Even for those of us who knew Mani only through his music, and not as the beloved friend and father he was, his early departure is a loss. What a sound he gave us.

I still listen to “The Stone Roses” often, and I never turn off “Fools Gold” when it saunters on the air. But my favorite Stone Roses song was one of the last few records I ever bought: “One Love,” a distillation of the baggy Manchester sound, still mesmerizing 35 years later.

“Fools Gold” had an equally powerful undertow in Gary “Mani” Mounfield’s slinky, infectious bassline. I’d always thought of his bass as a subtly irresistible element of the Stone Roses, but the tributes rolling in since he died on Thursday, at 63, suggest he was more appreciated than I’d realized.

The centerpiece of “Fools Gold” wasn’t the stoned nonchalance of singer Ian Brown but the groove laid down by the band’s funky drummer, Alan “Reni” Wren, channeling a sound I would eventually recognize as the teachings of Clyde Stubblefield, with James Brown, and Tony Allen, with Fela Kuti.

“The Stone Roses” was just starting to make the rounds, and I’d arrived at the party a couple minutes too early: I got the first U.S. pressing, without “Fools Gold 9.53”—the number refers to its epic running time—which quickly became the highlight of the album and the band’s career.

When I finally faced the music and bought a Sony Discman, I suddenly needed discs. I started out with five, including a new CD I’d read great things about, the eponymous début by The Stone Roses: a swirling, bratty, psychedelic groove that seized me from the moment I first put it on.

In an administration Cabinet comprised entirely of clownish, psychotic Coen Brothers villains, the realist caricature style is the portraiture style this moment calls for.

That “I” wilting with shame off his shoulder’s “FBI” label seems almost, but not quite, gratuitous.

With his shoulders thrown back, his flared nostrils gasping for oxygen, Kirchner’s Patel is just trying to keep it together for the next minute, hyperventilating through a panic attack while his bullying boss screams in his face.

But Kirchner goes further. He captures the spooked gaze and posture of a callow young man—Patel is 45—who’s just realized the waves have swept him several miles past the buoys.

Kirchner presents Patel with the trademark bulging eyes, practically brimming over with stimulants, no political cartoonist could possibly resist, and yet it’s no exaggeration: this unsettling stare is entirely faithful to the one Sgt. Keisha Brown captured in Patel’s official U.S. Army portrait.