Review Summary: "I'm not going to f**king jail! Not tonight!"
Let me start out by saying that a lot of people aren't going to like this review. It's completely non-traditional, and sometimes seems to sway so far off topic that it might even get deleted by the mediator before anyone even sees it. That would be a shame, because I assure you, this is not only an album review, but an example of how under the right circumstances, one album can change the way someone thinks about music entirely.
Let me explain.
It's March of 1999, and my friend Derrick has just gotten his tax return. Derrick is a midget, not a little person, or a person of small stature, or vertically challenged - no, Derrick is a midget. He insists upon this. If someone were to refer to him by any of the previously mentioned handles, he would probably call that unfortunate some manner of ethnic slur that may or may not even apply. I say that to say this, Derrick is not about the bulls***. He is a loyal menace, and right now, he's got a wad of cash burning the proverbial hole in his bachelors' pocket. I ask him what he want's to do with it, and he says: "Let's go see Spider."
'Spider' is one of our local persons of ill repute. He has all kinds of contraband to offer, including automobiles that you can 'rent'. He will never admit that these cars are actually stolen, but he will advise you where NOT to drive them. We ask what we can have for $300, and he points to a early nineties box-headlight Jaguar sedan.
"No S***?" Derrick asks.
Spider assures us it's no s***. Tells us that the car is a little too high profile for his tastes, then asks where we plan on going in it. I look at Derrick.
"Trenton" He says. Spider says that's fine. tells us that, unless we plan on going south, we should be gravy. We give him the money plus another hundred on top for a quarter sheet of acid. On our way out, Spider tells us that if we don't bring the car back, we owe him another $300. We never thought we'd have to pay that money out. We were wrong.
Now we're on I-95 north, about to cross the state line into Delaware. We are about an hour and fifteen minutes into our chemical adventure. A little info about Derrick and myself: we are all about the metal. At this point in our lives it's pretty much all we listen to. We take a CD book full of it and a portable stereo almost everywhere we go. Derrick's is in the trunk right now. Opeth's 'My Arms, Your Hearse' is coming to an end in the aftermarket CD player installed in the dash. I'm driving, and Derrick is the navigator/conductor. As to why we're going to Trenton, I do not ask. Derrick is irrefutable when it comes to having a good time. The same holds true with his music selections. When the CD ends, I just look at him. He smiles and starts rummaging around in the car.
In the map pocket of the passenger seat he finds a CD jewel case. He looks at the cover and starts laughing. I ask him what's up and he shows me.
I'm looking at the cover art for James Brown's 'The Payback'. On it, James is depicted as a sort of humble traveler, looking up to the heavens for answers. At the time, he reminded me of a black hobbit in a fedora. Money was changing hands in the foreground, as scantily clad, but not detailed, Nubian women posed in the lower right hand corner. In 1999, I was a good deal more closed minded then I am now, and I thought that this was the most ridiculous piece of blacksploitation I had ever seen. I started to laugh as well. I told Derrick that he had to put it in, that it would be hilarious. He agreed, and when it started we DID laugh. That didn't last long.
The bass line of the titular song fills the Jag's cabin, and that's when I realized the huge confidence of this recording. Heavy metal does not have this kind of raw self-assuredness. Metal is brutal, yhea, and it comes crushing without remorse, but this... this walks up to you - looking you in the eyes the whole time, and smacks you right in the mouth, seemingly asking "What the hell are you going to do about it?" Nothing. As it turns out, I like being smacked.
Horns, wah-wah guitars, and James' passionate, and completely pissed voice tell the story of revenge, of being wronged by would-be friends and a sinister woman. The chorus is reinforced by a male/female group of background singers who lend an almost military amount of reinforcement to the Godfather's decelerations. The hooks are positively hypnotic, getting inside your skull and rolling around in there gently but insistently. Suddenly my shoulders stopped slumping, my chin raised, I realized that I was bobbing my head to the music seemingly without choice. It was as if my body was a vehicle, and while I was piloting the Jag, James had the reins on my soul. The highway stretched out before me, a wire to the current of me and Mr. Brown.
Though lost in the music, which had a live feel, (I came to find out later that all the material was recorded live with James' back-up band the JB's for a blacksploitaion film - but was rejected.) I became concerned with my navigator and MC, the short on stature but long on character Derrick. We were used to listening to far faster, far more complex and heavy arrangements then this, and I was worried that he might not be enjoying himself. If he weren't, he would try to change the disk, and then I would have to stab him with the first thing to come to hand. One look and my fears were allayed. He was bobbing his head too, his mouth slightly open as if expelling a sigh, his brow constricted. He looked at me and although he said nothing, i could hear him ask 'Can you BELIEVE this ***!?'
I could not. This CD had become the official soundtrack for this outing.
This album inspires emotion. There are parts on it that can make you feel like a 10 foot tall gorilla-pimp, and sections that will almost have you weeping with empathy. At one point, James pleads to some unknown lady to 'just give him back his kids.' I have no idea if this is based on real-life experience or not, but damn, he makes you feel it. In my opinion, it's that ability, the gift of being able to take someone by the hand, by the ear, or by the eyes, that makes an artist more then an artist, it makes the artist a force.
