Okay, I want you to close your eyes for a second.
Picture the godfather of soul, James Brown. It's,
say, 1964. The stage is hot, the lights are blinding,
and he is right there in the center. The cape
gets draped over his shoulders, he's sweating,
he drops to his knees, and the crowd just, I
mean, it absolutely loses its mind. It's the
definition of a one -man powerhouse. It is. It's
one of the most enduring images in music history.
The singular genius, the hardest working man
in show business. But if we open our eyes and
zoom out just a little bit, if you look just,
you know, three feet to the left or three feet
to the right of that spotlight. There's someone
else there. Yeah. There's a guy dancing just
as hard. He's catching the cape. He's hitting
the harmonies that actually make the song work.
But when we tell the story later, he's usually
cropped out of the photo. And that's what historians
call the great man narrative. Yeah. We love the
idea of the solitary hero, the Steve Jobs, the
Elvis, the James Brown. It's a cleaner story.
Right. But the reality of creating something
massive, whether it's a tech company or a soul
revolution, is almost always a machine. It's
a collective. And usually for the great man to
shine. A lot of other essential gears have to
become invisible. And today we are going to stop
that machine and look at one of those gears.
We are talking about a man who stood right next
to greatness, helped invent a genre, and then
had to spend decades fighting just to prove he
was even there. We are talking about Lloyd Eugene
Stallworth. Stallworth. Most people probably
haven't heard that name. Or if they have, they
know him by his nickname. Baby Lloyd. He was,
you could say, the heart and soul of the famous
flames. Now, I have to be honest, before we started
digging into these sources, I mean, the litigation
files, the Hall of Fame archives, I just assumed
the famous flames were, you know, backup singers.
Right. Like props, they stand in the back, they
snap their finger, they go, ooh, and ah. And
that is exactly the misconception we need to
dismantle today. Because if you treat the famous
flames like standard backup singers, you miss
the entire architecture of James Brown's success.
These guys weren't just backing him. They were
the engine. They were the engine. And Lloyd Stallworth
was the spark plug. So this isn't just a biography.
This is really an investigation into the machinery
of fame. We're looking at where the line is drawn
between star and support. And well, what happens
when that line gets moved? Plus, we have a 27
year controversy over credit, a lawsuit worth
millions of dollars and. A really tragic ending.
So let's unpack this. Where does the story of
Baby Lloyd even begin? Well, to understand the
end, we have to look at the beginning. We're
in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It's 1957. Lloyd
Stallworth is just a teenager. And he lands a
job working for James Brown. But here's the kicker.
He isn't hired to sing. Okay, so what is he doing?
Loading the gear. He's the valet. He's pressing
suits. And occasionally he's the driver. A teenage
driver for James Brown? That sounds a little
dangerous. Laughs. It probably was. But the best
part is why he got the job. I found this detail
in the biographical records, and it's just great.
His mother actually arranged the gig. His mom
got him a job as a valet. Yes. She explicitly
wanted to get him out of Fort Lauderdale to,
quote, keep him out of trouble. Wait, hold on.
She sent him on tour with a rock and roll band
to keep him out of trouble. It's incredible,
isn't it? It has to be the most counterintuitive
parenting move of the 1950s. Usually the tour
bus is where trouble is invented, but it just
shows you how young he was. Just a kid. But he
did not stay behind the wheel for long. So how
does one go from parking the car to holding the
microphone? Pure talent. You just couldn't hide
it. By 1958, he's off the payroll as a valet,
and he's officially a member of the Famous Flames.
Wow. And this is where we need to talk about
the music. Because when you listen to those early
hits, think, bewildered, I don't mind. You weren't
just hearing James Brown's voice. Right. You're
hearing that call and response thing, that interplay.
Exactly. But let's break down why that matters.
In traditional pop music of the time, the backup
singers were usually smooth, harmonious. You
know, they blended into the background. The famous
flames were percussive. Oh, that's interesting.
They were rhythmic. When James screams, they
scream back. It's a conversation. So they were
almost like a second drum kit, but with voices.
That is a great way to put it. And Lloyd Stallworth
was crucial to that texture. He wasn't just filling
space. He was driving the energy. And for anyone
who thinks, OK, but he was still just performing
what he was told to perform. There is a smoking
gun in the discography. Oh, what did you find?
There's a track from 1961. It's called Lost Someone.
It was a pretty significant hit. Now, usually
on a James Brown record, the writing credit says
one thing. James Brown. Maybe you're a producer.
Right. But if you look at the actual copyright
registration for Lost Someone, who do you see?
Don't tell me it's the valet. It's Lloyd Stallworth.
Yeah. Co -writer. That is a huge deal for 1961.
It's massive. It proves he was a creative architect
of the sound. He wasn't just a hired voice. In
that era, the lines were blurry. You were a valet,
then a dancer, then a writer, then a singer.
