Jellybean Johnson: The Secret Star Who Powered Prince’s Funk Empire

Max Sterling, 11/23/2025A soulful tribute to Jellybean Johnson—Prince’s funk architect, mentor, and heartbeat of Minneapolis Sound.

For folks who spent time in those sweaty, humming Twin Cities venues (the kind that smell faintly of spilled bourbon and old wood), Johnson was more than a drummer. He was the metronome ticking away behind The Time’s most infectious tracks, sure, but he was also the guy whose guitar could glide from a sly whisper to a thunderclap in one bar. To laymen, he was just one of Prince’s trusted lieutenants. To locals, he was the glue—call it mortar, call it magic—catching every loose stone as Prince and the rest built the Minneapolis Sound, that beautifully disorderly collision of funk, rock, and R&B.

Of course, the Minneapolis Sound didn’t begin—or end—with purple rain and paisley suits. Anyone who’d lingered late at Bunker’s or the Minnesota Music Cafe could tell you: Jellybean was the bandleader who never really clocked out. Even after chart-topping days, there he was, riding shotgun with Jay Bee and the Routine, jamming with St. Paul Peterson, or standing a little off the main drag, eyes scanning for fresh talent he could steal a minute with. Some called it mentoring. Truth is, he seemed addicted to discovering what the next young kid could do.

His death—a gut punch, sudden as silence after a snare hit—stunned those who figured he'd simply keep playing until someday, maybe, he’d nod off between sets. Strange to imagine those stages now without his wild shirts and even wilder grin. Paul Peterson (joined to him like rhythm to groove since '83) called Johnson “an absolute icon—an architect of the Minneapolis Sound.” Peterson marveled that his friend would rather hit a tiny bar on a Tuesday night than bask in old glories. “Dude played every night because he loved it. It was his lifeblood.” Those words hung in the air, cracked and honest.

And what a résumé: a cameo in “Purple Rain” (blink and you might miss it, but don’t blink); the lightning-bolt groove on Janet Jackson’s "Black Cat," which tore up the charts in 1990 with as much attitude as any rock track of that year; steady-handed production for New Edition, Alexander O’Neal, Mint Condition—the sort of work that doesn’t just fill out a discography, but bursts with invention. In 2008, sharing the Grammy stage with Rihanna, the crowd got a taste of what anyone paying attention already knew: the Minneapolis Sound isn’t museum music, it’s still learning new steps.

If Prince wore the founder’s crown, maybe Johnson was the city’s high priest—spiritual caretaker more than showman. Jimmy Jam cut through the clutter, calling him “ambassador of Minneapolis music.” There’s a stubborn sort of pride in that: Jellybean could’ve made it all about himself, but he channeled energy back into the scene. Just two years ago, with his family, he kickstarted the Minneapolis Sound Museum, shoring up the future for kids with guitars and big, goofy dreams—a reminder that the beat might skip, but it never stops.

Rewind a few days before the news broke: Marty Bragg, Johnson’s partner, toasted his birthday beside him at Capital Grille, then caught the “Purple Rain” musical. Normal stuff, almost, unless you know what it’s like to celebrate another lap around the sun when you’ve already lived more lifetimes than most of us fit into one—and you still bother cheering on the little community center band you started in.

Take a moment with Johnson’s own words—he posted them on his birthday, maybe not expecting they’d outlast him: “I’ve been blessed to live a life shaped by music, community, and the love of people who believed in me long before the world knew my name. When I look back, I don’t first think about the big stages or awards—I think about The Way… that little community center on the North Side of Minneapolis where a bunch of young kids picked up instruments and discovered who we were meant to be.” It’s not slick, not rehearsed, but perfectly him.

Tributes have been pouring in—some shot through with humor, some dazed by shock. Sheila E., for one, wrote, “We are devastated by this news. I’m praying for his family and all the kids. He was a kind human being, extremely talented and funny... He had a great sense of humor and [was] an awesome guitar player. Yesterday was your birthday, I forgot to call you and I’m so sorry. I love u Bean. Rest in peace and power.” There’s nothing neat about grief. Sometimes it sounds like a missed beat in a song you thought you knew by heart.

In the end, call it legacy, or just lived-in truth—a city’s nightlife, its hungry creative kids, its endless new bands, are all threaded with the sound Johnson helped to invent and protect. He never took himself too seriously (that was for the tourists), but the music was sacred. Every club in Minneapolis will be a little quieter for a while, but that off-center, funky beat he left behind? It’s just waiting for someone with a battered guitar and nothing to prove to pick it up again.

So, in this season of uncertainty and reflection—2025 still feeling like a year at the crossroads—Jellybean’s rhythm quietly pulses under the ice, through the streets, in the breath of anyone who believes that music and community have no expiration date. The legend, for once, doesn’t need a statue or a street sign. The groove is enough.