We flow into Trenton to the sounds of 'Time is running out fast', a seemingly chaotic assemblage of horns and guitar, hand drums and gibberish lyrics with a solid aqueduct of structure beneath. Some parts of Trenton may be nice, but we didn't see them. Where we were was more of an industrial wasteland. We were two white boys in almost certainly stolen car far from home, but I wasn't scared - James was telling me to play it cool.
Derrick saw a guy sitting on a bench a little ways down the road and told me to pull over. And unless Derrick was planning on changing the tunes, I wasn't going to question him. The guy was obviously homeless, in a coat of no decipherable color holding the obligatory bag with bottle of hooch inside. Derrick rolls down the window and asks the guy if he'd like to ball around the city with us, have some fun. The gentleman on the bench replies that he doesn't swing that way. Derrick assures him that we don't either and asks what the guy is drinking. Senior hooch shows a bottle of Mad-dog. Derrick tells him that we'll buy him a couple more bottles of the stuff if he rolls around with us, kind of like a comrade in arms. I don't know if it was the promise of booze or the tunes coming out of the car, but the guy got in. We stopped at a nearby liquor store and bought him three more bottle of the dog. He was pleased.
We were pulling into a truck stop when our guest, who Derrick had dubbed 'The Earl of Trenton' asked what we were listening to. "James Brown" I say. "Oh, the Godfather of Soul." The Earl says. I ask is he familiar, and he tells me that Brown is god. I'm starting to come to the same conclusion.
"Park it." Derrick says. I look at him with eyebrows raised and he waives me on. 'Mind Power' is on, James asks for flute, and like on the rest of album, when James asks, he receives.The rhythm sticks are raking across my cerebellum pleasantly during the build up that leads to the breakdown and I am entranced. I don't notice the knock on my window, don't notice someone standing there until Derrick taps my shoulder and points.
A haggard, but somewhat attractive woman stood there. I roll down the window. The woman asks if we are looking for some fun. I was unable to speak. Derrick was a different story. He tells her we're already having fun, and asks if she'd like to come along. She asks us what's involved, and we tell her we have no idea. Derrick informs her we still have some acid, and he'll give her fifty bucks if she comes along. She shrugs and gets in. Derrick hands her two tabs, which she throws in her mouth, she makes the fifty disappear into an unseen pocket. We had a full crew now. And James was our guide.
An hour more of driving around Trenton and not a cop to be seen. I started to think that James was keeping them away. We were currently on our third trip through the album Our female passenger, "Mary', asked who we were listening to, was it Little Richard? Derrick looked at her deadpan and told her it was Burt Bacharach. The Earl Of Trenton Burst out laughing, lit up another smoke, took another drink. Derrick said that Trenton was dead, and that we should go someplace a little more lively. He suggests Atlantic City. A cry of approval came from Mary, and The Earl said that as long as he still had booze and cigarettes, he was down for whatever. Off we went.
'Take Some...Leave Some' was on, and a political discussion developed in the back of the car. The Earl and Mary going back and forth what a shame it was the difficulties the blacks went through back in the seventies, and were still going through now. Derrick and I didn't join in, we just listened and smiled. Knowing that this was James at work.
The album has these mesmerizing flourishes of strings and horns separating some of the tracks, and when Atlantic City came into view, one of these flourishes filled the cabin with sweet, seemingly anticipatory sound. It was as if we were being choreographed, and that was fine by me. When we got to the heart of the city, we had the windows rolled down, despite the temperature. We skipped back to the title track, and began to sing along. at first it was just Derrick and I, but our backseat crew came in after the first verse. The four of us, rolling through A.C., squealing and singing about how we'd been sold out. We were complete jackasses. We were having the time of our lives. I asked Derrick what the deal was.
"Poker." He said, "Harrahs."
I took the lord's name in vain. He asked if I was down or not, and I didn't answer right away. I was scared to get out of the car, scared of leaving James and the JB's, for the bells and screams of a casino. I ask James, and he said to go ahead, that he had me. Only three of us went into the casino, The Earl Of Trenton opting to stay in the car and guard his booze. James hadn't led me astray. I now had a CD player in my head. I was able to drown out the noise in the casino, I was able to select tracks, and the album was still there. I could tell Derrick had the same thing going on. We walked through the lobby like we were owed money by everyone in attendance. We made our way to the poker room. When we got there, Mary said she was going to the bar. We followed her with our eyes, The sway of her hips was accented in my mind by the beat of 'Stone to the Bone'. Derrick said that Cristian Slater was over there, but I didn't see him.
We sat a a low stakes table and I played like I had bowling balls holding court between my legs. What else could I do, with The Godfather urging me on? I don't know how Derrick did, but I don't think it was as well as me. On my last hand, I bluffed a pretty big dude out of a substantial amount of change. I was ice cold. Normally, when the stakes get high, I turn into a shaky mess. Not that night. "Shoot Your Shot' s slinky guitar and jive-ass bongos had me locked in. The smell was getting to me though. I told Derrick I was going back to the car, see how The Earl was doing. Derrick said he would be out after the hand he was playing. I looked for Mary, and saw her sitting at the bar, talking to the guy Derrick must have thought looked like Cristian Slater. She was stroking his face like it was a magic lamp.