Stallworth was a true multi -hyphenate. He was
helping build the house that James Brown would
eventually own. And they built a palace. I mean,
the sources highlight two moments where this
group was just unpunchable. The first is Live
at the Apollo in 63. Now, I know people talk
about this album all the time, but why does it
matter so much for Lloyd? Because Live at the
Apollo captures the hysteria. You can hear the
interplay between the flames and the audience.
That album sold a million copies. It hit the
top 10. A live R &B album doing that. Unheard
of. Completely unheard of. It proved that the
show, the group dynamic, that was the product.
And then came the TMI show in 1964. The TMI show
is legendary. It was this massive concert film
recorded at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium.
You had the Beach Boys, Marvin Gaye, Chuck Berry,
and the headliners were the Rolling Stones. And
the Stones were the biggest thing in the world
at that point, right? They were exploding. But
history remembers this night for one reason.
James Brown and the famous Flames. I've seen
clips of this. It looks like an FLAC event, not
a concert. It is. Lloyd and the other Flames
aren't just standing at microphones snapping.
They're doing split -second choreography. They're
dropping to their knees, popping back up, spinning.
It's synchronized chaos. And they went so hard.
They went so hard that Keith Richards has famously
admitted that choosing to follow James Brown
and the famous Flames was the biggest mistake
of their careers. They upstaged the Rolling Stones.
They incinerated them. And Lloyd was right there
on the front line. So at this point, Lloyd has
to be thinking, I've made it. He's writing hits.
He's out dancing the Stones. And the research
shows he actually tried to launch a solo career
around this time, didn't he? He did. And this
is a really interesting what if moment in music
history. He released solo singles under the name
Baby Lloyd. He had a track on Atco Records called
I Need You. He was on a label called Loma with
There's Something on Your Mind. Did they go anywhere?
Not really. And you have to wonder why. Was it
a lack of promotion? Was it that the public couldn't
separate him from the group? But there is one
solo recording that I think perfectly captures
his confidence. He appeared on an album called
Presenting, The James Brown Show. And guess what
song he chose to sing? I have no idea. He covered
I Can't Get No Satisfaction. The Rolling Stones
song. The very same. That is, that is bold. It's
like, we just blew you off the stage at the Tia
Yama show, and now I'm going to sing your biggest
hit on my boss's album. It's a total power move.
And it shows his range. He was interpreting contemporary
rock and roll. He wasn't just a soul singer.
He had the potential to be a crossover star.
So why didn't it happen? We have all the ingredients
for a spinoff success story here. But instead,
the story takes a really, really sharp turn.
It does. And we can pinpoint the moment the erasure
begins. The sources all point to 1966, specifically
the Ed Sullivan show. Right. So on May 1st, 1966,
the famous flames perform on Ed Sullivan. Lloyd
is there. They kill it. But then James Brown
is booked to return on October 30th, 1966, just
five months later. And when the curtain comes
up. Lloyd Stallworth is gone. He's gone. The
fame and flames are gone. What happened in those
five months? Business. Cold, hard business. The
dynamic had shifted from a group effort to a
star and support model. And this is where we
need to explain a concept that ruins a lot of
friendships in music. The difference between
billing and salary. Okay, break this down for
me. If Lloyd is getting a paycheck, why does
it matter if he has billing? Okay, so salary
means you are an employee. You get paid, say,
$500 a week to show up and sing. If the record
sells 10 copies, you get $500. If the record
sells 10 million copies, you get $500. Ouch.
Okay, I see where this is going. Billing, or
being a contracted artist, usually comes with
points royalties. It means you own a piece of
the work. If the record blows up, you blow up.
The dispute here was that James Brown was the
artist. The Famous Flames were becoming employees.
So they were getting shut out of the wealth they
were helping to generate. Precisely. And it wasn't
just money. It was their faces. King Records
never put the Famous Flames on the album covers.
It was only ever James Brown. That feels intentional.
It's branding 101. If the public doesn't know
what you look like... You have no leverage. You
can't leave and start a solo career because nobody
knows you were the guy singing the hook on Think.
They just know James Brown. That is devastating.
So Lloyd leaves the group in 66. The golden era
is over. What happens to him? Does he go back
to Florida? Well, he drifts for a while. But
then, in a twist that is honestly kind of heartbreaking,
he eventually goes back to work for the James
Brown organization. Oh, wow. So they reconciled.
He's back on stage. No. The records show he took
a job on the clerical staff. Wait, hold on. You're
telling me the guy who co -wrote Lost Someone
and danced the stones off the stage is now filing
papers? It appears so. And I think that just
speaks to the psychological hold of that great
man machine. Even when you're cast out, the gravity
of the star pulls you back in, but often in a
diminished role. So we have the 70s, the 80s,
the 90s passing by. James Brown is becoming an
even bigger icon. He's in the Blues Brothers.
He's getting sampled by every hip hop artist
on earth. What is Lloyd doing during this time?
He's living a relatively quiet life dealing with
health issues. But the resentment or maybe just
the realization of injustice is brewing and it
finally boils over in 2002. This is the lawsuit.
Yes. In 2002, Lloyd Stallworth is 61 years old.
