R.I.P. J.B.

The first time I saw the Hardest Working Man in Show Business was at a musical tent theatre outside New Haven in the early 1960s, drawn with a friend and his sister by the allure of James Brown, not quite sure what to expect but positive that we would be in the minority. We barely had time to sit down and get paranoid before the Famous Flames, Soul Brother Number One's spine-straightening backup band, glided onstage in shimmering sequins that blinded the first two rows, and launched into a series of tsunami waves of unadulterated funk, chopping guitar and bass riffs punctuated by razor-sharp staccato horns. A couple of JB wannabes strutted their stuff, followed by another onslaught from the Flames before a hush falls over the crowd. One lonely spotlight skitters around the arena before locking in on one of the aisles as James himself comes bounding down the stairs and up onto the boards, his dazzling smile matched by the eye- popping rhinestones on his suit, belting out a slow, soul-drenched ballad before disappearing as the house lights came up.
During intermission I bought the official James Brown Souvenir program, a full-sized booklet printed on stiff cardboard-like paper, festooned with splashes of red and black ink, full of JB photographs - James pointing to his jet with all of his million sellers listed on the side, James showing off his extensive wardrobe, his cars, his house, James getting his hair straightened, the ear-to-ear grin in every picture. The copy breathlessly explained that the Man With the Crown had to consume gigantic portions of food to make up for the fact that he sweated off at least ten pounds per show - normally two gigs per day a minimum of 300 days a year - as well as having to exercise constantly so he could continue to spin, drop, kick and croon.
The lights went up, summoning us back to the hard wooden seats, and the Flames wasted no time in stoking up a beat, watching and waiting as the rows filled up before one of the musicians steps up to the mike and warbles: "Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for star time?" The MC inclines his head buffoonishly, listening for the volley of gospel-style shout backs. " I said - are you ready for STAR TIME?" A thunderous roar fills the tent. "Ladies and gentlemen are you ready for the Creator and Singer of these Number One Hits - "Try Me" - "Papa's Got A Brand New Bag " - "Please,Please,Please" - "I Feel Good " - "Cold Sweat". " The announcer quickly stokes his intro to a crescendo. " Here he is, the Hardest Working Man in Show Business, Soul Brother Number One, the Man With The Crown - JAMES BROWN!"
JB sweeps across the stage, stops, screams, spins,drops,kicks, feints, grunts , howls and tears through his own private hit parade. Despite our obvious honkiness, the effect of the pulverizing beat has rendered us into a molten mass along with the audience, swaying, clapping and snapping. Just when it seemed James was about to drown in his own sweat, Soul Brother Number One drops majestically to his knees, sobbing his unrequited love into the microphone. We strain to get a closer look, to catch every second of his torment, anxious aides hovering over him with a mink-fringed cape, finally dropping it on his hunched shoulders. As soon as the fabric touches him, JB springs to life, jumps up, pushes his handlers away, and staggers toward the crowd, obviously determined to make sure the fans get their money's worth, an act that is repeated three times before the Great One collapses, practically carried offstage as the audience claps relentlessly, unwilling to stop, caught up in the volcanic energy of one man's personal brand of boogie.
Fast forward to downtown Boston in the early 1980s, the second time I witnessed the James Brown phenomenon. Supposedly, during the intervening years, America had become more racially aware, although it was questionable in that city at that point in time because a black youth had been gunned down by Boston police under dubious circumstances a few days before James' appearance. The atmosphere was decidedly unsettled. I had been lured to the show by the music director of a major FM by the promise of maybe going backstage and hanging out. JB had been booked into a bar - slash - concert hall that was dark and dreary, but you could drink during the show.
The standard format was there but I sensed it was toned down, muted, a shadow of the three hour assault on the senses I had witnessed in the tent. Maybe it was the shooting, maybe because the audience was more mixed, maybe James just wanted to coast a bit, or maybe it was just age. He did the same spins, kicks, feints, howls and grunts, still dropped to his knees and threw off the various capes for the famous final scene, but it felt empty and muted. The eagerly anticipated meeting consisted of shaking his hand at the backstage door. His voice was husky, you could tell he was exhausted, but James thanked us politely for playing his tunes, grinning one more time as he faded into the back hallway.
It's unfortunate that the Man With The Crown will be remembered by this generation primarily as the second place winner of the Nick Nolte Mugshot Competition, but he was still smiling even in the police photo. James had good reason to grin - he was uncompromising, never let himself get co-opted, just kept doing his thing until the mainstream caught up with him, and he became a cultural icon. I have absolutely no doubt that the Hardest Working Man in Show Business - wherever he is - is still smiling.