I stroll out of the place $600 dollars richer then when I walked in. I'm on high both literally and metaphorically. I didn't realize I was being followed until someone said 'hey' from behind me. I turn around, and there is the cat that I bluffed out of the last pot. He didn't look happy. He asked if maybe did I want to come back inside? Let him win back some of his money? I told him I really didn't think that was the point. He squared up. Keep in mind I go to the gym sometimes. Not a lot, but a couple times a week at least. I'm about 210, but this guy has at least fifty pounds on me, and his neck was consumed by his shoulders long ago. I know we're probably going to get into it, but still, I'm not worried. I switch the CD player in my head back to "The Payback', and now I've got James in all his fury. Plus Derrick is behind Mr. Noneck, and the guy has no idea.
Derrick carries a brass knuckle in left shoe, has ever since I've known him. I told him that wasn't really fair one day, and he replied that it wasn't exactly level that I could pick him up and throw him twenty feet. He had it on his hand now, and I was glad to see it. Noneck took a step forward and Derrick let him have it in the kidney. He folded like a sheet. On his way down I swung for his face, got his head instead. It hurt like hell, When I went to the doctors three days later, I found out I broke my pinky. I picked up Derrick, changed the track in my head to 'Time Is Running out Fast' and hauled ass for the car. On the way, I asked if we should go back for Mary. Derrick asked why, and I told him I thought he wanted to get some nice-nice. He told me he thought Mary looked like a moose in spandex.
When we got back to the Jag, The Earl was still inside. The rear ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.
"Where's the whore?" He asked.
"She's in a better place." Derrick answered.
"You killed her?"
"No," I said. "She's with Cristian Slater."
I start the car and there's J.B. again, this time through the speakers. You would think that by now, we'd be tired of it. Not the case. Every time we listed to it I heard new things, different patterns in the drums new nuances in the guitar, horns I hadn't noticed before. There are many layers to this album stacked and lain gently atop one another like sweet sonic pastry. I took the right onto the main street way too fast, then noticed that there was a cop behind us. he didn't turn his lights on, but I became paranoid. I took the next left I could, then accelerated. Another turn came up, and his time, I chose to go right. The car was too big for these types of maneuvers, and we had too much momentum. I hit a dumpster, (solider then I had thought) and white smoke started to billow from the grill and around the crumpled hood. I had obviously buggered the cooling system in the cat to a fatal degree.
Derrick called me an a**hole, and The Earl asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. I told them we had to split. I reached for the eject button, but Derrick was faster, he grabbed the CD and told me to get his boom-box out of the trunk. I retrieved it, and started to chase Derrick and The Earl down the ally. I cried for them to wait up and was answered by Derrick:
"I'm not going to f**king jail, not tonight!"
I caught up to them two blocks later, and suggested we get a hotel to crash in. I told them I'd pay, seeing as I had come into some unexpected money. Derrick told me I'd be paying for the extra three on the car too, and I told him no worries. He asked if I was concerned about the car, and I told him no. Neither of us had ever been printed, and The Earl had been in the back seat. He had what is known as plausible deniability. We jumped in a cab and found a hotel.
The people at the Sheraton in Atlantic City don't give a damn how crazy you look when you check in at almost five in the morning. There were no questions asked. we took the room for two days, not knowing when we would crash, and when we would wake up. We got in the elevator, Derrick holding the CD, me holding the boom box, The Earl holding his bottle of hooch. We all had our priorities.
We got in the room, plugged in the stereo, and got introspective. I don't know when I fell asleep, probably during one of the slower, grove orientated numbers like 'Doing the Best I Can' or 'Forever Suffering'. We had it on repeat, and I know I listed to it three more times before I went out.
I woke up on the floor, achy and thirsty. James was still playing, talking about how it takes more then mind power to deal with starvation. The Earl was passed out on the couch, and Derrick was coming to on the bed. I asked him if he thought we should split, go catch a cab to the train station. He agreed, and asked what we should do about The Earl of Trenton, and about the balance of time on the room. I grabbed a note pad and wrote a note to The Earl that he had to be out by 11:00 the next morning, and that I wished him the best of luck. I signed it James Brown.
When we got home I asked Derrick about the CD, He told me to get my own copy. I did. He also told me to pay Spider, which I also did. You don't piss off Spider.
I haven't seen Derrick in a while, he and I had a falling out over something stupid a few years later, but the late James Brown is still with me, he lives in my i-pod.
I'm not advocating anybody do the things we did. That stuff was reckless and stupid. What I'm trying to tell you is this, you can't get stuck listening to the same thing. It makes you a jaded snob after a while. And who knows what you might miss, sometimes there's an album that changes who you are, changes the way you think. To me, this is one of those albums. It is a keystone of funk, and I hope you have as much fun listening to it as I did.
Thanks James.
