"I'll Take You There" (The Staple Singers)

"I'll Take You There" from the 1972 album Be Altitude by The Staple Singers is the definitive answer to the question, "Can gospel get funky?"

Al Bell, the executive vice president of Stax Records throughout the early 70s and the band's producer, wrote the song in 1971 as a cathartic exercise after experiencing a number of tragedies in his life.  He not only had weathered the plane crash death of Stax artist Otis Redding in 1967, but he also had three younger brothers die in quick succession.

In footage from a 2012 event held by The University of Arkansas, titled "An Evening with Al Bell," Bell comments that he had struggled with grief and trying to understand death following the 1971 murder of his brother, Louis.  It was at Louis's wake, while spending a quiet moment alone in his father's backyard, that Bell suddenly had the words of the song come to him:

I know a place

Ain't nobody crying

Ain't nobody worried

Ain't no smiling faces

Lying to the races.

I'll take you there.

Days later, the words stuck with him, and he knew the Staples were the ones to deliver to the world this message of spirituality and hope, which had seemed to come from beyond.

Backing the family on the track are members of the one-and-only Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section, a.k.a. "The Swampers": Barry Beckett (keyboards), Roger Hawkins (drums), Jimmy Johnson (guitar), Eddie Hinton (guitar), and—the man behind that famous bassline—David Hood (bass), whom Mavis Staples name checks during the song's breakdown.

(As a side note: the song's subtle, soulful horn section actually was arranged and recorded separately in Detroit by notable R&B arranger Johnny Allen, who also worked with a number of other Stax/Volt artists.)

Interestingly enough, although the song is credited solely to Bell, it is largely based on the ska/reggae song "The Liquidator" (1969) by UK-based record producer Harry Johnson (better known as "Harry J") and his recording studio's house band, The Harry J All-stars.  In fact, the intro of "I'll Take You There" is a note-for-note replaying of "The Liquidator."

According to David Hood in a 2014 interview with No Treble magazine, Bell actually brought The Swampers a copy of "The Liquidator" during the recording sessions for Be Altitude, telling the musicians that he wanted something with the same feel.  

So it's no coincidence that the songs sound alike.

Nevertheless, I wouldn't trade Mavis Staples's moving invitation to the Promised Land atop that funk-reggae groove for anything.

"Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get" (The Dramatics)

Originally hailing from Detroit, The Dramatics had been around since 1964 but didn't see any real success until they signed with Memphis-based Stax/Volt Records.  It was there that they were paired with writer/producer and fellow Detroiter, Tony Hester, who helped them craft their very first hit, "Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get" from the 1971 album of the same name.
Now, considering what else was going on in the world of R&B/soul at the time—Marvin Gaye getting political, Curtis Mayfield delving deeper into social ills, Stevie Wonder gaining artistic autonomy from the Motown machine, Sly Stone crafting a whole new brand of black pride-influenced hard funk, etc.—"Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get" seems kind of lightweight by comparison.
But just because it doesn't deliver a punch when it comes to social/political commentary, that doesn't mean it isn't a great song; it just means the song is less about the "message" and more about pure groove.
Actually, there are a number of reasons why this is a 70s R&B classic.  
For one, it's Hester's songwriting/Johnny Allen's arrangement—the smooth blend of Latin-tinged polyrhythms, sweet orchestral strings, and bright horn blasts.  
It's also the group's impassioned tag-team vocals on the verses and note-perfect, five-part harmonies on the choruses.  
But, most of all, it's that fuzz-tone lead guitar, pile driving that four-note riff into your head for nearly four soulful minutes.  

