"Zodico Stomp" (Clifton Chenier)

Opelousas, LA-born Clifton Chenier was one of the originators of what came to be known as Zydeco music.  Actually, depending upon whom you ask in southern Louisiana, they'll say the flamboyant, cape-wearing performer invented it outright and also coined the term, making him the undisputed "King of Zydeco."  
Most music historians out there seem to contend that Zydeco (the term) comes from the Cajun French pronunciation of the phrase, "Les haricots sont pas sales," which translates to: "The snap beans aren't salty."  Taken literally, it means one is too poor to afford salt to season their beans; idiomatically, it means one doesn't have juicy gossip to share.
Zydeco (the music) is a blend of traditional Cajun music (think: accordions and washboards), blues, and R&B, and it is tailor made for dancing.
Chenier got his start playing music in the late 40s, gigging around with his brother by night while working as a truck driver for the oil and gas industry by day.  After recording a couple of singles for a small regional label, he landed a deal with Specialty Records in 1955 and cut several sides with the producer who brought Little Richard to fame, Robert "Bumps" Blackwell.  Chenier scored an R&B hit with his rendition of the Professor Longhair song "Eh, Petite Fille (Hey, Little Girl)," but Blackwell couldn't help him strike gold twice.  Although Chenier gained nationwide recognition after documentary filmmaker Les Blank made a film about him, called Hot Pepper (1973), he largely remained a celebrity in his home state until his death in 1987.
And while "Eh, Petite Fille" is a great song, I prefer the track "Zodico Stomp"—an instrumental that was recorded for Specialty around the same time.
"Zodico Stomp" feels so off the cuff, my guess would be that Chenier and his band just started jamming while tapes were rolling, and this unhinged, rock & roll-flavored number was the result.  
Everything on this track swings like crazy—especially those drums and Chenier's accordion.  (Who would've thought that an instrument associated with polkas and French art films could rock this hard?)  
It's everything that came to be known as Zydeco, distilled into 2 fiery minutes.

"Cissy Strut" (The Meters)

"Cissy Strut" (1969) is the kind of song that bar bands love to cover but never get quite right.  They just never find "the pocket."  And this song is all about that pocket.
That's why I have to go right to discussing Zigaboo Modeliste's drumming.  Everything he's doing on this track is straight from New Orleans second lines.  He's essentially playing all of the parts that four separate drummers would be playing, using all four limbs to keep time, kick the downbeat, and squeeze the funk out of all of those syncopated 16th notes in between.  He's his own damn marching band.
But, then again, every element of this song—Modeliste's drums, Art Neville's organ, Leo Nocentelli's guitar, and George Porter, Jr.'s smooth-as-Crisco bass—shows that The Meters were not only funk pioneers but also consummate musicians in the New Orleans tradition.  By that, I mean these dudes knew how to listen to each other.  Everyone is doing his own rhythmically complex thing, yet there's this sense of movement as a single unit.  Even when somebody steps into the spotlight to riff or solo, he inherently knows how and when to fall back in step.  (It's that second line sensibility again.)
It's little wonder why famed New Orleans producer Allen Toussaint plucked The Meters out of The Ivanhoe Club in the French Quarter in 1968 and made them the official backing band of his production company, placing them behind artists like Lee Dorsey and Betty Harris before launching them into stardom with this influential track.

"Water No Get Enemy" (Femi Kuti feat. D'Angelo & Macy Gray)

