A man caught mid-sound, mid-breath, mid-push. A face shaped by effort, not age. Sweat telling the truth better than any praise ever could. Nothing here is posed. Nothing here is easy. This is music dragged through the body until there’s nothing left to give. He didn’t perform to be remembered. He performed because stopping was never an option. And when the work was finished, the work was finished. James Brown May 3, 1933 – December 25, 2006