It’s a real American moment out there: battle lines drawn, tear gas drifting, charity and gentleness on their heels. Turn inward, inside ourselves, and it looks even worse, the mind’s landscape pocked and blackened with destruction. Can somebody please bring the beautiful music, to carry us up and out?
Someone like Sly Stone, who died on Monday at the age of 82. Sly was a born transcender, a natural synthesizer of situations, a raiser of elements to their highest state of possibility. Black, white; R&B, rock; politics, carnival; great taste, screaming excess; heaven and Earth: He put it all together. On a tight curve of musical euphoria, he led his people—which was everybody, or so he claimed—out of conflict. The opposing force was in him too, equally strong as it turned out: drag, downwardness, drugs, isolation. Who in the world would ever have the power to shut him down? Only Sly himself. It’s remarkable that he lived as long as he did.
But in his glorious and self-consuming prime—’68 to ’71, roughly—he harmonized the energies that were tearing and would continue to tear this country to pieces. Dangerous work, highly exposed, but he made it look like a party. And in the floating jubilee that was his band, the Family Stone, he gave America a vision of itself: racially and emotionally integrated, celestially oriented, if not healed then at least open to healing.
What to listen to, right now, as you’re reading this? You could start with 1969’s “Stand!” A circus crash of cymbal, a burlesque snare roll, and away we go: “Stand, in the end, you’ll still be you / One that’s done all the things you set out to do.” The vocals are airy, haughtily enunciated in the high hippie style, and embellished with happy trills; the melody chugs along with a nursery-rhyme simplicity that is somehow underwired by knowingness: innocence and experience conjoined. (The Beatles were very good at this too, but Sly’s true peer in this area, oddly, was a later songwriter: Kurt Cobain.) And the lyrics are classic Sly: a pinch of psychedelic double-talk—“You have you to complete and there is no deal”—and an ounce of street knowledge.
The song rises and falls, jogging on the spot as it were, but with a building gospel crescendo of a half-chorus—“Stand! Stand! Stand!”—that seems to presage or demand release. And release is granted, unforgettably. It comes out of nowhere, with less than a minute of music left: a sudden loop of chiming, uplifted, militant, and taut-nerved funk, resolving/unresolving, tension and deliverance together, guitars locked; the drummer, Greg Errico, is thrashing out an ecstatic double-time pattern on his hi-hat (and doing it, if you watch the live footage, with one hand).
From “Stand!” you might go to 1970’s “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin).” Everything in America is one year worse, one year more violent and bummed-out, and although the music stays celebratory (with a finger-popping bass line from Larry Graham that famously invented the next two decades of funk playing), lyrically, Sly is darkening: “Lookin’ at the devil / Grinnin’ at his gun / Fingers start shakin’ / I begin to run.” He quotes himself, his own (very recent) hits, his own nostrums of positivity, in a charred-by-time kind of way, “Different strokes for different folks” right next to a new observation, “Flamin’ eyes of people fear burnin’ into you.” We’re on course here for the Sly-in-ruins of 1971’s There’s a Riot Goin’ On, his woozy sayonara to the years of greatness. Druggy and drum-machined, with a rippling American flag on the cover, Riot is the album that most directly connects him to the present situation.
Decades of obscurity followed—which is a cliché, but he lived it, as durably and intensely as he had lived the cliché of superstardom. “The pure products of America go crazy,” as William Carlos Williams said. And now he’s left us, when once again brutality is massing behind its shields, and once again compassion has acquired the nobility of true folly. All very familiar to Sly the avatar. I can’t stop thinking about these lines from “Stand!,” so wistfully prophetic, so half-encouraging, so dead-on predictive of our mass retreat into the space behind our eyes: “Stand, don’t you know that you are free / Well, at least in your mind if you want to be.”
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