Sequins, Disco Slander, and Other Questions You Keep Sending Us

We put a question box at the merch table in Philadelphia and left the Instagram DMs open, and you people did not hold back. Our trumpet player — ten years on the road, survived a van breakdown outside Toledo, once played a wedding where the groomsmen released doves indoors — agreed to answer the best of the worst. Names withheld because some of you know who you are.

"Can I wear a sequin jumpsuit to my first funk show?"

Friend. You're not asking permission. You're asking for a blessing.

Yes. Absolutely yes. Wear the jumpsuit. Wear it like you were born in it. The only incorrect outfit at a funk show is one you're afraid to sweat in. Sequins catch the light, the light catches the horn section's attention, and if our trombone player gives you the nod from the stage, you have officially peaked for the calendar year. One rule: break them in first. Nobody wants to hear you clink through "the pocket" section like a wind chime in a hurricane.

"My uncle says disco killed funk. How do I respond?"

Ah, the Thanksgiving table debate. Here's the family-friendly version: disco didn't kill funk, disco is funk's cousin who moved to the city, got a nice apartment, and sent money home for the holidays. Same rhythm section, better shoes.

The longer version: what actually hurt funk in the late '70s was radio economics, record label consolidation, and a whole lot of people in suits deciding what Black music should sound like. Funk never died — it went underground, got a day job, and came back through hip-hop samples, boogie revivalists, and every band with a horn section playing a 300-cap room on a Tuesday. Tell your uncle the pocket is eternal and pass the gravy.

"What's actually in the green room? Be honest."

Honest answer: a couch older than the drummer, a vegetable tray nobody touches, and at least one of us doing lip slurs in the corner looking like a man trying to start a lawnmower with his face. Horn players warm up forever. It's not a vibe, it's a medical necessity — brass doesn't play itself.

There is also, invariably, a local promoter's cousin who wanders in around 9:15 asking if we need anything. We always say no. We never mean it. Bring more towels. Venues never have enough towels.

"How do I know if a band is actually funky or just playing funk songs?"

Great question, and the answer will save you money. Watch the bass player's face. A genuinely funky band has a bassist who looks mildly inconvenienced by how good the groove is — eyes half closed, head down, like the pocket is a heavy coat he's wearing in July. A band that's faking it has a bassist checking the setlist.

Second tell: the drummer and bassist make eye contact exactly once per song, and it means more than most marriages.

"Is it true horn players are the drama of the band?"

Slander. We are the finishing of the band. The rhythm section builds the house; we're the curtains, the porch light, the welcome mat. Yes, we travel with three people where guitarists travel with one. Yes, we have opinions about arrangements. Yes, our trombonist once made the van stop because someone insulted a Motown arrangement. That's not drama. That's standards.

"I've never been to a funk show. What do I do with my hands?"

Nothing. That's the beautiful part. The groove takes the hands. You'll be standing there, arms crossed, all cool and skeptical, and then the horn line hits and suddenly you're pointing at the ceiling like you're hailing a very specific taxi. Everyone does it. It's involuntary. It's how you know the music's working.

Come out to a show. Wear whatever you want — though you know our feelings on the jumpsuit. The pocket's warm and there's room for one more.