I WAS FIRST exposed to Ray Charles in 1965 at age seven, when my Grandpa Henry took me to Reno, Nevada, to see the Harrah’s Car Collection antique-car show, where a vintage 16-cylinder vehicle and other automotive delights awaited us. Before the show, we spent a day off in Reno, and Grandpa Henry, being responsible and loving, made sure I was okay to be dropped off at the casino’s Kiddie Theater while he played Blackjack for a couple of hours. Today, the adventure seems like a dream, in part because the “kiddie” movie was a Ray Charles documentary that largely covered his drug use. The film featured Ray talking about heroin, including the struggles he faced as an addict. I vividly recall a scene in which a hypodermic needle was injected into an arm to demonstrate how folks shot up. Fortunately, Ray’s music was featured throughout. I liked it and saw how joyous he was when he performed. I’d never seen anything remotely like Ray Charles and the Raelettes, and I’ve never heard anything like them since. Nobody sounds like Ray Charles.