Jellybean Johnson’s Sudden Passing Sparks Minneapolis Music Scene Shockwaves

Mia Reynolds, 11/23/2025Jellybean Johnson's unexpected passing at 69 sent shockwaves through the Minneapolis music scene. A key figure behind the "Minneapolis Sound," he was known for his guitar mastery and contributions to artists like Prince. His legacy lives on through his music and community impact.

But on a recent Friday, the city’s pulse dropped a beat. Jellybean Johnson—born Garry George Johnson—died unexpectedly at 69. Two nights earlier, he'd marked his birthday with laughter, old friends, and the sort of impromptu jam sessions that could turn an evening into living history. A trip to the “Purple Rain” musical capped it all off, almost as if fate wanted him to have one more brush with the color he helped define.

Across America, the public may remember him for that famously tidy spot behind Prince’s kit, the locomotive of The Time. But dig a little deeper—ask around at the Dakota or the Fine Line, and you’ll find his legend is more sprawling than any radio edit ever allowed. In Minneapolis and St. Paul, Jellybean wasn’t a relic from a golden age of funk. He was very much present: guitar in hand, advice flowing freely, and a grin that could coax stage fright into an encore.

It’s funny—the term architect gets tossed around casually. In Johnson’s case, though, it sticks. That “Minneapolis Sound” everyone talks about? It’s not just marketing. There's a grit there, a synthesis of rock stomp and funk dazzle, the kind you mainly hear when musicians are hungry, broke, and far too restless to give up. Maybe that’s why Jellybean kept returning to smaller clubs even after the headlines faded. Many speak of his gigs with Janet Jackson—“Black Cat” still claws up the radio every so often—or his riffs traded with Alexander O’Neal, Mint Condition, and a half-dozen other Twin Cities legends.

Jimmy Jam, a producer with enough clout to fill a stadium, once pegged Jellybean as "the ambassador of Minneapolis music." It’s hard to disagree. If you played downtown in the last four decades, odds are Johnson popped into your set—or at least into your story. Maybe he shared the stage; maybe he just nodded from the corner while the next kid with a bass tried not to trip over their own cable.

The real secret—one that sometimes gets lost beneath talk of his legendary drumming—was that Johnson lived and breathed through his guitar. Susannah Melvoin, with her own rad pedigree, put it plainly: he was always a guitar player at heart. For Jellybean, the guitar’s pulse was as essential as air, chords running through his veins even while the world applauded his work behind the kit.

And what sticks most isn’t always the arena roar. Sometimes it’s smaller, clearer—an old community center on the North Side, The Way, where a crowd of restless kids clattered through their first chords. Even with the festival spots and Grammy nights later on, it seems Johnson’s favorite memory was that tangled chaos, discovering music with friends before fame ever got in the way. On his last birthday, his own words circled back to those roots: “When I look back, I don’t first think about the big stages or awards—I think about The Way... that little community center where a bunch of young kids picked up instruments and discovered who we were meant to be.”

Art like that goes deeper than nostalgia or press clippings. It's scaffolding—this sense of belonging, connection, music as something everybody owns. Not bad for a guy who could anchor a packed house and still slip in quietly for an open-mic on Monday. There’s a quiet poetry in how his life unfolded: radiating outward from humble rooms, roaring through arenas, then spiraling right back to wherever music needed him most. Not many artists can boast of such symmetry, and even fewer manage it without losing sight of home.

Now, with 2025 on the horizon and a city rising from another icy winter, his absence feels a little like hearing a favorite song drop into silence just before the last verse. For his wife, Marty Bragg, and extended loved ones, that loss is immediate, raw. For the Twin Cities—and anyone anywhere who ever cared to listen—it lingers differently. Like an echo, or perhaps the aftertaste of feedback at the end of a legendary set.

It’s worth noting Johnson’s devotion didn’t stop at making music; he helped found the Minneapolis Sound Museum, stubbornly championing not just the performance, but the preservation of collective memory. You see, for every stadium show, there’s a million moments in small rooms—teachable, wonderful, fleeting—that get swept away unless someone really cares to remember.

The beat is finished, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just waiting for the count-in to some new refrain. Either way, Jellybean Johnson's presence remains—inscribed across city blocks, club stages, and any guitar or drum that waits, patient, for another restless hand. The music hasn’t stopped; it just changed keys. Sometimes, that's legacy in its purest form.

