JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF FUNK

JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF FUNK

P-Funk Welcomes You Aboard: Where’s Your Leader, Ofay?

by

Ed Ward

Are you ready? Are you ready for Thuh Bomb? Right now, are you funkin' for fun or are you still trapped in the Zone of Zero Funkativity? What will you do when the Mothership lands? Will you be prepared to Give Up The Funk? Hey, but don’t worry about it—after all, three quarters of F-U-N-K is F-U-N.

Now, I'm gonna be ready, and 1 owe it all to my friends Tom and Skip. They were the first two people 1 knew to become fully aware of the existence of the Funk Bomb, who forced me to sit still while 1 was irradiated with Funkativity. after which, of course. 1 couldn’t sit still at all—I was too Funked Up. After that, we started working overtime to send an emissary to the Mothership so that we could meet the Maggot Overlord. George Clinton himself. What follows is the amazing story of the changes wrought in our lives by the denizens of the Mothership, including George, Bootsy, and Kidd Funkadelic.

"As soon as they ( white people) think it*s hip... intellectually acceptable, theyfll get on _ -board."

Photo by

My first exposure to all of this came in a New Jersey diner in 1967. There was this amazing catchy song on the jukebox (the last nickel jukebox I ever saw, by the way), called “I Just Wanna Testify (What Your Love Has Done For Me).” it was by a group called the Parliaments, who recorded on some home grown label in Newark or somewhere. “Testify” was a great record, and it was a big favorite at parties—it was a good dance workout with a snappy hook in the chorus. Then the Parliaments vanished for awhile, only to pop up again. When everybody got psychedelic, Westbound Records started putting out these lurid records by a group called Funkadelic. Rumors of their weird stage show filtered back from Detroit, where they were based, and on their albums there was reference to a “Parliafunkadelicment Thang.” They didn’t sound like the Parliaments. They didn’t sound like much, to tell the truth. Then Parliament—not the Parliaments— started appearing again. On Casablanca Records, home of Kiss. No thanks, I didn’t even want to hear it.

So when I got an album last year that was supposed to be by Parliament/ Funkadelic’s former bass player, I tossed it. Bad move—a couple of days later Tom and Skip were on my back saying that the record—Stretchin’ Out In Bootsy’s Rubber Band—was “the most danceable ever!” (Skip), “Unnnnbelievable!” (Tom). I snagged another copy. “New heights in stupid!” I raved. Tom went out and bought Chocolate City and Mothership Connection by Parliament. We were on to something.

So was the rest of the country: all summer long, the radio was playing P-Funk every minute it wasn’t playing Wings. “Tear The Roof Off The Sucker” was an immense hit, and the more we listened, the more we heard.

Then Parliament, Funkadelic, and Bootsy came to Oakland. Tom scored tickets immediately. When we got to the funky old auditorium, we noticed two things: we were just about the only white people there, and we seemed to be about the oldest people there, too. There were all these kids who looked like twins—or clones?— walking around, the girls in billowing dresses, the boys nattily dressed in suits with elegant walking-sticks. It was peaceful until Bootsy hit the stage, when a fan-frenzy like J haven’t seen in years erupted. There was Bootsy playing his spacebass, his singers, Peanut and little bald Mudbone, his brother Catfish on lead guitar, and a lethal horn section. Then came Funkadelic, who were weird, and then George Clinton, dressed in a blond wig and a space-hat of ermine tails, arrived with Parliament, 4nd the place went insane.

Photos By

Funk Family: Who’s Who

PARLIAMENT: The Mothership, the overriding body of the Funk machine, the place where it all comes together .In the show, Parliament is when everybody is on stage, with George singing lead and Bernie Worrell’s keyboards providing a lot of the support. Less guitar-dominated, more funk and beatoriented, with more Funk theology and information in the lyrics.

FUNKADELIC: The freak band, and also the guitar band. George usually retires backstage, with the horns, for the Funkadelic sections of the show and Clarence “Fuzzy” Haskins, wearing a Japanese fright mask (at least the times I’ve seen them) sings lead. Characterized by two monster chants: “Shit! God Damn! Get off your ass and jam!” (“All you have to do is look like you gonna do that and the audience jumps in,” says George) and “If you ain’t gonna get it on, get your dead ass home.#! The little guy in the black gaucho hat and black cape is Michael “Kidd Funkadelic” Hampton, and watch out when he steps out—he’s gonna blow your head off!

BOOTS VS RUBBER BAND: Easily distinguished, because they open the show, and who could miss a six-foot rubber-bodied bassist with star-shaped mirror specs and a star-shaped mirror bass? Bootsy also uses the horns, and during his part of the show, he’s usually got a lot of seven and eight-year-old kids up front checking him out. They’re the core of Bootsy’s fans, the geepies, as he calls them, and they’re into “silly serious love songs” like Bootsy’s big hit *Fd Rather Be With You” and “psychoticbumpmusic” like “Stretchin’ Out In A Rubber Band.” Bootsy calls his music “Houn’ Dog Rock,” and I call it “new heights in stupid.”

