from the original – a slow jam with a killer bassline courtesy of Raphael Saadiq – or the DJ Premier mix which is more hip-hop facing, with a guest verse from Nas-affiliated rapper AZ. Both are superb, carrying a faint undercurrent of darkness alongside declarations of love. At the heart of Voodoo's sound is incredible, virtuosic live-in-the-studio playing by D'Angelo and his fellow Soulquarians. It never sounds more incredible than the intricate, writhing groove of Spanish Joint: constantly shifting, always funky, the perfect backdrop for D'Angelo's vocals (and the Afrobeat-influenced horns) to glide around. A slow-burning dream of a song, its gorgeous, cyclical melody stunningly orchestrated and decorated with flamenco guitar: an arrangement so imaginative it makes you realise how unimaginative most pop arrangements are. The mush-mouthed vocal adds an odd sense of intimacy, as if you're hearing D'Angelo singing to himself. Untitled's video was simple – a naked D'Angelo singing direct to camera – and perhaps too effective. Subsequent attention from female fans disconcerted the singer into derailing his own career. But the song itself is amazing, a rule-breaking Prince-inspired bedroom ballad that slowly builds to an astonishing psychedelic climax. D'Angelo's catalogue might be slender, but it's rich, so much so that it feels almost unfair to pick his debut single as his best song. Doing so doesn't imply that it was all downhill from there – all of his albums are equally good – but there's no getting around the fact that Brown Sugar is a spectacularly great track. An ode to marijuana disguised as a love song, you could work out the real meaning just from its heady sound – like mid-70s Roy Ayers in a fog of smoke, plus snapping beats, ultra-cool organ, disorientating murmuring voices and a vocal with the rhythm of a rapper's flow.
Yahoo
16-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
The Black Keys Detail New LP, ‘No Rain, No Flowers'
The Black Keys have landed on an Aug. 8 release date for their 13th album, No Rain, No Flowers, the title track from which is out now. Among the collaborators on the self-produced Easy Eye Sound/Warner project are songwriters Rick Nowels and Daniel Tashian, plus veteran hip-hop producer/keyboardist Scott Storch. Black Keys guitarist/vocalist Dan Auerbach previously told SPIN that he and bandmate Patrick Carney used to obsessively watch YouTube videos of Storch 'playing all his parts from his productions on piano. He showed up and he was so excited to be in the studio because it's filled with keyboards here. He said he'd never really recorded with real instruments before — like harpsichords, vibes, tack pianos and stuff. So, he was like a kid in a candy shop. We hit it off and we had a lot of fun.' More from Spin: Peter Baumann's Old and New Dreams GIRLS IN WAITING Prince Royce: 'With Music, We Can Become One' The album's first single, 'The Night Before,' emerged as Carney, Auerbach and Tashian played drums, guitar and bass in a circle at Auerbach's Easy Eye Sound studio. 'It came together so quickly that we overlooked it,' said Auerbach. 'When we were playing the songs we had for people, it was the very last one we played to the record label. As soon as we played it, everyone unanimously said that should be the first single.' No Rain, No Flowers amounts to some positive fallout surrounding the release of 2024's Ohio Players and the abrupt cancelation of its supporting tour, during which Auerbach and Carney traded barbs with former manager Irving Azoff. 'We put a lot of time into [that] album, and then it came out and some bullshit happened and we had to pivot,' said Carney. 'Som we pivoted to where we feel most comfortable, which is back in the studio — make more music and just do it again.' The Black Keys will be on the road in North America beginning May 23 in Durant, Ok., and have dates on the books through Sept. 20 at Atlanta's Shaky Knees festival. 'The fact we didn't get to tour last year, we hated it,' Carney admitted. 'It sucks for us, sucks for the fans. Also, the circumstances were bullshit. But at the end of the day, we did get to make another album. And it's something that we're proud of, and that will be a document that will exist long after we're gone.' To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.
CNN
08-04-2025
- Entertainment
- CNN
What happened to the funk?