Jellybean Johnson wasn’t exactly the type to vanish into a crowd—not in Minneapolis, not in 1983, not in 2025, and certainly not with that look. Picture it: top hat perched with the confidence of a jazz monarch, coat as showy as a flame, and the sort of quiet swagger that had new arrivals recovering their balance and regulars nodding knowingly. Johnson—who left us, all too suddenly, Friday night at the age of 69—never needed to announce himself. You felt him before you spotted him, much like the rumble of a kick drum that rolls through the floorboards before the lights hit the stage.For folks who spent time in those sweaty, humming Twin Cities venues (the kind that smell faintly of spilled bourbon and old wood), Johnson was more than a drummer. He was the metronome ticking away behind The Time’s most infectious tracks, sure, but he was also the guy whose guitar could glide from a sly whisper to a thunderclap in one bar. To laymen, he was just one of Prince’s trusted lieutenants. To locals, he was the glue—call it mortar, call it magic—catching every loose stone as Prince and the rest built the Minneapolis Sound, that beautifully disorderly collision of funk, rock, and R&B.Of course, the Minneapolis Sound didn’t begin—or end—with purple rain and paisley suits. Anyone who’d lingered late at Bunker’s or the Minnesota Music Cafe could tell you: Jellybean was the bandleader who never really clocked out. Even after chart-topping days, there he was, riding shotgun with Jay Bee and the Routine, jamming with St. Paul Peterson, or standing a little off the main drag, eyes scanning for fresh talent he could steal a minute with. Some called it mentoring. Truth is, he seemed addicted to discovering what the next young kid could do.His death—a gut punch, sudden as silence after a snare hit—stunned those who figured he'd simply keep playing until someday, maybe, he’d nod off between sets. Strange to imagine those stages now without his wild shirts and even wilder grin. Paul Peterson (joined to him like rhythm to groove since '83) called Johnson “an absolute icon—an architect of the Minneapolis Sound.” Peterson marveled that his friend would rather hit a tiny bar on a Tuesday night than bask in old glories. “Dude played every night because he loved it. It was his lifeblood.” Those words hung in the air, cracked and honest.And what a résumé: a cameo in “Purple Rain” (blink and you might miss it, but don’t blink); the lightning-bolt groove on Janet Jackson’s "Black Cat," which tore up the charts in 1990 with as much attitude as any rock track of that year; steady-handed production for New Edition, Alexander O’Neal, Mint Condition—the sort of work that doesn’t just fill out a discography, but bursts with invention. In 2008, sharing the Grammy stage with Rihanna, the crowd got a taste of what anyone paying attention already knew: the Minneapolis Sound isn’t museum music, it’s still learning new steps.If Prince wore the founder’s crown, maybe Johnson was the city’s high priest—spiritual caretaker more than showman. Jimmy Jam cut through the clutter, calling him “ambassador of Minneapolis music.” There’s a stubborn sort of pride in that: Jellybean could’ve made it all about himself, but he channeled energy back into the scene. Just two years ago, with his family, he kickstarted the Minneapolis Sound Museum, shoring up the future for kids with guitars and big, goofy dreams—a reminder that the beat might skip, but it never stops.Rewind a few days before the news broke: Marty Bragg, Johnson’s partner, toasted his birthday beside him at Capital Grille, then caught the “Purple Rain” musical. Normal stuff, almost, unless you know what it’s like to celebrate another lap around the sun when you’ve already lived more lifetimes than most of us fit into one—and you still bother cheering on the little community center band you started in.Take a moment with Johnson’s own words—he posted them on his birthday, maybe not expecting they’d outlast him: “I’ve been blessed to live a life shaped by music, community, and the love of people who believed in me long before the world knew my name. When I look back, I don’t first think about the big stages or awards—I think about The Way… that little community center on the North Side of Minneapolis where a bunch of young kids picked up instruments and discovered who we were meant to be.” It’s not slick, not rehearsed, but perfectly him.Tributes have been pouring in—some shot through with humor, some dazed by shock. Sheila E., for one, wrote, “We are devastated by this news. I’m praying for his family and all the kids. He was a kind human being, extremely talented and funny... He had a great sense of humor and [was] an awesome guitar player. Yesterday was your birthday, I forgot to call you and I’m so sorry. I love u Bean. Rest in peace and power.” There’s nothing neat about grief. Sometimes it sounds like a missed beat in a song you thought you knew by heart.In the end, call it legacy, or just lived-in truth—a city’s nightlife, its hungry creative kids, its endless new bands, are all threaded with the sound Johnson helped to invent and protect. He never took himself too seriously (that was for the tourists), but the music was sacred. Every club in Minneapolis will be a little quieter for a while, but that off-center, funky beat he left behind? It’s just waiting for someone with a battered guitar and nothing to prove to pick it up again.So, in this season of uncertainty and reflection—2025 still feeling like a year at the crossroads—Jellybean’s rhythm quietly pulses under the ice, through the streets, in the breath of anyone who believes that music and community have no expiration date. The legend, for once, doesn’t need a statue or a street sign. The groove is enough.