I’d heard the track “Water No Get Enemy” years ago on a 2002 compilation called Red Hot + Riot, one of the Red Hot organization’s AIDS benefit albums, and I only recently stumbled upon it again. 
This version by Afro-beat artist Femi Kuti, backed by (check out this lineup) D’Angelo, Macy Gray, James Poyser, Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson, Nile Rodgers, and Roy Hargrove, is one of the funkiest things that has been put to tape in the new millennium.
But what I love about this groove is that it gives you something for your feet and your brain.
The song originally was written/performed by Kuti’s father, groundbreaking Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti, who invented the Afro-beat genre by blending his affection for the funk of James Brown with African and Latin rhythms.
Fela was a controversial, charismatic figure and a hero to the disenfranchised, especially in Nigeria.  He vehemently and frequently spoke out about social injustices and government corruption through his music, which made him a target.  
The album on which “Water No Get Enemy” first appeared was irreverently titled Expensive Shit—an allusion to a 1975 incident where police attempted to arrest Kuti and plant a joint on him.  Thing was, Kuti immediately knew what was transpiring and promptly ate the marijuana to destroy the evidence.  Refusing defeat, the police decided to let him stay in jail and wait until the evidence was (eh-hem) “processed.”  A couple of days later, police found no trace of the weed in the stool sample they'd collected, so they had to drop the charges and let Kuti go.  Thing is, they only thought they had Kuti’s sample; it actually was his cellmate’s poop.  (They pulled a “dookie switcharoo,” you might say.)
Anyway, after the fact, Kuti found the bungled attempt to silence him hilarious; the image of the Nigerian police spending their time rummaging through some random inmate's crap instead of protecting and serving inspired the album’s title. 
But, back to the song at hand.
"Water No Get Enemy" is—in the literal sense—a plea for potable water for Nigeria’s people.  The lyrics point out that, on a basic, molecular level, everyone needs and deserves clean water: to wash in, to make food, to cool oneself, etc.
But there’s a more political statement underneath, as is often the case with Afro-beat and Kuti’s music.  It's a pointed message to the Nigerian government.  Water is a symbol representing the Nigerian people.  Kuti is asking: if you make an enemy of your own people, then what power do you really have?
Anyway, Fela’s 1975 version is classic.  But I have a soft spot for this 2002 Femi + Soultronics collaboration.  The rippling, percussion-driven groove starts from moment one and does not slacken for a solid six minutes, with the voices of Kuti, D'Angelo, and Gray effortlessly blending with the horns.  It's like cool water for the soul.

  

"Make the Road By Walking" (Menahan Street Band)

It was the case for my parents' generation that, when they saw a single released by a particular label, they automatically knew it was going to be good.  Even if they'd never heard of the recording artist before, if it was on Stax, Motown, Atlantic, or Philadelphia International, they knew it was worth buying.  Mainly because the same groups of backing musicians played on every single track (The Swampers, Booker T & The MG's, The Funk Brothers, MFSB...)
I have that kind of relationship with Brooklyn's Daptone Records.
If you don't know about Daptone, check it out.   The label was founded in the Bushwick neighborhood in 2002 by pals Gabriel Roth and Neal Sugarman with a focus on ol' skool funk, R&B, and soul.  More or less, the same core group of musicians (or permutations thereof) play on every record that the label puts out.  Sometimes they're billed as The Dap-Kings (the backing band for the inimitable Sharon Jones and the late Amy Winehouse on her album Back to Black).  Or, sometimes they're called The Budos Band, or Antibalas, or Menahan Street Band (named for the Bushwick street where the group's guitarist/founder Thomas Brenneck lived).
No matter what name is on a Daptone single, you know it's going to be good.
And as "throwback" as Daptone's music is, it never comes off sounding like some watered down imitation of James Brown, Al Green, or Aretha Franklin.  Each song is a real and true original.
That includes the track "Make the Road By Walking" by Menahan Street Band.  
The song is named for a Bushwick-based charity that focuses on economic opportunities for working class minorities, which is itself named after a line in a poem by early 20th century Spanish poet Antonio Machado: Wanderer, there is no road / The road is made by walking.
That spirit of achievement by carving one's own path comes through in every note of this 3-minute instrumental, which blends raw funk with the feel of Afro-beat.  It begins modestly with subtle wah-wah guitar, chimes, soul clapping, smooth brass, and one of the funkiest basslines I've ever heard.  (Like, ever ever.)  Then, measure by measure, it grows and gets stronger, more confident, till you reach the climax: the song's triumphant hook, which plays like a fanfare for a king.  (If the hook sounds familiar, that's because it was sampled by Jay-Z on "Roc Boys (And the Winner Is...).")
For me, the song paints the mental picture of a boxer getting in shape for a title fight.  There's the initial pain, self doubt, and struggle.  Still, he keeps on training and pushing himself.  Ultimately, there's that Rocky-like moment, where he reaches the top of the steps, pumps his fists to the sky, and knows in his heart that he's already won.
Yeah, it's one helluva groove.

