Before they were the high-energy superstars taking over the stage at Woodstock, Sly and the Family Stone were basically a radical experiment in a basement. It was 1967. Most bands were still neatly segregated by race and gender, but Sly Stone—born Sylvester Stewart—wasn't interested in that. He wanted something loud, messy, and technically brilliant. That brings us to Sly and the Family Stone A Whole New Thing, an album that lives up to its name in the most literal, frustrating, and eventually influential way possible.
People usually start the Sly conversation with Stand! or the dark, drug-fueled brilliance of There’s a Riot Goin’ On. That makes sense because those records were hits. But if you really want to understand where the blueprint for modern funk came from, you have to look at this debut. It’s a weird record. It’s stiff in some places and wildly loose in others. Honestly, when it first dropped on Epic Records, it flopped. Hard.
Why Nobody Knew What to Do With This Sound
The music industry in the late sixties loved boxes. You were either a "race music" R&B act or a psych-rock band. Sly and the Family Stone A Whole New Thing refused to sit still. You had Larry Graham’s thumping bass, which wasn't quite "slapping" yet but was getting there, and then you had Greg Errico’s drumming, which felt more like a rock pulse than a standard Motown beat.
The album opens with "Underdog," and immediately, you hear it. The horn lines are jagged. The tempo shifts are jarring. It’s not a "dance" track in the way people expected in '67. It’s sophisticated, almost like jazz-fusion hiding inside a pop song. Clive Davis, who was heading Epic at the time, famously told Sly that the music was too complex. He wanted something more accessible. He wasn't necessarily wrong from a business perspective—the public just didn't get it yet.
Sly was a disc jockey in the Bay Area before this. He knew how to program a hit. He knew exactly what the "Formula" was. The fact that he chose to ignore it for his debut says everything about his headspace. He was trying to prove that a multi-racial, mixed-gender band could play high-concept music that still had soul.
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The Tracks That Defined the Experiment
"If This Room Could Talk" is a perfect example of why this album is a fascinating mess. It’s frantic. The vocals are layered in a way that feels like a conversation you're eavesdropping on at a crowded party. It’s chaotic, but if you listen to the rhythmic interplay between Freddie Stone’s guitar and Jerry Martini’s saxophone, you see the gears turning. They were building a machine that hadn't been invented yet.
Then you have "Run, Run, Run." It’s probably the closest thing to a "hit" on the record, but even it feels a bit off-kilter.
There’s a specific kind of tension in these songs. Unlike the fluid, effortless groove of "Everyday People" which would come later, Sly and the Family Stone A Whole New Thing feels like a band trying to break out of their own skin. They’re playing harder than they need to. They’re showing off. Rose Stone’s piano work and Cynthia Robinson’s piercing trumpet aren't just background noise; they are aggressive melodic leads.
Breaking Down the Vocal Style
One of the most radical things about this debut was the lack of a "lead singer." Sure, Sly was the architect, but the microphones were shared. You’d have Larry Graham’s deep baritone followed by Rose’s gospel-inflected power, then Sly’s raspy, melodic shouting. This "communal vocal" approach was revolutionary. It suggested that the band was a democracy, even if Sly was secretly the one calling all the shots in the studio.
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The Epic Records Conflict and the Pivot to Funk
It’s no secret that the suits at the label were sweating. They had invested in this group and the returns were dismal. The feedback was consistent: "This is too cerebral." "Where is the hook?"
Sly listened.
He didn't just ignore the criticism; he weaponized it. After the commercial failure of Sly and the Family Stone A Whole New Thing, he went back to the drawing board and came out with "Dance to the Music." That track was a direct response to the label's demands for something simpler. It literally tells the audience what the instruments are doing while they’re doing it. It was a massive success, but many purists argue that the raw, uncompromising DNA of the band is actually better preserved on the first album.
If you go back and listen to the 2007 limited edition reissues or the digital remasters, the crispness of the production is actually startling. For a 1967 recording, it sounds incredibly modern. The separation of the instruments is clear. It doesn't have that "muddy" wall of sound that many R&B records of the era suffered from. Sly was a perfectionist in the booth, often staying up for days to get the mix right.
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Why It Still Matters in the 2020s
You can hear the ghost of this album in almost everything Prince ever did. You hear it in OutKast. You hear it in Janelle Monáe. The idea that a pop record can be "difficult" and "fun" at the same time started here.
Most people think funk started with James Brown. And look, James Brown invented the "One"—that heavy emphasis on the first beat. But Sly and the Family Stone added the "everything else." They added the rock textures, the psychedelic flourishes, and the social commentary that wasn't just about "feeling good" but about "being together."
Sly and the Family Stone A Whole New Thing was a failure by the charts, but a triumph of engineering. It proved that the Bay Area sound wasn't just hippie folk or heavy psych; it was a melting pot of every genre available.
Actionable Steps for the Modern Listener
To truly appreciate this album, don't just put it on as background music while you're cleaning the house. It’s too jittery for that.
- A/B the Evolution: Listen to "Underdog" from this album and then immediately play "I Want to Take You Higher" from Stand!. You’ll hear the exact moment where the band stops thinking and starts feeling.
- Focus on the Bass: Larry Graham isn't just playing notes; he's playing percussion. If you're a musician, try to isolate his lines in "That Kind of Person." It’s a masterclass in syncopation.
- Check the Lyrics: Sly’s lyrics on this record are surprisingly cynical for 1967. While everyone else was singing about the Summer of Love, Sly was singing about "The Underdog." He was already looking at the cracks in the American dream.
- Hunt for the Mono Mix: If you can find the original mono mix of the album, grab it. The stereo mixes of the late sixties often panned instruments in weird ways that lose the "punch" of the rhythm section. The mono version hits much harder.
This isn't an album for someone who wants "easy" music. It’s an album for someone who wants to hear the sound of a revolution being born in real-time, mistakes and all. It wasn't just a whole new thing for Sly; it was a whole new thing for the entire landscape of American music.
Explore the track "I Cannot Make It" to see how they handled a traditional ballad structure and then completely dismantled it with weird timing. It’s these small, daring choices that make the record a foundational text for anyone serious about the history of soul and rock fusion.