Sly comes in from the cold

The suspense was as thick as the rock ’em sock ’em bass lines, the purring organ, the militant horns and the vague sense of disbelief.

Sly and the Family Stone was working up a sweat without its namesake, digging into tunes with enough force to rattle the ice cubes in your drink.

First came "Dance to the Music," an exuberant romp with high-stepping guitar licks.

Then came "Everyday People," an egalitarian anthem that quickens heart rates like caffeine does.

There was "Hot Fun in the Summer Time," but there was no Sly.

Even the trombonist took a turn at the mic at one point.

Fifteen minutes in, the crowd began to grow as restless as the band’s shifty rhythms.

It looked as if this dry run for a possible reunion tour from this storied bunch would be really dry. Parched, in fact.

But then there he was, all aglitter, looking like a perspiring gemstone, like he’d been covered in an imploded disco ball.

Sporting a bright-red sequined jacket, oversized shades and shiny black boots, the notoriously reclusive Sly Stone materialized like the ghost of R&B’s past, a funk forebear who’s finally come out of hiding.

Ambling onstage with a pump of the fist, Sly leaned into his keyboard hard and gripped the mic with both hands, as if he were strangling the life out of a mortal enemy.

Beginning with a loose-limbed waltz, Sly slowly worked himself into the set, seemingly acknowledging his initial stiffness.

"Is anyone here as old as me?" Sly, 64, asked with a sigh and a chuckle. "It’s been a long day."

It was an unlikely setting for a comeback like this. The band performed at the cozy Flamingo Showroom after comedian George Wallace’s show.

"Tonight, we’re makin’ history here," Wallace announced before Sly and Co. took the stage.

That may be a bit of a stretch.

Sly’s voice didn’t shine nearly as bright as his wardrobe, and he was occasionally out of sync with the rest of the band, struggling to keep pace, like a runner with a pulled hamstring.

Still, he seemed to be enjoying the moment, stomping his feet to the beat, gesticulating like a cop directing traffic.

"I want to thank you for the party," he sang. "I want to thank you for letting me be myself."

Throughout his relatively brief time on stage, Sly was loose and good-humored, flashing the ever-ready smile of a used car salesman, attempting to explain his long absence from the public eye. Except for a brief appearance at the Grammys last year, Sly hadn’t performed with the band since the late ’80s.

"I been makin’ babies," he announced.

Back in action, Sly and his band mates roared through standards like "Family Affair" with the emphasis on torque, rather than finesse.

Then there was a climactic "I Want to Take You Higher," rendered a boisterous jam with some furious sax playing and Sly karate-chopping the air as the crowd danced in the aisles.

Shortly thereafter, Sly would wave goodbye to the crowd a final time while the band played on.

And then this grinning specter swiftly returned to the shadows from whence he came.