Or: Sweet Chariots Of The Gods?, a gospel record about finding a connection with ancient aliens and the universe’s wider origins through the power of funk. It’s not a complicated concept, and it feels nearly as parodic of its interstellar-traveller vibe as it does sincere (“Are you hip to Easter Island? The Bermuda Triangle?”) — but it took the pop-culture sway of its New Age-y contemporary influences somewhere special. It’s one of those cases where a veteran act’s unexpected breakthrough couples with a series of notable firsts — their first album to feature Fred Wesley and Maceo Parker, their first to go platinum, their first to kick off the idea of an interconnected Parliament mythos with the introduction of the character Star Child — and gels into an album widely agreed by casual fans and hardcore enthusiasts alike to be their best.

It’s almost deceptively simple to figure out why: it’s their hookiest, their most chantable, the one with the most band-defining quotes that wound up defining so many people outside the band. “Make my funk the P-Funk/ I want my funk uncut” (what’s up, Dr. Dre); “If you hear any noise/It’s just me and the boys” (word to Dave Parker); literally every single line in “Give Up The Funk (Tear The Roof Off The Sucker)” (greetings to all citizens of the universe). And it’s absurd in its stick-in-your-craw sense of fun, even when it’s kind of mean. The one questionable track, the excessively woman-possessive “Handcuffs,” still self-mocks its ridiculousness in feeling more like a parody of sexism than a reinforcement of it (“I don’t care about looking like a chauvinistic kinda whatever”); with George being inspired to write it by some turns of phrase from L.A. hookup Janet McLaughlin, a woman with the same get-your-hooks-in attitude towards men, he wound up giving her a writing credit.

Of course, it’s also a major triumph of arranging and composing: getting Fred and Maceo onboard was one of the biggest coups in R&B history, the James Brown band’s key horn players adding another level of sophistication to Parliament’s sound without jeopardizing the overall outrageousness. (Adding session vets the Brecker Brothers and CTI fixture Joe Farrell into the brass ranks sure didn’t hurt.) The Bernie/Bootsy braintrust notched two of their most immortal grooves — the masterful quiet-loud-quiet ebb and flow of “P. Funk (Wants To Get Funked Up)” and the glide-in-your-stride/dip-in-your-hip structure of “Mothership Connection (Star Child)” — and played their asses off everywhere else, too, from the slinky-kneed “Supergroovalisticprosifunkstication” to the Space Bass/quack-synth nuttiness of “Night Of The Thumpasorus Peoples.” And it’s also a triumph of Parliament as the apotheosis of nearly two preceding decades’ worth of street-corner harmonizing, with the ten-miles-deep intro of Ray Davis and the Hallelujah chorus in “Tear The Roof Off The Sucker (Give Up The Funk)” only the highest of an entire reel of highlights.

But that lyrical simplicity and musical depth obscure the heart of this record: that ancient futurism, a modern past, and “once upon a time called Right Now” all spiritually intersect in funny ways, where the latest in cutting-edge synthesizers can bounce along melodies with an Ellington lineage and close-harmony doo-wop can anticipate Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. Whether the higher spirit is God or our galaxy-crossing ancestors, both of which P-Funk tie in deeply with their conscious yet self-interrogating and perception-transcending idea of Blackness, their praise and celebration of finding revelation and salvation in a better place permeates everything; classic brass lines and state-of-the-art Minimoog whistles alike feel like being called up (and home). “You have overcome, for I am here,” Clinton states in the title cut, and it’s hard to think of a more joyous celebration.