If there was a Mount Funkmore for the greatest funk bassists, Marcus Miller's face and trademark porkpie hat would be sculpted into that musical monument. Miller honed his musical chops during funk's '70s golden age when songs from groups like the Ohio Players and Parliament pumped from speakers in dorm rooms, high school dances and 'blue light in the basement' house parties. It was a time when funk music became 'the chocolate-colored soundtrack to a golden age of music,' the cultural critic Michael A. Gonzales once wrote. 'There's no sad funk songs,' says Miller, now 65. 'Funk's primary purpose is to get people moving, dancing and shaking their behinds.' Funk music's purpose is likely not high on the list of concerns for most Americans in 2025. Most people are worrying more about the plunging stock market, rising egg prices, job layoffs and political polarization. But when I think about what ails contemporary America, I consider this question: What happened to the funk? I ask this because I also grew up during funk's golden era. I watched live performances of groups like Earth Wind & Fire as they drove crowds to a funk frenzy. I studied 'Soul Train' every weekend to catch the latest dance moves that I could never learn. I never purchased an Afro-Sheen blowout kit to look like my favorite funk performers, but I proudly carried an Afro pick with a handle shaped like a clenched Black fist to capture their defiant 'Get the Funk Out Ma Face' attitude. For my family and friends, funk wasn't just a musical genre — it was a lifestyle and attitude built around what one music critic called 'sweat and sociability.' And then the music lost its groove. The '80s and '90s brought hip hop, grunge, rap and alternative rock. Today's charts are dominated by plastic dance pop that feels like it's been assembled by an AI bot. I can't help but wonder: Why did funk music lose its popularity? And did we lose something more than danceable rhythms when it went away? That's the unspoken question that hovers in the background of a new documentary: 'We Want the Funk!,' premiering tonight on PBS, which takes listeners on a fantastic voyage to trace the birth and evolution of funk. Directed by two Emmy-award-winning filmmakers, Stanley Nelson and Nicole London, the film features Miller and other funk royalty such as George Clinton, leader of the Parliament and Funkadelic groups, plus members of classic funk groups like the Ohio Players, famous for their erotic album covers. The film traces the birth of funk music to one person: James Brown. The Godfather of Soul, who once said, 'I've only got a seventh-grade education, but I have a doctorate in funk,' pioneered the genre in the mid-1960s with songs like 'I Got You (I Feel Good),' and 'Papa's Got a Brand New Bag.' Brown's stripped-down music was filled with syncopated drums, propulsive bass lines and fiery horn sections that seemed to spit fire. Brown's funkiness was irrepressible, Clinton says in the film. 'Even if he sang the Star-Spangled Banner, it was going to be funky,' Clinton says. But while funk may have started with an individual performer, its sound was all about community. Funk's biggest acts were ensembles. As a kid, I sometimes wondered how funk groups like Lakeside even fit all their members on their album covers. Miller, whose comment about no sad funk songs appears in the film, tells me that he grew up in the Jamaica neighborhood of Queens, New York, where every block seemed to have a funk band. Making a band click took work, he says. Rehearsal was constant, and so were the arguments. The goal was to sound 'tight,' Miller says, meaning that all the vocal harmonizations, dance moves and instruments meshed seamlessly. When it all came together during a live performance, the struggle was worth it, Miller says. 'There's nothing like seeing human beings come together to work something out as a group,' Miller tells me. 'It's like a championship basketball team. Everybody plays the hell out of their role. They've figured out how to work together and resolve their disagreements.' That communal bliss was transmitted to the audience. When I watch vintage concert footage today of groups like the Brothers Johnson performing songs like 'Stomp,' I'm struck by the camaraderie instilled in the audience. It reminds me of that warm glow I experienced in the Charismatic Christian church I attended as a kid, when the songs reached a fever pitch and Black folks stood, sang and shouted together. The lyrical emphasis in funk songs like 'Stomp' was often on 'we,' not 'I.' ('Everybody take it to the top/We're gonna' stomp all night/In the neighborhood/Don't it feel alright?') Funk music is not meant to be listened to alone, London, co-director of 'We Want the Funk,' tells me. 'It's like a religious experience that has to be shared with others,' she says. 'It's a channeling that happens when people are together in a groove. There's something that, as Sly and the Family Stone sings, 'takes you higher.' '' Funk music also took us higher back then because of a quality that's missing today from popular music — a sense of racial optimism. Because many of the biggest funk bands were interracial ensembles, that optimism was reflected in groups like Sly & the Family Stone, which presented a stage full of White, Black and Brown musicians all moving together in harmony. Funk music brought White and Black America together in a way that our politics never could. 