The Legend of the Funky Drummer
[Note: the essay is best enjoyed with this song playing in the background]
No one wanted to play that day. Clyde Stubblefield just wanted to get some sleep. In a bed.
November 20, 1969. Clyde is the drummer in James Brown’s infamous band. He’s 26 years old. Coming from a gig the night before, Clyde and his bandmates were understandably tired when the bus rolled up at sunrise to King Studios in Cincinnati, Ohio. No one was really looking forward to spending the day recording. The record label needed another single to ship, so James mobilized his players for a jam.
Not a single musician on the bus that sleepy Thursday morning had any idea they were about to create one of the most iconic songs in the history of pop music.
We can only imagine the fatigue in the players’ bones as James signaled for more show time. Clyde’s arms and hands probably ached from the previous shows — physically demanding performances that required the highest levels mental focus and precision.
Without any written music or even much of a plan, these ten grumpy people watched the red recording light flicker on. Then the count. Then a tight, jazzy, sketchy riff.
James shout-sings over the brewing groove:
“Come back, cover
Shades, good God
It’s a raid
Cut off the lights
And call the law…”
The rhythm develops. Clyde experiments with patterns of cymbal, snare and bass drum. The horns explore the offbeats. Guitar paints the edges. Organ climbs the walls. Bass bumps the floor.
Then James hears it.
The first hint of that almighty groove. That proto iconic miracle of a beat.
James:
“One more time
I wanna give the drummer
Some of this funky soul
We got here
You don’t have to do
No song, brother
Just keep what you got
Don’t turn it loose
Cause it’s a mother…”
Clyde focuses the beat. The band is ready to shift its attack to make more space for the drums. They can sense the magic radiating from Clyde’s body.
James:
“When I count to four
I want everybody to lay off
Let the drummer go
When I count to four
I want you to come back in…”
Eye contact. Non-verbal confirmation. They’re so close.
Then “One, two, three, four! Get it! Ain’t it funky!”
At the 5:22 mark a beat so perfect, so urgent, so simple, so nuanced, so powerful. It became one of the ryhthmic foundations of hip hop. To date, at least 1,422 songs feature a sample of that beat.
Hits like:
Public Enemy — Fight the Power
De La Soul — Three Is A Magic Number (1989)
LL CoolJ — Mama Said Knock You Out/The Boomin’ System (1990)
Sinead O’Connor — I Am Stretched On Your Grave (1990)
We can learn a lot about making collaborative musical art from this story.
1. The players listen to the others as much as they listen to themselves.
Each note decorates a speck of time. And notes decorate someone else’s notes. Notes decorate beats. The music is fluid because the musicians are choosing what and when to play deliberately, relative to the other sounds and rhythm they perceive in the mix. They are saying “and this” to each other musically.
2. The players make space in the mix by laying out at the right time.
The French writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said, “Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.” Silence is as much of a tool and musical building block as the scale and chord. James Brown used 19 seconds of silence to create a sonic spotlight for the drums.
3. The players had the courage to experiment and explore.
No one sat down at a desk and scripted the “The Funky Drummer.” There was no master plan or outline. James did not dictate the beat to Clyde in advance. Rather, the rhythm emerged organically from the spirit of creating something new from familiar materials.
It can be helpful to ask ourselves some questions as we collabrate with other musical people and jam:
Am I also deeply listening to what my partners are playing?
How can I elevate what I hear them playing with my own sounds?
How can I use space and silence in my creative process?
How can I say “yes, and” to overcome moments of uncertainty?
