James Brown

For James Brown, Star Time kicked off in the early ’50s, back when his Famous Flames lit the fuse that rocketed the sanctified screamer, magnificent process and all, onto the charts (“Please, Please, Please,” “Try Me”). By the time “Out of Sight” cracked our consciousness, Papa had us locked in a brutally funky groove, the give-and-take of percussion, horns, and vocals a thing of Swiss-precise timing. The singles that followed — “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag,” “I Got You (Feel Good)” — not only defined the golden age of ’60s soul; they were the wet cement upon which the mighty tower of funk would be built. And they’re all the more reason why James’ supernatural presence will be so dearly, dearly missed.

It was James who built a bridge from the pleading platters of ’50s R&B to the sweat-soaked sensation of ’60s soul, and damn if he wasn’t gonna take us the rest of the way to the Promised Land. With the help of one nasty groove, some jazz-worthy horns-and-vocal interplay, plus a bucket of shouts, yelps, grunts, and chants, he single-handedly dropped the funk. Come to think of it, the man practically owned the word itself, courtesy of vicious cuts like “Make it Funky,” “Funky President (People It’s Bad),” and “Funky Drummer,” the last of which boasts a fill by JB drummer Clyde Stubblefield that’s been borrowed so often, it earned Stubblefield the nickname “World’s Most Sampled Drummer.”

Time to see if you’re paying attention: Cue up “Try Me” and “I Don’t Mind” from James and the Flames’ ’62 necessity Live At the Apollo. They’re dead-on examples of the group whipping up that old-time gospel-powered R&B, set off by Brown’s throat-on-fire delivery. Now listen to “Kansas City” and “Think,” recorded at the same storied hall, just five years later. The “on the one” backbeat, those heated-up horns, the slicing six-string and karate-chop grunt — James had already made his move…

“The Godfather of Soul.” “The Hardest Working Man in Show Business.” “Soul Brother Number One.” Folks don’t just hand out TNT-powerful nicknames like these. You gotta earn ’em, and ain’t nobody earned ’em like James Brown. From his dirt-poor Georgia beginnings to his proper place as the kingpin of soul, funk, and, by extension, hip-hop, Brown lived the life of ten men: doing the kind of work that makes us all look lazy; schooling Vegas in the ways of proper showmanship; giving the Black Pride Movement somebody to point to and say, “Like James did it”; inventing, reinventing, and re-reinventing the music that’s kept us locked in a cold sweat for more than half-a-century. Fact is, when he left us, on Christmas morning, we realized that his music was, and continues to be, our greatest gift of all.