'Sly & the Family Stone was the musical equivalent of 'I Have a Dream,' ' the drummer and producer Questlove says in the PBS film. As a young man, seeing interracial funk groups meant more to me than I realized. I grew up in a segregated Black community in West Baltimore where most people viewed White people with hostility. I also came from a family where all my White relatives, except my mom, disowned me at birth because my father was Black. It's hard not to develop stereotypes about White people in such a setting. But when I saw Black and White people shaking their rumps together to songs like KC and the Sunshine Band's '(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty,' it gave me my first glimpse of a larger world where we could work out our racial differences. Not all White people are the same, I thought. Funk music did what DEI is supposed to do today: It broke down racial walls. Sometimes those walls didn't fall so easy. That was the case when it came to a perennial debate in music: Do White people have as much soul and funk as Black people? I used to believe they didn't. But then in junior high school my world was rocked by one man: Bobby Caldwell. In 1978, Caldwell released a slow-jam funk anthem that earned him a free pass to all Black cookouts: 'What You Won't Do For Love.' The song, which is inspired by Earth Wing & Fire's horn section, is a sophisticated fusion of the best of funk: a chugging rhythm guitar, horns and a head-bopping, bite-your-lower-lip bass groove. What sends it over the top is Caldwell's impassioned vocals ('I came back to let you know/Got a thing for you and I can't let it go'). The song quickly became a staple on Black radio stations. When it came out, I looked in vain for pictures of this soulful new Black singer, but his record company didn't show his photo. When Black folks went to concert venues to hear Caldwell sing, they discovered why — he was a skinny, bearded White man who, according to one stunned Black fan, 'looked like Indiana Jones.' One Black comedian, Kevin Fredericks, said he experienced so much cognitive dissonance upon seeing Caldwell sing that 'I called out of work today. I don't even know who I am anymore.' It turned out Caldwell was just one of many White artists who had earned their doctorates in funk. Another, Wild Cherry, was an all-White band that had a monster funk hit in 1976 called 'Play That Funky Music.' I still remember the sudden silence and furrowed brows from my friends when we watched them on TV. Then there was the shock of learning that arguably funk music's greatest instrumental, 'Pick up the Pieces,' was created by a group of White musicians from Scotland. Maybe I should have taken the cue from their name: the Average White Band. There was an implicit message in these White and interracial funk groups for me: Here were White people stepping into our world to let us know that our culture mattered. For brief moments onstage, it seemed like we could work out our racial divisions. We were, as the Funkadelic hit declared, 'one nation under a groove.' But then, somewhere in the 1980s, we lost the funk. Although elements of funk showed up in songs like Michael Jackson's 'Billie Jean,' the genre lost its widespread popularity. How could this happen to such a visceral, joyous style of music? It's a mystery that people still debate today. Some say it's partly because the Reagan administration pulled funding to musical education programs in public schools. Kids didn't learn how to play instruments anymore, so they turned to rap and hip-hop. Others say it came down to business. It didn't make economic sense anymore for record companies to sign bands. This is the perspective of Rick Beato, the music producer and host of the popular 'Everything Music' YouTube channel. Beato released a video last year asking, 'Why are bands mysteriously disappearing?' His conclusion: It's far cheaper now for a record label to work with and promote a solo artist. Technology also has killed bands, he says. 'A solo artist can record a song at their house on their laptop, put it on TikTok and it becomes a massive hit,' Beato says. Miller, the bassist, has had to adjust. To avoid being trapped in a funk cul-de-sac, he's branched out to compose music for film and TV. He's also a prolific collaborator with jazz and pop artists. When asked if funk bands will ever return to their bell-bottomed glory, he is skeptical. 'Imagine if you're a kid who is 12 and somebody says to you, 'You can play this saxophone, but you have to practice at least three hours a day for many years to make a wonderful sound,'' Miller says. 