"Sure Shot" (Beastie Boys)

If someone were to ask me, "What makes for a great hip-hop sample?" I'd probably say a funky breakbeat, distinctive bassline, or maybe an infectious horn riff.  But "jazz flute solo" would not be at the top of my list.  

But I can't imagine the song "Sure Shot" without that flute wailing away as the Beasties holler You can't, you won't, and you don't STOP...

If you owned a copy of 1994's Ill Communication (more on that in a sec), you know from the liner notes that the sample comes from a semi-obscure tune called "Howlin' for Judy" by New York-based jazzman Jeremy Steig, who is the son of the late, great illustrator William Steig—the originator of Shrek.  A quick listen to "Howlin' for Judy" reveals that the Beasties really only sampled 3 seconds of the song for "Sure Shot"; the rest of the track is sort of a day-glo freakout with overdubbed flutes coming at you from about five different directions.  It's oddly funky...in a Ron Burgundy kind of way.

In a 2004 interview with All About Jazz online, Steig was asked how he felt about the group sampling his 1969 track.  His response: "I made more money from that sample than from any of my records."

Anyway, Ill Communication was the first CD I ever bought.  (It wasn't the first album I ever bought, though.  That was actually Kick by INXS.)  

I'd gotten a Discman with car audio adapter from my dad for my 17th birthday.  It was an awesome gift.  Although, I think he was even more excited about it than I was!  I'd barely even finished tearing off the wrapping paper, and he had the box open and was busy plugging the various cords and adapters into my car's tape deck before I even had a chance to touch it!

I remember him sitting there in the passenger seat of my car like an impatient kid. "Well, come on!  Test it out!"

One minor problem: I didn't own any CDs.

My birthday falls about a week before Christmas, so I had no desire to go fight the crowds at the mall, just to go buy a CD.  Besides, I had a stack of mix tapes in my car with hundreds of hours of music on them, so I was content to wait till the New Year.

A couple of days later at the start of Winter Break, I was having a leisurely breakfast, when Dad informed me that I'd be driving him to Asheville Mall later that morning to help him finish his Christmas shopping.  Which I did.  Through an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic, fighting kamikaze soccer moms in minivans who would rather go down in flames than let you merge in front of them, because God forbid you should get to that sale at Penney's before them.

Long story short, Dad made one lap around Sears, decided they didn't have the socket wrench he supposedly was going to get my uncle, and headed right for the music department at Montgomery Ward.  And in perfect Dad fashion, he said, "So, what did you need to buy here?"  As if the mall had been my plan all along.  

I dropped $9.99 of my birthday money on Ill Communication.  (Confession: I wasn't even that big of a Beasties fan at the time.  It was just one of the few CDs that was on sale, and it had a couple of songs I liked.  But my opinion of the band's talent and importance in the hip-hop world completely changed after one listen.)  It's a CD my father wouldn't have chosen in a million years.  Even so, he couldn't wait to hear it on my new Discman.  And "Sure Shot" was the first thing we heard pouring from my car speakers, sitting there in the mall parking deck.

"Not bad," I remember him saying.

"Dazz" (Brick)

The song "Dazz" from album Good High (1976) established Atlanta-based Brick's style of so-called "disco-jazz."  Although, the track never felt all that "disco-y" to me; it's sweaty Southern funk, through and through.  (I witnessed an old woman pop and lock to this song at a street fair in Alexandria, VA, once.  Let's just say you don't risk a hip replacement for disco, kids.)
For me, the song is all about that distinctive electric piano riff and that kick drum/hi-hat groove.  I could listen to the intro of this track on a loop for an hour and never tire of it.
But I also can't neglect to mention the flute solo by vocalist/reedist Jimmy Brown (father of Atlanta vocalist/producer Sleepy Brown of Organized Noize).  I'm generally of the opinion that no one—except maybe Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull—should ever put a flute solo in a song.  But Brown sets his nearly two-minute solo on fire.  If there's any part of this track that represents the jazz part of "disco-jazz," it's this.

"Use Me" (Bill Withers)

It's a shame that more people aren't aware just how good and important Bill Withers is.  Bill Withers included.
He essentially got his fill of the music biz back in 1985, and he called it day.  He pops up every so often in interviews or archival footage; there are great clips on the Web of him doing his thing on Soul Train or Burt Sugarman's Midnight Special.  But he hasn't performed live or released new music in years (unless you count a recent, one-off collaboration with singer/guitarist Raul Midón that was years in the making).  Which is too bad, because the world and music industry could use a dose of his candor, positivity, and soul right about now.
One of my favorite tracks of his growing up was the infinitely funky "Use Me" from his 1972 album Still Bill, which somehow manages to be an even tighter collection of songs than his strong debut album, Just As I Am, from 1971.
Basically, it's a song about a guy whose buddies warn him that he's being used by his girlfriend.  The twist, though, is that he turns right around and tells them (and the girlfriend) that, if being used feels that great, she can keep right on using him!
Although, in the 2009 documentary Still Bill, Withers kind of alludes to the fact that the song wasn't so much inspired by a romantic relationship but by his career circumstances before he landed a record deal.  He was a factory worker, making toilet seats for airplanes and getting paid just $3/hour, when he began his music career at age 32.  In fact, Withers didn't initially quit his job making toilet seats even after his debut album started climbing the charts.  (After all, the music industry was a gamble, and he had a steady job, albeit one that didn't pay all that well.)
Taken in that light, the lyrics are an acknowledgment that his employer was essentially "using him," but he was glad to be used if that meant having a roof over his head.
How can you not be a fan of a guy like that?