"Unsquare Dance" (Dave Brubeck Quartet)

In 1959, the Dave Brubeck Quartet released the hugely successful Time Out—an album that proved it was feasible to play jazz in time signatures other than 3/4 and 4/4 and still retain the genre's heart and soul.  
In 1961, the band released the follow up, Time Further Out, which again explored tricky time signatures.  Like 7/4—the time signature of the track "Unsquare Dance."  
The title is an obvious play on "square dance," which if you attended a physical education class in the past 50 years, you no doubt were forced to perform under duress by a whistle-toting Johnny Unitas look-alike.
Just like the traditional music played at a square dance (or hoedown, if you will), "Unsquare Dance" has a folksy, two-step feel that seems readymade for do-si-do'ing and promenading.  Until you start to count it out, that is.  The twist is that extra beat at the end of each measure: 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3.
What starts out kind of hokey sounding ("square" in beatnik-speak), reveals itself to be a wildly inventive, funky exploration of rhythm, with bassist Eugene Wright playing a skeletal bassline over handclaps, and Joe Morello playing syncopated percussion on the rim of his snare drum.  
Even when Brubeck returns at the end of the song to do his little "shave-and-a-haircut" ending, it's with a knowing wink.

"See-Line Woman" (Nina Simone)

It's hard not to love Nina Simone.  Uncompromising, inventive, intelligent.  No one else sounded like her.
She was born Eunice Waymon in Tryon, NC, in 1933 and grew up playing piano by ear in her mother's church (her mother, Mary Kate, was a strict Methodist preacher).  As a pre-teen, she studied classical piano, developing a love for the music of J.S. Bach.  Seeing that she had true, budding talent, the townspeople of Tryon raised enough money for her to attend the Allen School, a private high school for African American girls located in Asheville.  
While in Asheville, she continued her music studies and dreamt of becoming America's first famed black concert pianist.  However, that dream didn't come to pass after Philadelphia's prestigious Curtis Institute of Music rejected her bid for admission—an incident that she felt was motivated by racial prejudice, which cut her deeply.  
To make a living, she began teaching music by day and performing in jazz clubs by night.  And because no preacher's daughter would be caught dead singing in a nightclub, she adopted the stage name "Nina Simone" (the "Nina" came from a pet name given to her by a boyfriend; the "Simone" came from the name of French actress, Simone Signoret).
One of her best known songs is her rendition of "See-Line Woman" from the 1965 album Broadway-Blues-Ballads.
The song (which sometimes is printed as "Sea Lion Woman," or "C-line Woman," or "See Lyin' Woman") is actually an old folk song, often sung by children to keep rhythm while jumping rope.  The first taped performance of the song dates to 1939, when Library of Congress field researcher Herbert Halpert recorded two sisters, Christine and Katherine Shipp, singing the song at their home in rural Mississippi.  But the song itself probably dates back to the 19th century.
So, what is a "see-line woman?"
There's no definitive answer.  As with any folk song like this, it gets passed down, and each person/locality/generation puts its own stank and spin on it.  Including Simone.
According to KCRW Public Radio DJ Tom Schnabel, Simone's take is decidedly adult: it's about women of the night, waiting for sailors to come into port.  Which I think is feasible (considering lyrics like for $1000 she'll wail and she'll moan...).  
Whatever its meaning, and however old the song really is, Simone's track sounds like it could have been recorded yesterday.  I still have a hard time believing it was cut in 1965 because it sounds so far ahead of its time.
Her drummer, Bobby Hamilton, puts down an unfaltering pattern on the hi-hat and kick drum that would put a Roland 808 to shame, setting the foundation for the (nearly) a cappella funk that Simone churns out.  In fact, the only real instrumentation is the soulful flute line that weaves in and out of Simone's husky vocals and the hypnotic, near-chanted see-line backing vocals.
The whole track is just under three minutes in length.  But it's three minutes that will make you want to seek out everything this brilliant woman ever put to tape.

