There are pieces of music that define an era, and then there are those that simply explode it. They arrive like a chaotic transmission from an unknown future, disrupting the clean narrative of what came before. Stevie Wonder’s “Fingertips,” specifically the single’s ascendant B-side, “Part 2,” is one such detonation. It is less a finished studio product and more a captured moment of uncontainable, raw genius—a blueprint for the ecstatic, improvisational soul that Motown had not yet dared to imagine, much less bottle.
My first encounter with this track was late one Friday night, filtering through the scratchy membrane of an old vinyl record player. The sheer immediacy of the recording was staggering. It felt like stumbling into a packed, humid nightclub at the absolute peak of the performance, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. The track doesn’t fade in; it just starts, right in the middle of a screaming, churning instrumental break. You can practically smell the floor polish of the Regal Theater in Chicago.
This seminal 1963 single wasn’t born in the gleaming, choreographed perfection of Motown’s famous ‘Snakepit’ studio. It was a live recording, captured during a Motortown Revue tour performance. At the time, the young artist was known as “Little Stevie Wonder,” and he was merely a dazzling talent on the bill, still searching for the one definitive hit that would anchor his career. The song itself was an adaptation of an instrumental originally featured on his first studio album, The Jazz Soul of Little Stevie.
The context of its success is critical. Motown was the sound of young America, yes, but it was generally a sound sculpted: clean, tight, and designed for radio rotation. “Fingertips (Part 2)” was none of that. It was nearly six minutes long in its full recorded glory (split for the single), loose, participatory, and fundamentally chaotic. Its chart domination—propelling the accompanying album, Recorded Live: The 12 Year Old Genius, to the top of the charts simultaneously—was an anomaly. It was the sound of a kid, barely a teenager, refusing to be contained by the song structure, the stage, or the expectations of his seasoned producers, Clarence Paul and Henry Cosby.
The arrangement is deceptively simple, yet monumentally effective. The core is an unfussy but relentless rhythm section, driving a frantic Latin-tinged rhythm that sits somewhere between jazz, R&B, and pure, unfettered funk. Drumming on the night was reputedly done by none other than a young Marvin Gaye, whose sharp, crashing fills punctuate the track with a nervous energy that feels utterly modern. The rhythm section never stops pulsing, providing a solid foundation for the dazzling spectacle up front.
And what a spectacle it is. The instrumentation is dominated by Wonder’s utterly unhinged harmonica work. This isn’t the gentle, lilting mouth harp of a folk singer; this is a shrieking, improvisational lead voice, played with a breathless fury that suggests someone literally wrestling the music out of the instrument. The sustain is bright and aggressive, the attack full of sharp, stabbing notes that snake and weave through the horn riff. It demands immediate attention.
The track’s narrative genius, however, lies in its famous false ending. As the crowd roars and the brass swells to a concluding crescendo, the band seemingly wraps up and begins to leave the stage—only for the little genius to come barreling back for an encore, yelling the now-legendary call-out: “Everybody say yeah!” The confusion is audible. A session guitar can be heard trying to jump back in, but the most famous moment is the utterly priceless cry of the replacement bass player, Joe Swift, who was already on stage for the next act: “What key? What key?”
This accidental moment is the heart of the piece of music. It rips the fourth wall right out of the performance. It is a moment of pure, unscripted human theatre that no studio could ever replicate. It cemented the track’s authenticity and gave listeners an intimate, shared experience. The crowd becomes an instrument, shouting back the call-and-response with fervent energy, validating the young man’s decision to continue the jam.
In the midst of this controlled chaos, Wonder’s vocal performance is less sung and more exhorted. He’s urging the crowd, cajoling the band, playing with the moment like a seasoned ringmaster who happens to be thirteen years old. It’s a testament to the raw talent that Berry Gordy, Jr., Motown’s founder, reportedly heard and banked on. A different record executive might have tried to tidy up this glorious mess, to smooth out the transition and excise the flubbed bass line. Thankfully, the grit was left in, providing a tangible texture that transports the listener directly to the moment.
“Fingertips (Part 2)” is a mandatory listen for anyone interested in the foundational movements of funk and soul. It’s a moment of cultural pivot, showcasing a prodigious, unpredictable talent who would go on to reshape modern music entirely. Forget a sterile studio master; this live recording is a vital document, and listening to it on premium audio equipment only serves to heighten the stunning, chaotic fidelity of the captured space. The subsequent decades of Wonder’s innovation, his mastery of the piano and synthesizer in his classic period, are all foreshadowed in the unrestrained freedom of this single moment on a stage in Chicago.
“It is the sound of genius refusing to wait for the sheet music to be printed, grabbing the moment instead.”
This single moment—the accidental second part of a live instrumental—changed everything. It proved that live, unedited energy could sell records, paving the way for a more visceral kind of soul music. When you listen today, it’s not just a song; it’s a time capsule of a young artist’s future, suddenly and forcefully realized.
Listening Recommendations (Adjacent Mood/Era/Arrangement)
- James Brown – “Night Train” (1962): Shares the driving, call-and-response live energy and extended instrumental vamp structure.
- Ramsey Lewis Trio – “The ‘In’ Crowd” (1965): Another successful live instrumental-turned-hit with palpable audience interaction and jazz-soul flavor.
- Hugh Masekela – “Grazing in the Grass” (1968): Features a similarly effervescent, infectious horn/instrumental lead and relentless, joyful rhythm.
- Junior Walker & The All Stars – “Shotgun” (1965): Epitomizes the raucous, no-holds-barred sax/vocal combination in early Motown/Soul.
- Booker T. & the M.G.’s – “Green Onions” (1962): A foundational instrumental soul piece built on an instantly memorable, driving rhythm and keyboard lead.