"Long Train Running" (The Doobie Brothers)

A biker band from Northern California might seem like an unlikely place to find the funk, but that's exactly where "Long Train Running" came from.
The Doobie Brothers' singer/guitarist Tom Johnston had come up with the signature riff for "Long Train Running" years before the band actually committed it to tape.  In fact, the song began its life as an instrumental jam that the band would use to fill time at its early concerts, circa 1970.  Johnston never regarded it as a potential hit; it was just a funky throwaway that got bar patrons on their feet and dancing.
That is, until the band's famed producer, Ted Templeman, heard the tune and encouraged Johnston to give it more structure and some words.  Then, it suddenly took on new life as the lead single from 1973's The Captain and Me.
As far as the song's bluesy tale about "Miss Lucy down by the tracks" goes, the story was something out of Johnston's imagination.
"The words were written at the absolute last minute," Johnston told Ultimate Classic Rock in 2012.  "I wrote them in the bathroom at Amigo Studios.  [Ted Templeman] said, 'Write something about a train.'  I said, 'OK! That's a great idea' (laughs)."

Even though The Doobie Brothers had a slew of other hit songs, "Long Train Running" stands out in my mind as the perfect embodiment of the band's sound.  Acoustic yet electric.  Down home yet lowdown.  Rustic yet urban.  It's that unique combination of Johnston's R&B-fueled rhythm guitar against the folksy fingerpicking style of co-lead guitarist Patrick Simmons, underpinned by Tiran Porter's bouncy bass, that created the band's groove in its heyday.  

In any case, "Long Train Running" was a favorite of mine at age 3, and it remains a favorite today.

"Sundown" (Gordon Lightfoot)

"Sundown" (1974) by Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot was a song that made frequent appearances on our home turntable.  As a kid, I just enjoyed the song's acoustic groove, which was surprisingly funky for a tune that got significant airplay on "easy listening" radio back in the day.  As usual, I didn't pay much attention to the somewhat mature lyrics.
It wasn't until years later that I really listened to what Lightfoot was singing about: a carousing, unfaithful lover.  Lines like I can see her lyin' back in her satin dress / In a room where ya do what ya don't confess simultaneously leave nothing and everything to the imagination.  (The lyrics are quite the work of literary prowess.)
I also discovered recently that the song is semi-autobiographical.  Lightfoot had been living with a woman named Cathy Smith, a background singer and groupie-extraordinaire who had pretty much been servicing The Band for years before taking up with Lightfoot in the early 70s.  (Years later, she'd infamously give actor John Belushi his fatal dose of heroin and coke in a Hollywood hotel room.)  
Anyway, you might say their relationship was less than idyllic.  One afternoon as Lightfoot was hard at work on music and lyrics, Smith got bored and decided to go out partying with friends, leaving his worried mind to conjure all sorts of scenarios of infidelity as he watched the sunset.
So "Sundown" is the uneasy thoughts of a jealous lover, who comes just short of acknowledging that his relationship with this woman is completely unhealthy.  

"A Horse with No Name" (America)

The band America pretty much started its career banking on the fact that it sounded a lot like Crosby, Stills & Nash.  And in the case of its first hit "A Horse with No Name," CSN's occasional fourth member, Neil Young.
The song's composer Dewey Bunnell has even admitted that people mistaking the tune for a Young song aided its success in 1972.
Just like Bunnell's later hit "Ventura Highway," "A Horse with No Name" was inspired by his memories of riding through the Mojave Desert as a kid.  Bunnell's father, who was in the U.S. Air Force, had been stationed in California for a brief time before he and the family ultimately were relocated to a base in England.  In short, the composition (originally titled "Desert Song") was just a 19-year-old Bunnell's way of working through homesickness and his longing to trade the English dampness for sun soaked climes.  
In other words, it's not about heroin addiction, despite what some radio programmers and listeners thought in the 70s.
Also like "Ventura Highway," "A Horse with No Name" is not the greatest song lyrically.  Lines like The heat was hot kind of leave you thinking, "Yeah, no duh, America."
But it was the perfect song for me as a toddler.  The lyrics are innocuous and quite descriptive—great for a little mind that liked to imagine.  I'd put my mom's copy of the single on our stereo and pretend that I was riding my rocking horse (who did have a name: Spotty) through the desert, spotting the various plants and birds and rocks and things that Bunnell was singing about.  Plus, it had a catchy hook that I could La-la-lalala-lala along to with ease. 
Listening to it today, its simple strummed guitars and bongo percussion really do feel like a solitary tour of arid landscapes via horseback.  I also have to applaud the late Dan Peek's contribution on bass; that insistent pulse throughout mimics the sound of galloping hooves and lends the song a little bit of soul, saving it from being some simplistic, anti-urban hippie ditty.

"Carry On/Questions" (Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young)

I'm not just a fan of CSN (and sometimes Y); I'm a fan of Stephen Stills, specifically.  He's one of the few rock musicians I know of who could tackle everything from acoustic folk to blues-drenched R&B and actually make it sound natural.
Case in point: his mini-suite "Carry On/Questions" from the album Déjà vu (1970).  It begins with this galloping acoustic portion that feels almost like an Indian raga before seamlessly transitioning into this funky Hammond organ-driven groove.  It's two things that probably shouldn't work together, but they do.
The track consists of two songs that Stills had been working on but never quite finished.  They needed an opening track for Déjà vu, and bandmate Graham Nash suggested they open with a suite in the same vein as "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" from their debut.  So Stills took his incomplete composition "Carry On," which is basically a message to his bandmates to persevere, and melded it with "Questions," another incomplete composition that had been knocking around since his days in Buffalo Springfield. 
What makes the track hold together (apart from the note-perfect instrumental backing, which features Stills on both acoustic and lead guitars as well as organ, bass, and percussion), is that three-part vocal blend.  My favorite part is the a cappella transition, where they intone Love is coming / Love is coming to us all.  Gives me chills every time.