THE BADDEST MUTHAFUCKA EVER monday, december 25, 2006
my phone rang at 6:15 am. not as outrageous an event as it might seem, since i’m usually awake by then, but i was still only semi-conscious at best this particular morning. i figured it would be my friend and fellow early-bird, Linda, and answered as monosyllabically as possible, just for effect:
“unhh….hmm…..yes?”
“Something awful has happened,” she said with distress in her voice.
“To whom?” i asked, still unsure if this tragedy would prove to be more comedic than real.
“James Brown.”
“He’s dead?"
and we all know what her answer was.
i reflect on JB and my thoughts bounce and weave, dance and slide, call and respond like the horns and guitars and bass and drums in any of his so-called classics (i say “so-called” because classic implies the past, and JB's music is completely present). he was everything we’ve ever heard about him, whether it was from pop-culture critics, disgruntled associates, tabloid news, or his own mouth. he was an innovator who revolutionized black music, and therefore, all popular music. he was an egomaniacal tyrant who abused his band members and his women. he was Soul Brother Number One/Mr. Dynamite/the Hardest-Working Man in Show Business/Minister of The New New Super Heavy Funk/the Godfather of Soul. he was a late-night joke with a fucked-up mug shot.
ultimately, in my mind, however, he’s simply The Baddest Muthafucka Ever. unrelenting and unapologetic. bold. crazy. possibly not even of this world. how could someone, a mere human earthling, be that funky? how could someone, a mere human earthling, realize that stripping the song to nothing but its rhythm, putting everything on The One – and not just the first beat of the measure, but one chord, one endless, throat-ripping scream – was the future of music? nobody else was doing that. not Motown. not Stax. nobody recording for Atlantic or Muscle Shoals. only James. his own sound, his own band, his own man. is that kind of inspiration divine or extra-terrestrial? is he dead or just called back to the Mothership?
wherever his spirit came from, it inhabited the body of a man born black and poor in a country and time when such characteristics didn’t hold much promise for a prosperous life. they still don’t. but James, by pure force of will, personality, and talent claimed his place in this world - demanded it, actually – and then changed the culture forever by changing the way humans all over this planet create and communicate through music. he’s not alone in this. Ray Charles did it. Muddy Waters, too. but even as the giants they were, i don’t think they impacted music as profoundly as James.
the music…the music….the music…..…
………..Sex Machine. Super Bad. Soul Power. The Payback. I Don’t Want Nobody To Give Me Nothing. Hot Pants. Give It Up or Turnit A Loose. Get On The Good Foot. Make It Funky. I’m A Greedy Man……..there should be an exclamation point after every title. James screamed these words at us; and sometimes, he just screamed. what was that about, anyway? why was that brotha always screaming? i just enjoyed it on a primal, and yes, humorous, level, until i saw JB talking about it in a documentary. he said there are only two reasons why a man screams – mental pain or physical pain. so that’s what he was showing us, even in all those songs that make us dance, and feel happy and strong. he was letting us know -- this comes from pain. and that’s why his funk is deeper. and his scream is poetry.
so many memories flood my mind….playing his records for my high-school girlfriend and her commenting “it’s just the same thing over and over again” and me saying, “that’s the point!”; my guitar teacher showing me the "James Brown" chord when i asked him to teach me “Sex Machine” – and i’ve worked that D9 to death ever since; the first time i saw him live at the Apollo in ’87, utterly caught up in the mythology of the man and the venue; playing his “In The Jungle Groove” cd for the first time – it began with “It’s A New Day,” and for a second, i wasn’t sure if my body could stand that much funk; plastering the stockroom where i worked with “Free James Brown” stickers when he was serving jail-time in the late 80's, and, when i left the job, receiving a cake with “Free James Brown” written in icing; the moments when i hear him unexpectedly – on the street or in a store – and i’m stopped cold as if i’m encountering that sound for the first time; the times i watched a beautiful friend move to his music...she might’ve been dancing, she might’ve been putting on her make-up…and i realized she and the music were the same, and i thought “this is perfection...”
because of James, i have Funkadelic, Bootsy Collins, Sly Stone, Prince, Betty Davis, Fela Kuti, Public Enemy, Eric B. & Rakim, and so many more artists who make this existence somewhat bearable.
because of James, i have the friends i do; because we found each other through the Funk. i’ve gotten a few calls from them today; just sharing some love and showing some props for JB. plus they all know he’s my musical daddy, so they’re reaching out on a personal level – seeing if i’m “okay.” but it’s not like i lost my real daddy. i did that already – i know the difference. James will still be in my life the way he’s always been – bringing me the Funk. making me feel bold. strong. crazy.
like the baddest muthafucka ever.
* Seeing and hearing JB is more important than reading about him. Here are some favorites:
posted by MC @ 2:26 PM
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