"(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher" (Jackie Wilson)

Jackie Wilson had an affinity for womanizing and bird dogging.  He lost a marriage and almost lost his life after a jealous girlfriend shot him in 1961.
He also had financial troubles galore.  He was notorious for borrowing money from his label and managers to bankroll his lavish lifestyle, thereby digging himself into debt.  
By the same token, his record label screwed him out of royalties to the tune of about $1 million.
His financial troubles necessitated his breakneck touring schedule in the early 70s, which no doubt led to his on-stage heart attack in 1975 while performing his hit "Lonely Teardrops."  (Legend is that he fell to his knees after the line My heart is crying, and onlookers thought it was all part of the performance.)  He fell into a coma for almost nine years, finally passing away in 1984 with barely a penny to his name.
But there's a reason why they called the man "Mr. Excitement."
Check out any footage of Jackie Wilson performing live, and you'll see that the moniker was well earned.  Not only did he have a vocal instrument that was capable of soaring to operatic heights, but his dance moves and swagger also kept audiences right in the palm of his hand.  
If you ever wonder who inspired James Brown's dramatic splits or Michael Jackson's spins, look no further than Wilson.
My favorite track of Wilson's is his 1967 single "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher," which was originally written for and performed by The Dells with slightly different lyrics.  
From moment one, Wilson's version is pure electricity.  He delivers a consummate performance, slipping from his pure gospel-tinged tenor to soaring falsetto to impassioned growl, often within the space of a single note.
As for the instrumental backing track: if you don't feel compelled to shake something after hearing that bassline and rhythm guitar drop in, you're either asleep or dead.
Little factoid: members of Motown's Funk Brothers (including drummer Richard "Pistol" Allen and bassist/funk machine James Jamerson) played on the backing track, which explains the song's Detroit feel, even though it was recorded in Chicago.  Although Motown kept these musicians working on a consistent basis, it didn't pay too well.  Consequently, the musicians would take on numerous side gigs, recording for artists like Jackie Wilson and his producer Carl Davis, who paid them well by comparison.

"Keep On Pushing" (The Impressions)

"Keep On Pushing" (from the 1964 album of the same name) takes its cues from gospel and soul, walking that fine line between sacred and secular, musically, vocally, and thematically.  It was prolific songwriter Curtis Mayfield's first foray into addressing social issues—specifically, the Civil Rights movement—in a song.  But it wouldn't be his last.  Shining a light on societal and political topics became a hallmark of Mayfield's music for the rest of his life.
Few songs can match the spiritual positivity of this short track.  There's just something about that jazz waltz rhythm and the elemental falsetto harmonies of Mayfield, Sam Gooden, and Fred Cash that can brighten the cloudiest day.  
Also notable is Johnny Pate's horn arrangement: an understated fanfare that's as steadfast as it is inspirational.  Having the trombones double the bassline on the verses is an especially nice touch that gives the track just an extra dash of soul.  (Pate would continue to work with Mayfield in his solo career.  In fact, his arranging work is all over the Super Fly soundtrack.)

"How Can I Be Sure?" (The Rascals)

The Rascals (or The Young Rascals as they were called for legal reasons early in their career) had one of the most distinctive sounds of the 60s.  No other band combined garage rock grit with jazz chops quite the way they did.  
Along with Booker T. & The M.G.'s, the band made the Hammond organ a viable instrument for rock & roll.  I'd even contend that, without The Rascals paving the way, an organ + guitar-centered band like The Doors probably wouldn't have gotten a recording contract.
The album Groovin' (1967) is a particular standout in the band's catalog.  In an era known for albums packed with filler and maybe one or two hits, Groovin' contains exceptionally strong tracks that effortlessly blend an array of influences and styles: San Francisco psychedelia, British pop, East Harlem funk, Uptown jazz, and Motown/Philly-inspired soul.  
One of the key songs from Groovin' is "How Can I Be Sure?", a memorable ballad co-written by band members Felix Cavaliere and Eddie Brigati.  Despite its optimistic tone, the song was inspired by Cavaliere's growing doubts about his engagement to his girlfriend at the time.  (Spoiler: they split soon after this song dropped.)

It's worlds apart from the band's earlier output, like the scorching "I Ain't Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore" or absolutely pentecostal "Good Lovin'."  Yet there's still that foundation of New York City R&B that runs deep in its veins.  You can hear it in Brigati's lead vocal as he sings about love and uncertainty over the Parisian accordion and lush orchestration.  

It's a song that defies easy categorization, but it's unmistakably The Rascals, through and through.