Beneath the brisk hush of a Minneapolis winter, where neon signs nervously spar with the snow-glow and every open door spills a little music onto the sidewalk, one figure always loomed larger than the rhythm itself. Jellybean Johnson was the sort who didn’t just melt into the nightlife—he swaggered with the kind of coat and hat that left bar lights blinking twice, as if to keep up. Impossible to miss, even if you tried.But on a recent Friday, the city’s pulse dropped a beat. Jellybean Johnson—born Garry George Johnson—died unexpectedly at 69. Two nights earlier, he'd marked his birthday with laughter, old friends, and the sort of impromptu jam sessions that could turn an evening into living history. A trip to the “Purple Rain” musical capped it all off, almost as if fate wanted him to have one more brush with the color he helped define.Across America, the public may remember him for that famously tidy spot behind Prince’s kit, the locomotive of The Time. But dig a little deeper—ask around at the Dakota or the Fine Line, and you’ll find his legend is more sprawling than any radio edit ever allowed. In Minneapolis and St. Paul, Jellybean wasn’t a relic from a golden age of funk. He was very much present: guitar in hand, advice flowing freely, and a grin that could coax stage fright into an encore.It’s funny—the term architect gets tossed around casually. In Johnson’s case, though, it sticks. That “Minneapolis Sound” everyone talks about? It’s not just marketing. There's a grit there, a synthesis of rock stomp and funk dazzle, the kind you mainly hear when musicians are hungry, broke, and far too restless to give up. Maybe that’s why Jellybean kept returning to smaller clubs even after the headlines faded. Many speak of his gigs with Janet Jackson—“Black Cat” still claws up the radio every so often—or his riffs traded with Alexander O’Neal, Mint Condition, and a half-dozen other Twin Cities legends.Jimmy Jam, a producer with enough clout to fill a stadium, once pegged Jellybean as "the ambassador of Minneapolis music." It’s hard to disagree. If you played downtown in the last four decades, odds are Johnson popped into your set—or at least into your story. Maybe he shared the stage; maybe he just nodded from the corner while the next kid with a bass tried not to trip over their own cable.The real secret—one that sometimes gets lost beneath talk of his legendary drumming—was that Johnson lived and breathed through his guitar. Susannah Melvoin, with her own rad pedigree, put it plainly: he was always a guitar player at heart. For Jellybean, the guitar’s pulse was as essential as air, chords running through his veins even while the world applauded his work behind the kit.And what sticks most isn’t always the arena roar. Sometimes it’s smaller, clearer—an old community center on the North Side, The Way, where a crowd of restless kids clattered through their first chords. Even with the festival spots and Grammy nights later on, it seems Johnson’s favorite memory was that tangled chaos, discovering music with friends before fame ever got in the way. On his last birthday, his own words circled back to those roots: “When I look back, I don’t first think about the big stages or awards—I think about The Way... that little community center where a bunch of young kids picked up instruments and discovered who we were meant to be.”Art like that goes deeper than nostalgia or press clippings. It's scaffolding—this sense of belonging, connection, music as something everybody owns. Not bad for a guy who could anchor a packed house and still slip in quietly for an open-mic on Monday. There’s a quiet poetry in how his life unfolded: radiating outward from humble rooms, roaring through arenas, then spiraling right back to wherever music needed him most. Not many artists can boast of such symmetry, and even fewer manage it without losing sight of home.Now, with 2025 on the horizon and a city rising from another icy winter, his absence feels a little like hearing a favorite song drop into silence just before the last verse. For his wife, Marty Bragg, and extended loved ones, that loss is immediate, raw. For the Twin Cities—and anyone anywhere who ever cared to listen—it lingers differently. Like an echo, or perhaps the aftertaste of feedback at the end of a legendary set.It’s worth noting Johnson’s devotion didn’t stop at making music; he helped found the Minneapolis Sound Museum, stubbornly championing not just the performance, but the preservation of collective memory. You see, for every stadium show, there’s a million moments in small rooms—teachable, wonderful, fleeting—that get swept away unless someone really cares to remember.The beat is finished, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just waiting for the count-in to some new refrain. Either way, Jellybean Johnson's presence remains—inscribed across city blocks, club stages, and any guitar or drum that waits, patient, for another restless hand. The music hasn’t stopped; it just changed keys. Sometimes, that's legacy in its purest form.