'Or you can go to an Apple store, buy a laptop and you can find the right software to have control of every sound.' But there's a deeper reason why we've lost the funk. We've lost the communal spirit that feeds funk music. We've gone from a 'We' to an 'I' society. That's how Robert D. Putnam, the eminent sociologist who wrote 'Bowling Alone,' describes this shift. Americans were once a nation of joiners who participated in groups like the Boy Scouts, the Rotary Club and bowling leagues. Today we've become a nation of loners. There's been a surge in Americans who eat their meals alone, at home and in restaurants. We drive around in cars with tinted windows that separate us from the world. Technology has reinforced this social isolation. Many of us interact with screens more than with one another. I'm continually puzzled by people who go to coffee shops to be around other people — and then ignore them by sitting alone in silence, pecking away at their keyboards. This loneliness infects our music. When I pull up next to young people's 'hoopty' cars at stoplights in Atlanta I now hear snippets from a musical wasteland: bland singers who can't hit notes without Auto-Tune, musicians who can't play instruments, and synthetic, overproduced music that sounds like it was sprayed from an aerosol can. Today's pop artists don't seem like they're really listening to one another. Why should I listen to them? I get my funk fix today by going to YouTube and watching old concert footage of funk groups. Many of these videos rack up millions of views. I don't believe all of those viewers are 'turn that music down!' old folks like me. There must also be young people looking for a glimpse of the musical craftsmanship and communal joy that I took for granted as a kid. It's hard for funk to flower in a nation of fearful, isolated people. And yet somehow it still does. Elements of funk music persist in hip-hop, contemporary jazz and in school marching bands. 'Uptown Funk,' the 2014 hit by Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars, is a prominent example of funk's enduring appeal. Funk bands no longer rule the radio, but their influence is still felt around the globe. Cover bands from as far away as Russia and Australia play funk classics, and one of the most inventive funk dance routines I've ever seen comes from a Japanese choreographer named Moga. She put together a viral dance routine based on a James Brown song that is electric. Funk doesn't just belong to Black people; it speaks to everyone. That's the hope I hold onto now. The need to sing and dance together is as ancient as the earliest humans who played drums and chanted around campfires. No matter our race, age or political beliefs, we all want the funk – even if we don't know it. It's the kind of music human beings will always have a thing for. And thankfully, we can't quite let it go. John Blake is a CNN senior writer and author of the award-winning memoir, 'More Than I Imagined: What a Black Man Discovered About the White Mother He Never Knew.'
CNN
08-04-2025
- Entertainment
- CNN
What happened to the funk?
If there was a Mount Funkmore for the greatest funk bassists, Marcus Miller's face and trademark porkpie hat would be sculpted into that musical monument. Miller honed his musical chops during funk's '70s golden age when songs from groups like the Ohio Players and Parliament pumped from speakers in dorm rooms, high school dances and 'blue light in the basement' house parties. It was a time when funk music became 'the chocolate-colored soundtrack to a golden age of music,' the cultural critic Michael A. Gonzales once wrote. 'There's no sad funk songs,' says Miller, now 65. 'Funk's primary purpose is to get people moving, dancing and shaking their behinds.' Funk music's purpose is likely not high on the list of concerns for most Americans in 2025. Most people are worrying more about the plunging stock market, rising egg prices, job layoffs and political polarization. But when I think about what ails contemporary America, I consider this question: What happened to the funk? I ask this because I also grew up during funk's golden era. I watched live performances of groups like Earth Wind & Fire as they drove crowds to a funk frenzy. I studied 'Soul Train' every weekend to catch the latest dance moves that I could never learn. I never purchased an Afro-Sheen blowout kit to look like my favorite funk performers, but I proudly carried an Afro pick with a handle shaped like a clenched Black fist to capture their defiant 'Get the Funk Out Ma Face' attitude. For my family and friends, funk wasn't just a musical genre — it was a lifestyle and attitude built around what one music critic called 'sweat and sociability.' And then the music lost its groove. The '80s and '90s brought hip hop, grunge, rap and alternative rock. Today's charts are dominated by plastic dance pop that feels like it's been assembled by an AI bot. I can't help but wonder: Why did funk music lose its popularity? And did we lose something more than danceable rhythms when it went away? That's the unspoken question that hovers in the background of a new documentary: 'We Want the Funk!,' premiering tonight on PBS, which takes listeners on a fantastic voyage to trace the birth and evolution of funk. Directed by two Emmy-award-winning filmmakers, Stanley Nelson and Nicole London, the film features Miller and other funk royalty such as George Clinton, leader of the Parliament and Funkadelic groups, plus members of classic funk groups like the Ohio Players, famous for their erotic album covers. The film traces the birth of funk music to one person: James Brown. The Godfather of Soul, who once said, 'I've only got a seventh-grade education, but I have a doctorate in funk,' pioneered the genre in the mid-1960s with songs like 'I Got You (I Feel Good),' and 'Papa's Got a Brand New Bag.' Brown's stripped-down music was filled with syncopated drums, propulsive bass lines and fiery horn sections that seemed to spit fire. Brown's funkiness was irrepressible, Clinton says in the film. 