Jellybean Johnson: A legacy of joy and genius

On stage, Jellybean Johnson was thunder and electricity. Behind the drum kit, behind the guitar, and behind the curtain of Minneapolis fame, he was a force so steady and full of joy that even those who played beside him for 50 years still struggle to believe he’s gone.

But for his daughter, Bianca Rhodes, the first image that flashes is simpler: a towering man in a long coat stepping into her North Side daycare, arms outstretched. “‘Daddy’s big baby, how’s that baby?’” he would say, scooping her up. “I’ll never forget that,” she said. “His hugs, his kisses, his joy. That’s what comes first.”

Johnson: drummer, guitarist, producer, and an architect of the Minneapolis Sound, died suddenly Nov. 21, two days after his birthday, sending shockwaves through a community that has long regarded him as one of its brightest cultural pillars. His loss has left Minnesota’s musical elders grieving, young musicians reflective, and his family determined to protect his legacy. And across the Twin Cities, the stories pouring out reveal a man who lived his life tuned to one frequency: connection.

“Bean was the same person wherever you saw him,” said Gary Hines, bandleader of Sounds of Blackness. “Whether it was the Grammys, Bunkers or on the street… positive, encouraging, hilarious. His stage persona was just an amplification of who he already was.” Hines learned of his passing the same day the two traded their usual affectionate texts. “We always said, ‘I love you.’ I’m so glad we said it that day,” he said. “What comes from the heart reaches the heart, and Bean’s heart was enormous.”

To many in Minneapolis, Johnson was the connective tissue between musical generations. He could be at Flyte Tyme [the Minneapolis funk band Harris and Johnson were a part of] one night, mentoring high-school players the next, then dropping in at Minnesota Music Café later that evening. “He always showed up,” said James “Jimmy Jam” Harris. “He might play drums at one club, guitar at another. Every night he was out making music or supporting it. He lived and breathed it.”

Harris credits Johnson with altering the entire trajectory of his career. “I brought my drums to join Terry’s [Terry Lewis of Flyte Tyme] band, and Terry said, ‘We already have a drummer… Jellybean.’ So I became a keyboardist because of him. That changed everything.” He laughed remembering Johnson’s dual nature: the quiet, introspective drummer and the fiery, spotlight-ready guitarist. “He was rock solid and flamboyant at the same time,” he said. “That was Bean.”

At home, Rhodes said, her father moved at a different rhythm: three TVs playing at once, blues humming in the background, guitar riffs drifting through the house while he read the newspaper at lightning speed. “Everybody knows Jellybean. Only a few of us know Garry,” she said, referring to his legal name. “He was introverted, relaxed, listening to Parliament or Sly, playing guitar, and watching basketball.”

Her childhood was filled with small, indelible memories: forehead kisses she refused to wipe off; Timberwolves games at the old Flyte Tyme suite; watching him on “Arsenio Hall” and “Saturday Night Live”; listening to him critique drummers who attempted to play “777-9311” correctly on YouTube. “As I got older, I understood, music was his first love. So I met him where he was,” she said. “If I wanted to spend time with him, I’d go to the clubs, go to rehearsals, be part of his world.”

Johnson’s musical fingerprints are everywhere: The Time’s “Cool,” Janet Jackson’s “Black Cat,” Alexander O’Neal’s “Criticize,” and Mint Condition’s debut album among them. But for those who worked with him, his spirit mattered just as much. “He didn’t just influence the Minneapolis Sound, he embodied it,” Harris said. “He took it international. He helped shape the rock energy, the funk backbone, the precision.”

Hines agreed. “His drumming was the heartbeat of the Minneapolis Sound. His guitar was fire. And his soul held it all together.”

Younger musicians often describe Johnson as a lifeline. “He was a musicians’ musician,” Rhodes said. “He had nephews everywhere, musicians he loved, who called him Uncle Garry.” Hines recalled countless moments of Johnson mentoring in schools, community centers, clubs and rehearsal halls. “He would sit in, advise, and encourage. He made people better,” he said. Harris added that Johnson also advocated fiercely behind the scenes. “You always knew Bean had your back.”

In recent years, Johnson devoted himself to building what he hoped would be a final, lasting contribution: the Minneapolis Sound Museum. Conceived as both a cultural archive and a forward-facing hub for young artists, the space will include rehearsal rooms, classrooms, a soundstage and community gathering areas. Rhodes, who serves as vice president of the board, said the idea took root after the family lost a musician close to them to suicide. “We realized: how does Minneapolis not have this?” she said. “This is music that changed the world.”

What she wants people to remember, she said, is her father’s joy and his shredding. “His solos are legendary,” she said. “He could go until the ancestors told him to stop.” She hopes fans celebrate rather than mourn: “Daddy wouldn’t want us sad. He’d want us dancing. Make a playlist… The Time, Janet, Mint Condition, and enjoy yourself.”

Hines echoed that message. “His love for this community was fierce,” he said. “His spirit is still here.” Harris summed it up simply: “He was just a good guy. A great guy. And his influence will ripple out for generations.”

Rhodes believes her father prepared her for this moment, even if neither fully understood it at the time. “The body stays, but the energy never dies,” she said. “Daddy did what he needed to do. He left his legacy in place. And he’s still with us.”

And she knows exactly what he would say now: “He’d want you to dance, be happy, and shake your booty.”
Scott Selmer welcomes reader responses at sselmer@spokesman-recorder.com