First, a sigh of exasperated relief--exasperation because it's taken a needlessly long time to get Sly and the Family Stone's catalog remastered and properly reissued. From the band's 1967 debut,
A Whole New Thing through their 1974 swan song,
Small Talk, the shifting band indulged everything from the long horn lines, fast rhythms, and quickly unmistakable urgent delivery of "Turn Me Loose," with its rapid, jerking funk rhythms and quick, sharp horn blasts, to the chilled groove, string backing, and slinky guitar on "Say You Will."
In between there's an embarrassment of riches: The 1968 one-two punch of Dance to the Music's title track and "Higher" introduces a gleaming exuberance; everyone wants to get higher and dance, but slowly the tune titles and funky whimsy of tunes like "Chicken," "Love City," "Fun," and the sheer musical cheer of "Harmony," show that Sly's bridge from hard-hitting funk riffage to more rock, more pop got mixed up with significantly new commercial heights (and larger narcotic appetites) and, simultaneously, more instability and simmering fury. By 1969, Sly's newness was transformed, with Stand!'s "Don't Call Me Nigger, Whitey" snarl and droning organ and wah-wah guitar aplenty. The full-on blast of harmonica, fuzz guitars, and horns that opens "I Want to Take You Higher" just cemented the claim: Music would unite and fight and kick and get you high. The mega-hit "Everyday People" almost seems an anomaly in this company, a breezy harmony vocal backing, simple piano framing, reaching horn lines, and a churchy chorus. It's the biggest hit here, a true pop gem. Then there's "Sing a Simple Song" and its scouring, wordless shouts, a heavy beat backed by multiple voices half-atop each other, horn riffs jetting across guitar riffs, and an abrupt, scrambling end. It's a tight and tough embrace, an open door. It's 1969.
Then a dystopian haze turns full-force for There's a Riot Goin' On. By 1971, Sly had his Hollywood mansion and legions of droppers-by laying down parts of Riot. The result is entrancing, backed often by an austere, early drum machine and featuring dope-glazed vocals, paranoid shadows and, of course, a stewing funk groove. Horns are here, thinned out so they jab harder, and the keyboards gleam and shimmer and icily coat the beats, which sound in today's parlance simply lo-fi. And the beats, they've slowed menacingly, with voices dropping in, dropping out. Drugs were flowing freely by this point, complicating Sly's sound, inadvertently making an album that matches its maker's psyche-in-time indelibly. Once 1973's Fresh emerges, the austere, haunted glaze happens beneath slow-stewing grooves, as on the seemingly frivolous "Frisky," where the drums and keys and horns are enmeshed tightly, showing barely any sonic separation. The great bassist Larry Graham had left the Family by now, replaced by Rusty Allen, whose bass pops up as framing, while the vocals go lean and languid, turning to moans and melismatic blurs as the groove stirs. "If You Want Me to Stay" is a highlight, and the album is deeply funky even while reaching across the divide toward pop (rather than the '60s albums bridges to psychedelic rock, which proved itself pragmatically limited for the more intensely rebellious public as the Vietnam War and Watergate sent long social shadows).
As for Small Talk, it's the least ambitious, most settled session. The sounds are gorgeous in the new remastered form, making a new case for Small as a worthy bookend on your Sly shelf. Yes, he burned brighter and hotter and more furiously. It's still the same nervy mix, dramatic and intense. --Andrew Bartlett