'Even if he sang the Star-Spangled Banner, it was going to be funky,' Clinton says. But while funk may have started with an individual performer, its sound was all about community. Funk's biggest acts were ensembles. As a kid, I sometimes wondered how funk groups like Lakeside even fit all their members on their album covers. Miller, whose comment about no sad funk songs appears in the film, tells me that he grew up in the Jamaica neighborhood of Queens, New York, where every block seemed to have a funk band. Making a band click took work, he says. Rehearsal was constant, and so were the arguments. The goal was to sound 'tight,' Miller says, meaning that all the vocal harmonizations, dance moves and instruments meshed seamlessly. When it all came together during a live performance, the struggle was worth it, Miller says. 'There's nothing like seeing human beings come together to work something out as a group,' Miller tells me. 'It's like a championship basketball team. Everybody plays the hell out of their role. They've figured out how to work together and resolve their disagreements.' That communal bliss was transmitted to the audience. When I watch vintage concert footage today of groups like the Brothers Johnson performing songs like 'Stomp,' I'm struck by the camaraderie instilled in the audience. It reminds me of that warm glow I experienced in the Charismatic Christian church I attended as a kid, when the songs reached a fever pitch and Black folks stood, sang and shouted together. The lyrical emphasis in funk songs like 'Stomp' was often on 'we,' not 'I.' ('Everybody take it to the top/We're gonna' stomp all night/In the neighborhood/Don't it feel alright?') Funk music is not meant to be listened to alone, London, co-director of 'We Want the Funk,' tells me. 'It's like a religious experience that has to be shared with others,' she says. 'It's a channeling that happens when people are together in a groove. There's something that, as Sly and the Family Stone sings, 'takes you higher.' '' Funk music also took us higher back then because of a quality that's missing today from popular music — a sense of racial optimism. Because many of the biggest funk bands were interracial ensembles, that optimism was reflected in groups like Sly & the Family Stone, which presented a stage full of White, Black and Brown musicians all moving together in harmony. Funk music brought White and Black America together in a way that our politics never could. 'Sly & the Family Stone was the musical equivalent of 'I Have a Dream,' ' the drummer and producer Questlove says in the PBS film. As a young man, seeing interracial funk groups meant more to me than I realized. I grew up in a segregated Black community in West Baltimore where most people viewed White people with hostility. I also came from a family where all my White relatives, except my mom, disowned me at birth because my father was Black. It's hard not to develop stereotypes about White people in such a setting. But when I saw Black and White people shaking their rumps together to songs like KC and the Sunshine Band's '(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty,' it gave me my first glimpse of a larger world where we could work out our racial differences. Not all White people are the same, I thought. Funk music did what DEI is supposed to do today: It broke down racial walls. Sometimes those walls didn't fall so easy. That was the case when it came to a perennial debate in music: Do White people have as much soul and funk as Black people? I used to believe they didn't. But then in junior high school my world was rocked by one man: Bobby Caldwell. In 1978, Caldwell released a slow-jam funk anthem that earned him a free pass to all Black cookouts: 'What You Won't Do For Love.' The song, which is inspired by Earth Wing & Fire's horn section, is a sophisticated fusion of the best of funk: a chugging rhythm guitar, horns and a head-bopping, bite-your-lower-lip bass groove. What sends it over the top is Caldwell's impassioned vocals ('I came back to let you know/Got a thing for you and I can't let it go'). The song quickly became a staple on Black radio stations. When it came out, I looked in vain for pictures of this soulful new Black singer, but his record company didn't show his photo. When Black folks went to concert venues to hear Caldwell sing, they discovered why — he was a skinny, bearded White man who, according to one stunned Black fan, 'looked like Indiana Jones.' One Black comedian, Kevin Fredericks, said he experienced so much cognitive dissonance upon seeing Caldwell sing that 'I called out of work today. I don't even know who I am anymore.' It turned out Caldwell was just one of many White artists who had earned their doctorates in funk. Another, Wild Cherry, was an all-White band that had a monster funk hit in 1976 called 'Play That Funky Music.' I