If I were to mention “Funky Drummer,” you might furrow your brow in unrecognition, or you might be trying to decipher what combination of sounds could warrant the title. Is the drummer funky because he smells weird? Or is it a nod to his unparalleled groove? Chances are, you wouldn’t recognize the track’s appeal or mid–20th century cultural significance, nor would you be familiar with its creator. In the hip–hop world, the eccentric James Brown is widely considered to be the most sampled artist of all time. Alongside iconic hits like “Funky President (People It’s Bad)” and “Get Up Offa That Thing,” he penned “Funky Drummer” during a successful career that spanned the ‘60s and ‘70s. But if you’re just not cool enough to keep up with Nixon–era disco, chances are you are familiar with its borrowers.
Kendrick Lamar’s “XXX.,” Dr. Dre’s “Let Me Ride,” and “3005” by Childish Gambino all hail from the three aforementioned, oddly named tunes. Brown’s work has been spitting inspiration into the music of modern artists since the ‘90s. It’s a hefty legacy, and I wonder: If you were to ask this personality what he thought of his recycled melodies, what would he say? Would he feel cheated out of a half century of musical finesse and creativity, or would he smile at his influence and feel appreciated? There’s no real way to know. (Though realistically, he’d probably throw up his arms in signature style, donning a sequined jumpsuit, and tell you he couldn’t care less. What a guy.)
Love in the “age” of sampling might best be understood as a kind of musical flattery, though its gesture can mean many things. Even “age” is a rocky description. Early remix culture dates back to the early ‘80s, when Fairlight users like Kate Bush and Peter Gabriel gave popular music of the time that fuzzy, sparkling, glimmering sound we associate with late–20th century production. Their techniques turned to MPC mixes and built the blocks for the cut–up nature of sample–ridden genres. It was an inclusive gesture, and suddenly, elaborate tracks could be formed, preserving longer passages of music within new tunes, by artists without studios or formal music knowledge.
But regardless of what Brown would think, sampling as a legitimate (or fair) form of musical expression remains some topic of debate. This is especially true when we consider the electronic and hip–hop industries, which, having embraced the modern audio sample, have become an easy target for critics. It begs the question: Is sampling a rejection of novelty or the greatest contemporary love letter? The less tolerant might stick up their nose at the trying and taking of sound from older creative work. They couldn’t be more incorrect. In truth, it’s an art form in itself—a springboard, an homage to musical trailblazers.
And it’s not only flattery that justifies. Sure, there’s a way to write off sampling as inspiration—a reusing and recycling so as to introduce the audience to timeless melodies and leverage the work to support a novel production. There’s another way of looking at things, one that considers the delicate relativity of artistic creation. Musical interpretation is a crucial form of musical understanding, generally. By interpreting the music, we internalize it and imbue it with our own expression and meaning. Sampling, as a rule, makes space for that alternative interpretation: using recordings as raw material for new expression.
Sure, Beyonce’s (conveniently titled) 2022 album RENAISSANCE was an homage to the plethora of progenitors she collaborated with, from Taylor Swift to Right Said Fred—their 1991 hit “I’m Too Sexy” interpolated on “ALIEN SUPERSTAR.” At first glance, the level of collaboration might make the record seem like the ultimate catch–all. In reality, something magical happens when you cross dancehall with Jersey club; dembow with deep house. The record, described as a “musical lair, a danceteria devoted to hedonism, sex and, most importantly, self-worth” by USA Today—which should tell you everything you need to know—doesn’t hail too far from the same mesh of electro hip–hop on “Fergalicious.” Because, let’s be honest, that’s way better than the 3000 songs it samples from. In similar fashion, Mario Winans said “eff it” when he formed “I Don’t Wanna Know,” because what else could have been the rationale behind inserting new–age Gaelic behind one of the most belt–worthy soul ballads of the early 2000s? It’s done so with a level of finesse and creativity that makes it stand on its own two feet.
Rather than viewing a track’s familiarity as a creative constant, sampling producers use it as a vector for new emotional associations. What’s clear is this: Brown’s sound didn’t just survive to see the music landscape of today’s world—it evolved. Blues–funk turned to end–of–century R&B to techno. And as we stand against a wall of critique and bitter accusation, the successes tell us everything we know: It was never about reusing. It wasn’t even about revival. It’s about repurposing.
