Sharon Jones is one of the fastest-rising R&B singers around. Her instrument and stage presence rival the greats: Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight. She's got moves, too. When Jones dances, audiences leap to their feet. She puts Ciara, Ashanti, Mya, and all those other so-called divas to shame.

But you won't see her videos on MTV2, or hear songs from her sophomore album, Naturally, on KUBE. She doesn't promote her releases by posing for Maxim or Blender, her dignity concealed behind a g-string and a couple Post-It notes. No hair extensions, no cosmetic surgery, no personal trainer. With Sharon Jones, what you get isn't just what you see, or hear, but how she and her band, the Dap-Kings, make you feel, deep down. Every note she sings, every shimmy of her hips, is informed by a lifetime of perseverance.

And the best part? Sharon Jones didn't even start her ascent until she'd passed an age when most artists are writing cookbooks and playing casinos.

"When I was younger, in the '70s or the '80s, I couldn't make it in the music scene," she recalls. "They said I was too dark-skinned. People wanted me to bleach my skin!" But her surname is Jones, not Jackson--she retained her natural pigmentation, and forged on. "They told me I was too short, or too fat. And then I was too old." Last Wednesday, Sharon Jones turned 49. These days, her biggest worry is coping with being bumped into a higher income-tax bracket.

Listening to Naturally, or the 2002 debut full-length, Dap Dippin' with Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, one could easily mistake the James Brown-style riffs, horn blasts, and earthy vocals leaping off the grooves as artifacts from a bygone era. In fact, when many folks heard her breakout single, a gut-bucket-funky overhaul of "What Have You Done for Me Lately," they thought Janet Jackson had appropriated the song from her, not vice-versa. Her songs, penned by Dap-Kings bassist and bandleader Bosco Mann, recall the days when emancipation proclamations like the Honey Cone's "Want Ads" burned up the charts. When her man can't keep up, Jones pulls no punches ("Your Thing Is a Drag"); when he pleases her, she celebrates ("Natural Born Lover").

Does it bother Jones that younger female artists seem to enjoy less freedom, so even Destiny's Child feel compelled to offset their stance as "Independent Women" by turning around and pleading for the strong embrace of a "Soldier"? Not especially. "I guess it does," she concedes, "but I'm not thinking about that. Whatever they're singing about, it's not even about singing. It's about exposing bodies. It's all about sex."

"Everything about rhythm, moving, and grooving is getting lost," says Jones of the music peddled by her juniors. "What we're doing is just playing deep, funky stuff, showing people the old dances, and having fun. Doing what I thank God I'm still able to do."

Born in Augusta, Georgia--the same town that spawned James Brown--Jones grew up listening to the R&B stars of the day. "When I was a kid, I was imitating the Supremes, Mary Wells, Tina Turner." Her family moved to Brooklyn in her adolescence, and she began providing backing vocals, often sans credit, for assorted funk, disco, and gospel sessions. Yet wider success eluded her, and when tastes changed with the onset of the '80s, singing gigs dried up. "A lot of times, the only money I was getting from work was for playing in church on Sundays."

Jones never quit singing, though. In 1996, she was discovered by the dusty-groove enthusiasts at indie funk imprint Desco Records, and issued a series of singles. (One of those early cuts, the wailing "Genuine," appears on the new BBE double-disc The Kings of Funk, compiled the RZA and Keb Darge.) Word began to spread. Nearly a decade of nonstop live gigs and low-budget tours later, she is finally seeing the dividends of nearly 50 years of dedication.

"It took me until I was in my 40s to be recognized and get heard," she concludes, her voice inflected with joy. "A lot of my old friends, when I was finally coming up, they'd say, 'Oh, you're doing that old funk music. James Brown!' They laughed. But who's laughing now?"

editor@thestranger.com