New Voices,

Old Souls:

The Return of the

Funk

Since the apex of soul music in the '70s, fans of the genre have witnessed the decline - for the most part - of home-cooked, emotionally unsparing original work and the rise of producer-driven, seemingly machine-tooled acts that have scored on the charts but not in our hearts. The great soul artists who rose to prominence a few decades back (Al Green, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Sly Stone, Curtis Mayfield, George Clinton) didn't just have hits; they had signatures. With the exception of Prince, virtually no one in the last twenty years has taken up the challenge set down by these extraordinary creators.

Instead, we saw a slew of well-manicured divas with athletic chops pounding relatively flavorless material into dust with their melismatics and acrobatics. We saw male vocal groups with a freeze-dried take on the doo-wop tradition; their meticulously arranged harmonies never quite concealed a sense that there was no there there.

What was missing? Funk.

Generally defined in terms of spacious, butt-moving grooves, "funk" at its core refers to its origins in the earthy stink of a gyrating crowd, the smell of sex, sweat and other bodily imperatives. In other words, life. From the salacious bark of cathouse jazz in the twenties through the Purple One's boudoir odysseys, this musical tradition has always built itself upon - and subsequently evoked - a pungent, intoxicatingly authentic aroma. Sadly, what passed for soul in much of the recent past was odorless or, at best, had the pastel-chemical savor of bathroom deodorant. It was penthouse wallpaper, shopping-mall funk.

Perhaps no better illustration is required than the VH1 "Divas Live" concert, during which a handful of superstar vocalists struggled to hold their ground while sharing a stage with a real diva, Aretha Franklin. These scrupulously coiffed sirens, for all their note-stretching and churchifying, couldn't hold a candle to Lady Soul. She has a signature - they're tracing. In short, Aretha wiped the floor with them and obviously enjoyed doing so. For all the smiles and hugs at the night's end, a few of those "divas" probably wanted to climb into a hole.

The funk was everywhere on the classic records, whether in the punishing dance-floor workouts and acid-freakout excursions of Clinton's Parliament-Funkadelic factory, Green's aching Memphis soliloquies, Gaye's searching epics, Mayfield's orchestral, sweepingly cinematic sermons or Sly's clear-eyed but relentlessly humanistic anthems.

Happily, it appears to be back.

Although the charts are still full of formulaic R&B-derived pabulum, the last few years have seen a return of the real shit. Witness the arrival of "signature" artists like Maxwell, D'Angelo, Erykah Badu, Lauryn Hill and Macy Gray; taking unapologetic inspiration in the great soul records of the past, they build on the tradition and are crafting an arresting, ever-changing hybrid of funk, jazz and hip-hop. And like the masters of the previous era, it's music with a vibrant inner life.

Even more encouraging is the growth of this trend, as evidenced by the arrival of another wave of intriguing, original soul artists. Arista's Angie Stone, whose debut album, "Black Diamond," didn't achieve nearly the recognition it deserved, is one to watch. At an Arista confab a while back, a slew of the label's R&B acts shared the stage with Prince, who signed a one-off deal with the company; most of them were almost as humiliated as the puffed-up popsters felled by Aretha. But Prince was blown away by Angie, who can throw down in almost any musical context. "Black Diamond" drips with sensuality and compassion, and it has the ambition and sweep of the great R&B albums that clearly inspired it.

The band Lucy Pearl features vocalist Dawn Robinson (formerly of En Vogue), Tony Toni Toné mastermind Raphael Saadiq and ex-A Tribe Called Quest DJ Ali, and attempts to fuse hip-hop style with the infectious soul-pop sensibility of Sly and the Family Stone. While not consistently brilliant, the group's debut boasts some outstanding tracks and an effervescent chemistry that presages wonderful things to come. Key selections: the singles "Dance Tonight" and "Don't Mess with My Man."

Jill Scott's first effort, "Who Is Jill Scott? Words And Sounds Vol. 1" (Hidden Beach Recordings/Sony), displays a similar ambition and versatility, building evocative soundscapes and jazzy poetry atop seductive grooves. This music invites you in rather than trying to sell you something. Rather than serving up a coy come-on, it delves into the mystery, delight and difficulty of sex. Rather than crafting a soundbite passing for attitude, it risks real honesty. In short, it has a signature. Scott has come up with a distinctive debut - she could well achieve greatness down the line. Some music-biz insiders have her pegged as a superstar.

There's good money on a similar fate for newcomer Lina, whose Atlantic Records debut is forthcoming. It's rare nowadays to encounter a vocalist who inspires the word "beguiling," but this singer's quasi-operatic yet gutsy delivery is unlike anything heard in the genre before. Musically, the five tracks being circulated by the label as a preview suggest an otherworldly combination of early jazz, hip-hop and electronica (influences as diverse as Ellington, Bjork, Shek'spere and Portishead are discernible but never overwhelming). It's a thrillingly sophisticated and unpredictable mix, and Lina's voice is by turns bell-like, girlish and gritty as the situation demands. Again, there's a signature here - and a promise of brilliant growth.

Maybe it's a short-lived trend that will be defeated by the crushing economics of the music business. But for the time being, it appears the funk has made its way out of exile. Smells good.

--Simon Glickman