(Originally written 12/25/06)
Man... James Brown dead on Christmas Day? I was just having the "greatest Christmas albums" discussion with a friend at a Christmas Eve party, and we both agreed that Soul Brother #1 waxed (and wrote) some of the best Christmas songs ever. "Santa Claus Go Straight To The Ghetto," "Hey America (It's Christmas Time)" and the incomparable "Let's Make This Christmas Mean Something This Year" totally nail the open-hearted spirit of the season without ever sounding cheesy. The latter song never fails to make the hair on my arms stand on end, even though it's essentially just a six-minute monologue over the titular mantra. At one point, he says something to the effect of, "When I look out on a beautiful Christmas day, I think to myself: God is smiling." Well, it's a gloriously peaceful and beautiful Christmas day in Palm Springs, and it's giving me hope that, somewhere in the next world, Mr. Brown has one of those gigantic, inscrutable grins plastered across his face.
There will undoubtedly be a multitude of tributes in the media, today and over the next few weeks, so it's tempting to just say "Rest in peace, James" and let the talking heads natter away. So other than saying he was a genius, a madman, a true innovator, and more influential on popular music than Elvis and the Beatles put together — all of which I truly believe he was — I don't think there's much point in me trying to rehash his life and work. But I do feel the need to testify in some way, since there probably hasn't been a day since the late 80s that I haven't listened to James Brown, thought about him or referenced him in some way. So let me tell you the story of the only time I saw him live...
In the summer of 1991, word got out that there was going to be a massive soul music concert at Solider Field in Chicago. Aretha Franklin, Al Green, Wilson Pickett, Little Richard and a dozen other legendary acts were on the bill, with a just-out-of-prison James Brown as the headliner. In other words, a not-to-be missed occasion. When the big day came, I twisted up a few joints and caught the bus downtown with a few friends, looking forward to an afternoon and evening of pure soul satisfaction.
The reality turned out to be far more mundane and frustrating than advertised. The first act was a local singer named Artie "Blues Boy" White; he was decent in a Bobby "Blue" Bland kinda way, but his act got boring pretty quickly. It was even more boring the second time around — the next act (I think it was supposed to be The Dells?) had failed to appear, so the promoter made him ran through his entire setlist again. "Oh honey, I'm sick of this one," announced one of the several large black women seated in front of me. They perked up a bit when the sorely underrated Gene Chandler took the stage to deliver such classic Chicago soul hits as "Rainbow '65," 'Just Be True" and his doo-wop chestnut "Duke of Earl" (for which he busted out a top hat, cape and cane), but it soon became clear that many of the acts on the bill were going to be no-shows. (According to a subsequent Chicago Reader article, many of the advertised artists had never even been contacted by the promoter.)
After an interminable wait, The Chi-Lites (featuring MAYBE one original member) came out and ran through a number of their top hits ("Oh Girl," "Have You Seen Her," "For God's Sake Give More Power to the People"), but like so many R&B acts I've seen before and since, they ignored some of their best songs in favor of a Motown hits medley. It was a bummer, though not as much of a bummer as the new Luther Vandross record, which came on over the PA system as soon as the Chi-Lites left the stage, and which continued to play over and over again for the next two hours while we waited for someone (anyone!) else to take the stage. "Oh honey, I sure am sick of Luther," the woman in front of me said with a weary shake of her head.
Other than the absent artists and the pervasive sense of rip-off that began to hover over the stadium, the thing that sucked the most about the show was the seating. This was early August, football season was right around the corner, and the Bears didn't want to take a chance on having their field ruined; therefore, the fans had to sit in the stands. Since the stage was set up in one end zone facing the other, you had to crane your neck to the right (or left, if you were seated on the other side of the field) to see the performers. The sound (and sense of connection with the performers) would have probably been pretty decent if we'd been allowed to sit or stand on the field; instead, the sound was shitty, and I felt oddly disconnected from the whole thing, like I was watching the show via a security monitor. Of course, the fact that we'd smoked several joints by now (more out of boredom than anything else) probably didn't help.
Finally, after what seemed like days, Al Sharpton waddled out on stage. It had only been a few years since the Tawana Brawley fiasco, and Rev. Al was still a far more divisive figure (even in the black community) than he is today. He launched into a sermon about how "We did it" — who the "We" and "it" was, wasn't really clear — but the audience largely booed him. After sitting there for eight hours, people were bored, angry and feeling ripped off; music, not words, was what they wanted, and they wanted it NOW. I remember thinking that if James Brown didn't show up soon, there was going to be some real trouble.
But moments later, when James finally hit the stage, all the anger and negativity instantly vanished into the ether. I have no idea who was in his backing band at the time, but they were extremely funky and ridiculously tight; and with the exception of "Living In America," everything in the set list came straight from the Sixties and Seventies. James' voice was a little hoarse, but the man's energy was absolutely unbelievable. After his time away, he could have just phoned in the set and probably gotten away with it, but the man was clearly on a mission — a mission to kick some serious ass. And since there was no room for dancing in the seating areas of Soldier Field, James was gonna dance for all of us.
The most memorable (and beautiful, and surreal) part came at the end, when James apparently decided that he needed to be closer to his adoring fans. As the band vamped up a storm behind him, he sat down on the edge of the stage, which was a good ten or twelve feet above the playing field. He gingerly scooted himself off the edge, and dropped to the field, landing awkwardly on his right foot. He staggered for a second, as if he'd sprained his ankle, but then he took off running, zig-zagging his way across the field in order to commune with the audience in the stands. Stoned as I was, I still have a very vivid memory of him running directly towards us with an insane smile on his face, looking like a cross between a joyful soul man and the sort of evil gnome that chases after you in fever dreams. His arms stretched wide as if he wanted to embrace our entire section. God knows, we all sure wanted to embrace him.
I had several chances to see him after that, but I passed on all of them. I'm sure I missed some dynamite shows, but I just figured that nothing could ever compare to that Soldier Field concert. God bless you, Godfather. Thank you for gettin' us all on the good foot.
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