"Bra" (Cymande)

Cymande, which means "dove of peace" in West Indian patois, is a London-based band consisting of Caribbean-born musicians.  During its original run from 1971-74 (the band recently reformed in 2014), Cymande set itself apart from its contemporaries by blending elements of jazz, hard rock, and Afro-Caribbean music into its special brand of funk.
Its self-titled debut album from 1972 is a sweaty, 40-minute workout from beginning to end, featuring songs built around spare, but deep, grooves and intricate polyrhythms.  (Picture if the band War had come from Kingston, Jamaica, instead of Southern California, and that's the vibe of this album.)
One of the standout tracks on the album is the song "Bra" (as in "brother," not the undergarment).  It's exactly 5 minutes of churning, bubbling soul, featuring rippling congas, all manners of percussion (including mouth clicks), and a supremely funky, serpentine back beat.  Those familiar with the De La Soul track "Change in Speak" from 3 Feet High and Rising (1989) and/or Spike Lee's 1994 film Crooklyn no doubt will recognize the song's distinctive bassline and horn riff right away.
At its heart, it's a song of encouragement.  The lyrics express that, no matter what challenges you've faced or are currently facing, it's going to be okay; you are going to succeed.  
It's the kind of positive message and uplifting groove that we all need from time to time.

"Late in the Evening" (Paul Simon)

I'm an unequivocal fan of Paul Simon.  He's simply America's poet laureate of modern popular music (alongside Bob Dylan).  From the days when he was writing tunes for himself and Art Garfunkel to his newest solo stuff today, the man has always had a knack for crafting words and melodies that resonate deeply and universally.
(To hell with critics who've picked apart his lyrics over the years or derided him for dipping into the well of world music for inspiration.  Let's see them compose anything half as good as what's on Graceland, and then we'll talk.)
When I was a little kid, my favorite Simon song—apart from the nursery rhyming "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover"—was "Late in the Evening" from the soundtrack for the film One Trick Pony (1980).  
What grabbed me about this particular song?  
First of all, secret-rhythm-weapon Steve Gadd's superlative drumming sets the stage for the track's sweltering Latin funk, which seduces every molecule from your waist down to move.  
Secondly, there's pure joy and celebration in every note of that melody, especially when the brass section arrives.  But it really was Simon's lyrics that did it for me: that image of a young kid lying on his bed, hearing music seeping through the wall from the radio in the next room—it was exactly how I experienced this song for the first time (that is, blasting from the radio in the living room while my mom was doing housework and dancing).  
And what cinched it was that vivid description of him walking down the street, watching guys shooting pool, hearing a cappella groups harmonizing, and seeing girls hanging out on their front stoops.  Even if that distinctly post-WWII New York tableau wasn't in my frame of reference, Simon instantly transported me to that exact place and time.  
Some novelists can't even do that in 300 pages, and he does it in four lines.

"Went Out Last Night" (Keith Frank)

I was doing the touristy thing, walking through the French Market in New Orleans many years ago.  There was this one market stall where this little lady was selling everything under the sun (spice mixes, t-shirts, jujus, hot sauces, bumper stickers, voodoo dolls, etc), and she had this infectious party song, with this guy singing about going clubbing, meeting girls, and falling in love, just blasting from a little boombox behind her cash register.  It wasn't quite traditional Cajun music, even though it featured accordion and washboard percussion.  And it had too much R&B and soul to be straight up Zydeco.

I asked her who the artist was, and she handed me a CD called Rockin' Zydeco Party—a compilation of music from a regional label called Maison de Soul, based in Ville Platte, LA.  She pointed to track #5: "Went Out Last Night" by artist Keith Frank.

"Keith Frank.  That's my jam."

I wore out the batteries on my Discman (if that gives you any idea of how long ago this was) listening to this song, over and over, on the plane ride back to North Carolina.
It is one helluva feel-good jam.

Keith Frank is part of the movement known as "nouveau Zydeco."  The Soileau, LA-born singer/accordion player made a name for himself back in the 90s by taking the traditional Zydeco of artists like Clifton Chenier and Buckwheat Zydeco and mixing it with elements of James Brown- and Meters-influenced funk and even hip-hop, bringing the music of rural Acadiana into the city.  Traditionalists (including fans of his Zydeco musician father, Preston Frank) balked at the mix of old and new.  Nevertheless, it introduced Zydeco to a whole new generation.

And anytime a musical tradition can be kept alive, that's a good thing in my book.