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voice that can be heard on There's a Riot Goin' On." The reviewer (and many others who witnessed him that year) felt particularly touched by Sly's "slithery" invocation of "If You Want Me to Stay," "which sounded more bittersweet than ever: Count the days I'm gone /Forget reaching me by phone / Because I promise I'll be gone for a while." During "Sing a Simple Song," Sly excused himself from the stage, saying he had to urinate, an urgency he'd expressed frequently on recent tours. Rumor had it that this was code for a drug break, but Neal Austinson, serving as road manager in New York, says that in truth Sly was seeking time to go stretch out in his dressing room, to regain his stamina. He did indeed seem shaky on both entrances and exits, in New York and elsewhere. And his apparent physical vulnerability, along with sometime uncertain coordination with his pick-up bands, rendered Sly's comeback less certain than others in the same year by the formerly acrimonious reggae-rockers the Police, the revamped Van Halen, and the once-wild Led Zeppelin. Agent Steve Green, fielding some offers on Sly's behalf, assured uncertain bookers and a Reuters reporter, "He can do it, but he's got to want to do it."

Looking back now on 2007, Sly believes his audiences "can tell that I'm not satisfied, by the way I walk off the stage. I do what I have to do, but I'm not satisfied, 'cause I'm not dealing with the people I will be dealing with in the near future.... Because it's money, we need more money to prepare. Then I'll get the people who are supposed to be there."

In song, Sly promised he'd be gone for a while, and he was. There are a lot of people who want him back, if only he wants it. "Now is the time to let your light shine," David Kapralik advises his former client, and he then applies some other memorable lyrics: "You can make it if you try. Are you ready?"

Afte rwo rd

N FEBRUARY 2008, A LITTLE OVER a year after my first interview with Sly and several months after submitting the first draft of this book, I found myself summoned back to the wine country mansion that had become Sly's haven, workplace, and crash pad for such occasional old friends and partners in crime as George Clinton. Once again, the stalwart Neal Austinson rode shotgun with me through the hills of Northern California and provided an opportunity to reflect not only on what was happening with his friend Sly but also on the short- and long-term impact of the Family Stone's legacy.

We talked about how the Family Stone had been funky enough for Harlem and Watts, and trippy enough for the Haight-Ashbury. The band had also demonstrated that rock outfits could ride a hip groove, and that grooving dance bands could have the autonomous individuality of a rock outfit. The Family Stone could as easily generate good vibes in dance clubs and bedrooms as enthrall thousands at live concerts.

Part of Sly's power as songwriter had flowed through his lyrics, conveying politically and culturally cogent messages without being polemical, and thus clearing the way for forthright free-speechers, all the way up to Public Enemy and Tupac Shakur. Then there were the melodies and arrangements, in which Sly could position as many as five singing voices over a foundation of drum and bass, elaborated by guitar and horns and decorated with shouts, scats, and occasional electronic effects. This had served up a delicious alternative to power trios and hard-rocking quartets. And in resurrected form today on reissued recordings and by spin-off bands, it continued to put the shame to music manipulated through sound samples, synthesizers, and advanced computer programs.

When Neal and I arrived at Sly's place, we found he was already being visited by another long-time acquaintance, Charles Richardson. Charles had shot and produced documentaries for the History Channel and elsewhere and was very savvy about computers and their creative potential for music making, as well as about record production. He'd helped Sly and the recently visiting George Clinton lay down some tracks, and was hoping