Cool. That’s the word. If you had to boil down the entire existence of Morris Day and The Time into a single syllable, that’s it. But it wasn't just a vibe; it was a disciplined, high-octane funk machine that arguably gave Prince his biggest run for his money. People often forget that back in the early '80s, if you were a touring act opening for The Time, you were basically walking into a buzzsaw. They were that good.
You’ve probably seen Purple Rain. You remember Morris looking into the mirror, adjusting his suit, and asking Jerome for the time. It’s iconic. But the story of the band is way messier, more competitive, and frankly more interesting than a movie script. It’s a tale of a specific neighborhood in North Minneapolis, a massive ego clash, and some of the tightest grooves ever put to tape.
The Secret Origin: It Was Always Prince
Let’s get one thing straight: The Time was a project. In 1981, Prince was blowing up, but he had all this extra creative energy. He wanted to write more music than he could release as "Prince." He needed a vehicle.
He didn't just find a random band; he built one. He took a local funk group called Flyte Tyme—which featured legends-in-the-making Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis—and retooled them. But they needed a frontman. Enter Morris Day. Morris wasn't even a singer at first; he was a drummer. He played in a band with Prince called Grand Central back in high school. Prince knew Morris had the "it" factor. He had the swagger. He had the smirk.
The deal was weird, though. Prince wrote almost everything. He played almost everything on the first record. Morris just had to show up and be the coolest guy in the room.
It worked.
Why the Live Show Changed Everything
If the records were Prince's playground, the stage belonged to the band. This is where the tension started. Morris Day and The Time became a live powerhouse that actually started to annoy Prince. Imagine being the headliner and having to follow a group that just did "777-9311."
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The musicianship was terrifying. You had Jesse Johnson on guitar, who was a monster. You had the foundation of Jam and Lewis. They practiced for hours. Days. Weeks. They were drilled like a military unit. When they hit the stage, it was choreographed, flashy, and sonically perfect.
Honestly, the chemistry was so good it was dangerous. During the 1982 Controversy tour and the 1983 1999 tour, The Time was consistently "stealing" the show. It got so heated that members of both camps were literally throwing food and insults at each other backstage. There’s a famous story about a massive food fight involving eggs and shaving cream. It sounds funny, but it was a symptom of real professional jealousy. Prince had created a monster he couldn't quite control anymore.
The Sound of 777-9311
We have to talk about the drums. If you’re a music nerd, you know that the drum beat in "777-9311" is legendary. It’s an LM-1 drum machine, but the programming is so complex and "human" that it baffled drummers for years.
That song defines the "Minneapolis Sound." It’s cold, electronic, and sparse, but the bassline is pure grease. It’s the contradiction that makes it work. While the rest of the world was doing soft rock or traditional disco, these guys were making music that felt like it was from the year 3000.
The lyrics were always playful, too. Morris wasn't singing about deep political strife. He was singing about being rich, being pretty, and having a valet named Jerome. It was theater. It was "pimp" persona before that became a tired cliché in hip-hop. He made it sophisticated.
The Breakup and the Flyte Tyme Legacy
Nothing this intense lasts. By 1983, the cracks were huge. Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis got stranded in an Atlanta blizzard while they were off producing a track for The S.O.S. Band. They missed a gig. Prince fired them.
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At the time, it felt like the end of an era. In reality, it was the start of a revolution. Jam and Lewis went on to become arguably the greatest production duo in history, crafting the sound of Janet Jackson’s Control and Rhythm Nation. They took that discipline they learned in The Time and used it to dominate the Billboard charts for two decades.
Morris eventually left too. He wanted to act. He wanted to be a solo star. The original lineup dissolved right as Purple Rain was making them the most famous band in the country. It’s one of the great "what ifs" of music history. What if they had stayed together for another three albums? We’ll never know.
The 1990 Reunion and Graffiti Bridge
They did come back, though. In 1990, the original seven members reunited for the Pandemonium album. It gave us "Jerk Out," which actually became their highest-charting single.
It proved that the chemistry wasn't a fluke. Even after years apart, when Morris, Jesse, Jimmy, and Terry got in a room, that specific funk just happened. The movie Graffiti Bridge might have been a bit of a mess, but the soundtrack segments featuring The Time were the clear highlights. They still had the mirror. They still had the moves.
The Reality of the "Battle" With Prince
There's a lot of talk about how Prince "held them back." It’s more complicated than that. Without Prince’s vision and his specific songwriting style, The Time wouldn't exist. He gave them the blueprint.
But without the band’s personality, those songs would have just been Prince B-sides. Morris Day gave the music a face. He gave it a sense of humor. Prince was often mysterious and ethereal; Morris was the guy you wanted to grab a drink with—as long as you were buying.
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The rivalry was real, but so was the respect. In the years before Prince passed, there were various reunions and performances. The Minneapolis scene was a small circle. They were family, even if they were the kind of family that fought at Thanksgiving.
How to Listen to The Time Today
If you're just getting into them, don't just stick to the hits.
- The Self-Titled Debut (1981): This is where you hear the rawest version of the sound. "Get It Up" and "Cool" are essential.
- What Time Is It? (1982): Often cited as their best work. "Gigolos Get Lonely Too" shows a rare, slightly more vulnerable side of the Morris persona.
- Ice Cream Castle (1984): The big one. "The Bird" and "Jungle Love" are the staples, but the title track is a weird, synth-heavy masterpiece.
Why It Still Matters
You hear Morris Day and The Time in everything now. You hear it in Bruno Mars. You hear it in Mark Ronson. You hear it in any artist who prioritizes "the show" as much as the music. They taught us that you can be a virtuoso musician and still have a ridiculous amount of fun.
They also represented a specific type of Black excellence in the '80s. They were sharp-dressed, business-minded, and unapologetically confident. They weren't just a "funk band"; they were a brand.
Actionable Ways to Experience the Minneapolis Sound
If you want to go deeper than just a Spotify playlist, there are a few things you should actually do to understand why this band is a cornerstone of American music.
- Watch the 1982 Houston Concert: There is footage floating around of the Controversy tour. Watch The Time’s set. It is a lesson in stage presence. Look at how they move as a single unit.
- Study the "Jungle Love" Bassline: If you’re a musician, try to play it. It sounds simple, but the "pocket"—the timing—is incredibly difficult to replicate. It’s about what you don't play.
- Check out Jesse Johnson’s Solo Work: To understand the guitar side of the band, listen to Jesse’s album Shockadelica. It shows how much of the band's "edge" came from his fingers.
- Visit First Avenue: If you’re ever in Minneapolis, go to the club where Purple Rain was filmed. The stars on the outside of the building commemorate the legends of the city. You’ll see The Time right there where they belong.
The legacy isn't just about nostalgia. It's about a standard of performance that rarely exists anymore. Every time Morris asks, "What time is it?" and the crowd screams back, it's a reminder that real funk never actually goes out of style. It just waits for the next person to check their watch.