WHEN “James Brown Live at the Apollo” hit record stores in May 1963, it became instantly clear the crazy-legged crooner from Barnwell, SC, had something to say. Almost exactly 45 years later, Soul Brother No. 1’s fans are still trying to figure out what the heck that was.
So am I.
This Saturday would have been the Godfather of Soul’s 75th birthday. Harlem’s Apollo Theater is celebrating the occasion with a free, weekendlong multimedia tribute (for event info go to apollotheater.org), and I’d like to take this opportunity to share my own recollection of the man, in all his caped, bouffanted, endearingly unintelligible glory.
I interviewed him just a couple months before he died in December 2006, before a Diesel-sponsored midnight “surprise performance” at Gotham Hall during Fashion Week, one of Brown’s last shows. During our time together the Hardest Working Man in Show Business discussed music, money, clothing and several other things that may have been interesting – had they been at all comprehensible. (“King of Clarity” wasn’t among his many nicknames.)
When talking with Brown, it was hard to ignore his fashion choices, most noticeably a pair of tattoos where people typically have eyebrows.
And forget commercially friendly songwriting and lack of soul. Brown had no doubts at all about the biggest problem facing popular music today.
“Bands don’t wear uniforms anymore, and that’s a mistake,” he said. “When we play a town, we wear uniforms. Then we’ll come back a few months later and all the bands are wearing uniforms.”
Brown was no stranger to fashion – whether the well-tailored gray suit he sported or the purple sequined get-up he’d soon change into: “I always thought if I dressed the part, I can be the part. I’m a man and I admire design.”
In that case, I threw a bone to the company that had organized the event: Why Diesel?
“We don’t care about the company. We just do the job,” said the ultimate showman.
“These people do good work and the checks keep coming, so we don’t have to worry about it,” explained Brown, doing a bit of damage control. “But what’s the difference between $30 million and $50 million? You still never have anything in your pockets. How many cars can I drive at one time?”
Brown insisted he kept up on new music, but wouldn’t single out anyone by name.
“It’s important for the Godfather to stay abreast of what’s going on. You wanna burn wood, but the oil keeps bubbling,” he said.
Like all sages worth the title, he referred to himself in the third person, and was able to make everyone feel like they were privy to something very special.
“White people want the funk,” he said, leaning close to me. “I didn’t think they did, but they do. It all starts with the funk.”
Make no mistake: It was not only a man’s world to Brown, it was his world. Ask him a question and he’d let his entourage answer before explaining what it was they were trying to say. Still, he was happy to have us all in it. Despite an extensive song catalog, Brown didn’t hesitate for a second when asked to name his favorites along with an explanation: ” ‘I Feel Good’ is wholesome and everybody can get up on it. ‘Sex Machine’ is the boom, boom, boom.”
He would play both songs that night, each as if it were brand-new to him.
But was Mr. Brown still the hardest working man in show business on this night, just a few months before the Christmas Day on which he died? “I’m the biggest fool,” he chuckled to a room full of handlers who quickly assured him that wasn’t the case.
Brown volunteered, “I feel good.”
Minutes later, he took the stage, dedicating the next hour or so to giving the 800 people in attendance all they could ask for, as well.