Today, Sly Stone passed away. And the world doesn’t sound the same.
They’ll write the obituaries. They’ll tell you about the hits—Everyday People, Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin) If You Want Me to Stay—and they’ll remind you that Sly and the Family Stone broke barriers: Black and white, male and female, gospel and funk, radical and joyful. But the truth is, you can’t really write Sly down. You have to feel him. You have to let the bassline wrap around your ribs, and the distortion melts into the marrow of your spine. You have to live inside the chaos of his sound to understand what he meant.
Because Sly didn’t just make music. He reshaped it. He cracked it open and poured revolution into it.
Before Prince danced across purple stages in high-heeled boots, before he blurred gender and genius in a swirl of falsetto and fire, there was Sly—funk’s wild architect. The Black man with a perm and a prophet’s pen, who wrote soul anthems that doubled as sermons, who saw the future and tried to drag the rest of us toward it, even as it tore at him. Prince stood on the edge of the genre. Sly obliterated it. Rock, soul, funk, psychedelia—he didn’t choose. He claimed them all.
But unlike Prince, Sly never won the war for his music.
While Prince famously scribbled “slave” on his cheek and fought Warner Bros. in the spotlight, Sly’s battle was quieter and crueler. He lost ownership of his music early and, with it, a piece of himself. The industry chewed him up like it’s done to so many brilliant Black creators—those who saw something holy in rhythm and melody, only to be left with shadows and unpaid royalties.
And then there were the drugs.
Sly fought them like a man wading through water that got deeper with every step. Cocaine, PCP, the ghosts of genius, and pressure and pain. His band fell apart. His voice changed. The clarity in his music faded. And yet… even in the haze, there were sparks. Small Talk. High on You. I heard, ‘Ya Missed Me; Well, I’m Back.‘ But the world had already started turning its head, already writing him off. And that is the tragedy. Because Sly Stone never stopped being brilliant—he just stopped being what the world wanted brilliance to look like.
We’ve lost so many of our giants this way.
Lost them not just in death but in the way they were discarded while alive. Donny, Curtis, Rick, Whitney, MJ, Aretha, and now Sly. Black music—our music, foundational Black American music—has always been the soul of this nation. And yet, it’s often treated like a trend: celebrated, consumed, and forgotten. Those artists built the walls of American sound. Brick by brick. Note by note. And now, those walls feel emptier.
So I ask: Who carries the torch now?
Who sings not just with talent but with conviction? Who dares to blend funk and message, to stand against the industry instead of smiling for the cover photo? Who speaks truth to power in rhythm and melody and lets their voice sound imperfect, urgent, and human?
I’m not sure if the next Sly is out there. Maybe we should stop looking for replacements and start remembering the ones we lost—fully. Honestly. Mess and all.
Sly Stone was more than a funk legend. He was a sound—a movement trapped in vinyl, a spirit screaming through wah-wah pedals and gospel-soaked harmonies. He was the bridge between chaos and groove, between revolution and radio. And today, that bridge is gone.
Rest in Peace, Brother Sly.
You never needed permission to change the world.
You just did it.
By Kyle J. Hayes
Please Like, comment, and subscribe.
Salt,Ink, & Soul 