Turntable Sunday: 10 Records That Showed Us Where the Pocket Lives

Every funk band is a chain letter from the records that came before it. Ours reads like a crate digger's confession. These are the ten records that taught Lubriphonic where the pocket lives — and how to make it bleed.

1. James Brown — The Payback (1973)

The lesson: space is an instrument. By the time Brown cut The Payback, he'd stripped funk down to its skeleton. Listen to the title track — the band plays less so the groove hits harder. Every rest is loaded. We learned early that what you don't play is half the grease.

2. Sly & The Family Stone — There's a Riot Goin' On (1971)

The lesson: imperfection can groove harder than polish. Sly recorded this one loose, murky, and half-drugged, and the wobbly time feel is the whole point. It taught us that a groove that breathes and stumbles a little feels more human than one that clicks to a grid. Machines keep time. People keep feel.

3. Parliament — Mothership Connection (1975)

The lesson: arrangement is architecture. Bootsy's bass sits in a different zip code than the horns, and yet it all stacks. Clinton's crew proved you can layer a funk track like a seven-layer dip — every stratum distinct, all of it one flavor. When we arrange horn charts, this record is the ghost in the room.

4. The Meters — Rejuvenation (1974)

The lesson: the second line never left. Leo Nocentelli's choppy guitar and Ziggy Modeliste's New Orleans-soaked drumming showed how deep the Crescent City runs through funk's DNA. This is the record that taught us to play behind the beat and let the groove drag its heels just enough to sweat.

5. Curtis Mayfield — Superfly (1972)

The lesson: soft and heavy can coexist. Mayfield's featherlight falsetto floating over a rhythm section moving like a freight train — that tension is a masterclass. It's how we learned that dynamics in funk aren't just loud-versus-louder. Sometimes the pocket bleeds in a whisper.

6. Earth, Wind & Fire — That's the Way of the World (1975)

The lesson: tight is a form of beautiful. Maurice White's band played with a precision that borders on frightening, but it never feels sterile. The horn voicings alone could fund a graduate program. This one taught us discipline — that a locked-in section is its own kind of soloist.

7. Stevie Wonder — Fulfillingness' First Finale (1974)

The lesson: the groove serves the song. Stevie never let a vamp run on autopilot; every bass line, every clavinet stab, every drum fill pushed the story forward. On "Boogie On Reggae Woman," the pocket isn't a vibe — it's a character. We ask ourselves that question every time we write: what is this groove saying?

8. Ohio Players — Fire (1974)

The lesson: attitude is a technique. The Players played like the whole band was leaning back with its arms crossed. That swagger — part muscle, part menace — is unteachable and absolutely essential. Grit isn't a guitar pedal. It's a posture.

9. Tower of Power — Tower of Power (1973)

The lesson: the horns are the engine, not the frosting. The East Bay crew built funk where the horn section drives the groove instead of decorating it. Their phrasing — those syncopated stabs, that punchy unison attack — rewired how we think about writing for brass. If your horns can't carry the song alone, they're not ready.

10. Vulfpeck — Thrill of the Arts (2016)

The lesson: restraint is the revival's secret weapon. The modern funk movement needed proof that the pocket could survive the streaming era, and Joe Dart's bass work delivered it in spades. Short songs. No bloat. Groove as a punchline and a punchline as a groove. It reminded a whole generation — us included — that funk doesn't need a time machine, just a metronome with soul.

The Common Thread

Ten records, four decades, one lesson repeated in different accents: the pocket is everything. You can fake a solo. You can fake an outfit. You cannot fake a band that's listening to itself. Drop the needle on any of these and hear the blueprint — then go find a room full of people and make it bleed.