still remember the sudden silence and furrowed brows from my friends when we watched them on TV. Then there was the shock of learning that arguably funk music's greatest instrumental, 'Pick up the Pieces,' was created by a group of White musicians from Scotland. Maybe I should have taken the cue from their name: the Average White Band. There was an implicit message in these White and interracial funk groups for me: Here were White people stepping into our world to let us know that our culture mattered. For brief moments onstage, it seemed like we could work out our racial divisions. We were, as the Funkadelic hit declared, 'one nation under a groove.' But then, somewhere in the 1980s, we lost the funk. Although elements of funk showed up in songs like Michael Jackson's 'Billie Jean,' the genre lost its widespread popularity. How could this happen to such a visceral, joyous style of music? It's a mystery that people still debate today. Some say it's partly because the Reagan administration pulled funding to musical education programs in public schools. Kids didn't learn how to play instruments anymore, so they turned to rap and hip-hop. Others say it came down to business. It didn't make economic sense anymore for record companies to sign bands. This is the perspective of Rick Beato, the music producer and host of the popular 'Everything Music' YouTube channel. Beato released a video last year asking, 'Why are bands mysteriously disappearing?' His conclusion: It's far cheaper now for a record label to work with and promote a solo artist. Technology also has killed bands, he says. 'A solo artist can record a song at their house on their laptop, put it on TikTok and it becomes a massive hit,' Beato says. Miller, the bassist, has had to adjust. To avoid being trapped in a funk cul-de-sac, he's branched out to compose music for film and TV. He's also a prolific collaborator with jazz and pop artists. When asked if funk bands will ever return to their bell-bottomed glory, he is skeptical. 'Imagine if you're a kid who is 12 and somebody says to you, 'You can play this saxophone, but you have to practice at least three hours a day for many years to make a wonderful sound,'' Miller says. 'Or you can go to an Apple store, buy a laptop and you can find the right software to have control of every sound.' But there's a deeper reason why we've lost the funk. We've lost the communal spirit that feeds funk music. We've gone from a 'We' to an 'I' society. That's how Robert D. Putnam, the eminent sociologist who wrote 'Bowling Alone,' describes this shift. Americans were once a nation of joiners who participated in groups like the Boy Scouts, the Rotary Club and bowling leagues. Today we've become a nation of loners. There's been a surge in Americans who eat their meals alone, at home and in restaurants. We drive around in cars with tinted windows that separate us from the world. Technology has reinforced this social isolation. Many of us interact with screens more than with one another. I'm continually puzzled by people who go to coffee shops to be around other people — and then ignore them by sitting alone in silence, pecking away at their keyboards. This loneliness infects our music. When I pull up next to young people's 'hoopty' cars at stoplights in Atlanta I now hear snippets from a musical wasteland: bland singers who can't hit notes without Auto-Tune, musicians who can't play instruments, and synthetic, overproduced music that sounds like it was sprayed from an aerosol can. Today's pop artists don't seem like they're really listening to one another. Why should I listen to them? I get my funk fix today by going to YouTube and watching old concert footage of funk groups. Many of these videos rack up millions of views. I don't believe all of those viewers are 'turn that music down!' old folks like me. There must also be young people looking for a glimpse of the musical craftsmanship and communal joy that I took for granted as a kid. It's hard for funk to flower in a nation of fearful, isolated people. And yet somehow it still does. Elements of funk music persist in hip-hop, contemporary jazz and in school marching bands. 'Uptown Funk,' the 2014 hit by Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars, is a prominent example of funk's enduring appeal. Funk bands no longer rule the radio, but their influence is still felt around the globe. Cover bands from as far away as Russia and Australia play funk classics, and one of the most inventive funk dance routines I've ever seen comes from a Japanese choreographer named Moga. She put together a viral dance routine based on a James Brown song that is electric. Funk doesn't just belong to Black people; it speaks to everyone. That's the hope I hold onto now. The need to sing and dance together is as ancient as the earliest humans who played drums and chanted around campfires. No matter our race, age or political beliefs, we all want the funk – even if we don't know it. It's the kind of music human beings will always have a thing for. And thankfully, we can't quite let it go. John Blake is a CNN senior writer and author of the award-winning memoir, 'More Than I Imagined: What a Black Man Discovered About the White Mother He Never Knew.'
