IN 2017, a documentary called On The Sly: In Search Of Sly Stone attempted to nail down some of the truths about its protagonist. A decade-long quest to find the reclusive musician, it was full of agonising near-misses and tantalising brief encounters that climaxed outside a 2005 show by Phunk Phamily Affair, led by Stone’s sister Vet, at Hollywood’s Knitting Factory club, where Sly himself, sporting a blond mohawk, pulled in driving a custom three-wheel Harley.
Such brief, random sightings were not unusual – but after a Grammys appearance in 2006, where he gave his first live performance for almost 20 years, Stone gradually came back into focus more frequently. According to his autobiography, a series of stints in hospital finally broke his debilitating drug addiction four years ago. The intervening period has found Stone restore order to his business affairs – including a deal with Michael Jackson’s publishing company, Mijac. Critically, more recently the fear, paranoia and disappointment Stone witnessed in the late ’60s and ’70s has once again gripped Black America. The pessimistic, bitter mood of There’s A Riot Goin’ On has never felt more prescient…