He teams up with other members of the Flames,
Bobby Bird, Bobby Bennett, and they sue James
Brown. And this wasn't for a few thousand bucks,
was it? No. Baby Lloyd and Bobby Bennett were
seeking $7 million. Bobby Bird wanted $5 million.
And their argument was basically, you never paid
us those royalties from the 60s. Correct. They
argued that because of their songwriting, their
arrangement contributions, they were owed a share
of the profits that had been compounding for
40 years. So this seems pretty straightforward.
If they wrote the songs, they should get paid.
Why did the lawsuit fail? This is where the legal
system can be incredibly cruel. The case wasn't
dismissed because the judge said, you didn't
write the songs. It wasn't dismissed because
the judge said, James Brown doesn't owe you money.
Then why? It was dismissed because of the statute
of limitations. The cloak ran out. Exactly. The
defense argued that if they weren't paid in 1965,
they should have sued in, like, 1968. You can't
wake up in 2002 and sue for something that happened
in the Kennedy administration. But wait, isn't
there an argument that every time a record is
sold, a new payment is owed? Like, if a radio
station plays Think today, isn't that a new event?
That's called the continuous accrual doctrine,
and it's exactly what their lawyers tried to
argue. They said, hey, James Brown is still selling
these records, so the theft is happening right
now. But the court didn't buy it, not in this
specific context regarding the underlying contracts.
They ruled... that the original breach happened
decades ago. That is such a bitter pill to swallow.
You're right, but you're too late. And the timing
makes it even more tragic. The lawsuit was filed
in 2002, but Lloyd Stallworth never even saw
the inside of a courtroom. Why not? He passed
away in October 2002. Oh, man. He died from complications
of diabetes. He was only 61. So right as he finally
worked up the courage to demand what was his,
he was gone. So he dies without the money. And
at that point, he still doesn't have the recognition,
right? Because we have to talk about the Rock
and Roll Hall of Fame. This is the final insult,
really. James Brown was inducted into the Hall
of Fame in 1986. First ballot. Charter member.
And the Flames? Not invited. How does that even
happen? We just spent 10 minutes talking about
how they were the engine of the sound. How do
you induct the hood ornament, but not the engine?
It's the great man narrative again. The Hall
of Fame, especially in the early days, focused
on the front man. Years later, the CEO of the
Rock Hall, a guy named Terry Stewart, he actually
admitted it. He said there was no legislative
intent to leave them out. He said, quote, somehow
they just got overlooked. Overlooked. That is
a very polite way of saying you're raced. It
is. And it took them 26 years to fix the oversight.
26 years. In 2011, they formed a special committee
to look at backing groups. The Crickets, the
Midnighters, the Famous Flames. They decided
to finally induct them in 2012. But by 2012.
Lloyd is gone. Lloyd had been dead for a decade.
Johnny Terry was gone. Bobby Bird was gone. When
the ceremony finally happened, only one member,
Bobby Bennett, was alive to walk up to that podium.
That image is just heavy. Standing there alone,
receiving an award for a group that's basically
gone. It was bittersweet. But the person who
inducted them, Smokey Robinson, gave a speech
that I think is the most important takeaway from
this entire story. Smokey Robinson knows a thing
or two about groups. He was with the Miracles.
Exactly. And he looked at the audience and he
said, these people do not stand behind you. They
stand with you. They stand with you. I like that.
And then he kind of dropped the mic metaphorically.
He said, if James Brown was the hardest working
man in show business, the famous Flames were
the hardest working group. Finally, some vindication.
It's in the history books now. And recently we
have seen a bit more recognition. Lloyd was a
character in the James Brown biopic Get On Up
in 2014. And in 2020, he was inducted into the
National Rhythm and Blues Hall of Fame. So we've
gone from the valet parking the car to the top
of the charts, to the clerical staff, to the
courtroom, and finally to the Hall of Fame. It
is a wild arc. It really is. So when we step
back and look at the life of Lloyd Stallworth.
What's the big lesson here? What are we supposed
to take away from this? I think it's a warning
about how we consume history. We like our icons
to be singular. It's easier to put one face on
a t -shirt. But culture isn't made by individuals.
It's made by constellations of people. Lloyd
Stallworth proves that you can be essential,
you can be a genius in your own right, and you
can still be forgotten if you don't control your
own narrative. It's a reminder to always read
the liner notes. Always read the liner notes.
That's where the truth is. Because without the
baby Lloyds of the world, the Godfathers just
don't sound the same. They absolutely don't.
The James Brown sound is the Lloyd Stallworth
sound. That is a powerful thought. And I want
to leave our listener with one more question
to chew on today. What's that? Next time you're
scrolling through Spotify or watching the biggest
pop star in the world perform at the Super Bowl,
look at the person standing three feet to their
left. Look at the person in the shadows holding
the guitar or singing the harmony. Who is the
baby Lloyd of 2026? Who is the person doing the
work, writing the hooks, making the magic happen
right now who we might not give an award to for
another 30 years? And are they getting billing
or just a salary? That is the real question.
Thanks for diving deep with us today.