Charles Bradley's face may look more tore back than a ripped up tool shed, but who gives a flying fuck, when he can still belt out the Motown pain to a generation stuck on 120 b.p.m.'s? It's the very narrow and constantly fleeting group of aged musical wizards who are the exception to the saying, "Only the good die young", cause sometimes, every now and then, the good gets old as fuck and keeps doin what they've been doin, and anyone within earshot reaps the benefits of their actions. That is, if they still know how to hear the good things. This song is a prime example.
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