The mug shot of James Brown that appeared in January following his arrest for domestic violence revealed a sad-eyed, wild-haired, bewildered old man. Comedians mocked him. Tabloids paraded the photo as evidence of another celebrity run amok. For many young music fans, Brown is little more than a figure of fun, a crazy old coot, a morning-drive punch line.

But for those who love and understand his contribution to American music, Brown isn’t, and never will be, a joke. Born poor in the segregated pre–Civil Rights South, this Augusta, Georgia, native danced in the streets for money and did jail time for petty crime. But once he matched his powerful church-trained voice to the crowd-pleasing dance moves he developed in the street, Brown emerged in the late 1950s as a force in black music.

Unlike the disheveled perp peering out from tabloid front pages, the young Brown was a well-groomed showman who kept himself in immaculate shape and ran his band with military precision. Musicians who missed cues or flubbed notes were fined. His employees didn’t call him James; he was “Mr. Brown” to almost everyone in his orbit.

Hip-hop musicians, especially, value Brown’s enormous musical contributions. His R&B and funk recordings from the late ’60s and early ’70s have been sampled by virtually every important rap artist, from old-school icons Public Enemy to gangstas N.W.A right up to the slick, MTV-ready rhymes of P. Diddy. It’s not an overstatement to say that Brown’s recordings were the rhythmic blueprint for hip-hop.

But back in 1962, he wasn’t yet an icon; he was an eager R&B up-and-comer trying to carve out an identity in a crowded, talented marketplace. His main rivals were the crooner Sam Cooke, who looked like Denzel Washington and sang like an angel, and Jackie Wilson, who had an operatic tenor and slick, hip-shaking dance steps. Though both Cooke and Wilson were charismatic, handsome entertainers, neither could top Brown, his three singer-dancers, the Famous Flames, or his 12-piece band when it came to putting on a show. To separate himself from his competitors, Brown proposed a bold move: to record a live album at the most important black-music venue in the country, Harlem’s Apollo Theater.

His label, King Records, resisted. There had been few live albums by R&B singers. Moreover, the label’s owner, Syd Nathan, didn’t believe Brown could generate any singles from a concert record. Bucking conventional wisdom, Brown forced King to record his midnight show on October 24, 1962, a decision that turned Brown from just another R&B star into a legend. The LP stayed on the pop album charts for 66 weeks and reached number 2 in an era when hardcore R&B never crossed over to white audiences. Afterward, fans crowned Brown “the hardest-working man in show business,” one of the many affectionate nicknames he would earn as he grew into an institution inseparable not just from black music but from the very struggles and triumphs of his people.

The Apollo show is both raw and cooked, with Brown’s gritty, guttural vocals backed by razor-sharp horns and an agile, precise rhythm section. In contrast to the pioneering funk records he would make later in the decade, this 40-minute set is filled with pleading ballads (“Try Me,” “I’ll Go Crazy,” “I Don’t Mind”) that have Brown begging for love, sex, forgiveness, you name it. This isn’t sweet soul, but tough, aching, reckless music.

His band became nearly as influential as Brown himself.

Seven horns (three trumpets, three saxophones, one trombone) add punch and poetry. Some of the arrangements by musical director Louis Hamblin echo the big-band past, while others suggest the more percussive soul-horn style still a few years in the future. Two drummers are featured, Clayton Fillyau and Sam Latham, an arrangement as unusual then as it is now. The group is as well-drilled as a Marine platoon, discipline that’s particularly evident in the lightning transitions from song to song during a mid-set medley. Perhaps in fear of reprimand or unemployment, this band plays as one under the boss’s barked commands.

It’s an approach the Apollo audience adored. The voices of the 1,500 or so fans in attendance are as prominent in the mix as Fillyau’s snare drum. The screams of pleasure and shouts of encouragement flow in and out of songs as if part of the choruses. But unlike, say, Beatles fans of the same period, the Apollo crowd doesn’t drown Brown out but participates in a call-and-response with him. This intense love affair between Brown and the black community is what later earned him the title “Godfather of Soul.”

Years after the actual show, several singles were culled from this recording (“Lost Someone,” “I’ll Go Crazy”) and played on radio, defying all the doubters. Those edited songs are included here as bonus tracks, making this release the most comprehensive document of that electric night in 1962. Many have called Live at the Apollo the greatest concert album of all time. True or not, this reissue makes the case for Brown as an extraordinarily passionate talent, rightfully aware of his own greatness. If you know only the mug shot, then you don’t know James Brown.

DOWNLOAD THESE “Try Me,” “Night Train,” “Lost Someone”