“You know how they say that the teenyboppers and the old heads don’t get along?” asks George. “We’ve actually bridged that gap. The older ones sit up in the bleachers and smoke their joints and be a little cooler, and the geepies get out on the floor, checkin’ us outjf but it isn’t like the kind of separation you’d see between a Grateful Dead audience and a Kiss audience. It’s just one of the miracles Funk can perform. E.W.

“YOU CANNOT MAKE SENSE AND STILL BE FUNKY”

George Clinton THE THEOLOGY OF FUNK

George doesn’t especially like to think of Funk as a religion, per se, but it does have some things in common with religion. Here, basically, is the history of Funk from the prehistoric mists to the coming Funkification of the world:

Hundreds of thousands of years ago, in the days of the Thumpasaurus Peoples and the Funkapus, Funk was a commonly accepted part of daily life. It was a gift from higher intelligences in the universe, but people misused it. The secrets of Funk were eventually interred in the Pyramids with the Pharaohs who understood them.

Earth languished in funklessness for centuries after that, awaiting the day when it could return. Then, not too many years ago, the secret of cloning was uncovered. Cloning is a process by which a living cell can be taken from an organism and used to serve as an artificial ovum, an egg from which a new organism—identical in all respects to 'the organism that donated the cell—can be given virgin birth. Scientists with the proper knowledge can play with the DNA of a clone, and rearrange various of its parts. (Just in case you think I’m making this part up, go into your back issues of Scientific American and look up the articles on the frogs and salamanders that researchers have already cloned—right down to the body markings.)

Confirmation of all this came to George and Bootsy one lonely night in Michigan right after they’d completed the Mothership Connection album. They’d basically just been funkin’ around, and they were driving down a deserted stretch of highway, when George saw a light touch down on earth and go back up into the sky. They drove on some more and saw it happen again. When they reached the place where they’d seen it, it hit the car three times. “You said ‘Step on it!’ ” Bootsy recalls today, “And I stepped on it. I mean, we still be superheroes here and there, but when that other thing happened, we just had to run!”

They felt they’d been given orders from the Mothership itself, and the wonders of Funk began from that point—a platinum album, Bootsy and Funkadelic signing to Casablanca’s arch rival Warner Brothers, and the two labels uniting behind the cause of Funk. (“If you can do that in the record business,” George says knowingly, “you can do it anywhere!”)

E.W.

Afterward, George was self-effacing. “Yeah, it was pretty good tonight,” he said, “but we’re kind of still getting it together. Check us out in a couple of months—it’ll be Thuh Bombl”

It was a cool night in New Orleans, and I was trying to sort out the crazy litter on the stage. Shrouded lumps lurked behind giant amps covered in what looked like denim cut from King Kong’s jeans. Two kids were doing a modernized second-line strut to the Stevie Wonder coming over the sound system. Roadies moved a second set of amps onto the stage, all red and white with silver stars. A lighted canopy announced Bootsy’s Rubber Band. Then the lights went out, and came up on a guy in a red cape who looked like Blacula—Maceo Parker. Maceo got a chant going—“Bootsy! We want. Bootsi/! Bootsy! We want Bootsy!” and BAM! We got Bgotsy and the place went berserk. And when Bootsy changed into Casper, his alter-ego, some kids in the top rows broke out sheets and started bumping along to the music.

Then this gigantic denim cap above the stage lit up, and Bootsy’s Rubber Band split. A rumbling filled the audi-. torium, and a huge pair of sunglasses descended from inside the hat. Gigantic searchlight-eyes swept over the audience, while a voice intoned something about the gift of interplanetary funk. As the lights gradually went up, a huge pyramid was wheeled onto the stage, and out stepped George .Clinton. From there on out, the show became total madness. The lighting towers turned into gigantic puppets. There were all kinds of people on stage, and they ranged in number from four to fifteen. Then somebody wheeled out a ramp, the sort you use to get out of a planev-and cries of “OOOOH!” came from the back of the hall. I looked back. A tiny Mothership—a flying saucer spewing sparks and smoke—was making its way across the auditorium. It reached the side of the stage and vanished momentarily. Suddenly, the giant denim cap started to glow again and smoke filled the stage. The Mothership—larger now—was coming out of the hat and landing atop the ramp! When it stopped, more smoke spewed out, and when it cleared, there was George—Dr. Funkenstein himself— standing by the open door of the ship. Another chant started: “We love you, Dr. Funkenstein/We think your funk’s the best/We love you Dr. Funkenstein/To funk with all the rest.” I tell you, my hair was standing on end, and my mouth was gaping open. If Alice Cooper could see this, I thought, he’d hang himself for real. And if Kiss could see it, they’d be spitting blood and fire out of frustration. This was It! This was

"All you gotto dots acknowledge funk and it frees you Instantly."

* * * ‘THUH BOMB!! * * * *

In gther words, I was impressed.

But who wouldn’t be? I’d just been treated to several hours of amazinglypaced entertainment, with music that ranged from loose-bottomed funk to 'Nhard-edged guitar-rock to gospel-like harmony singing. The music had been supported by a show—an actual stage show—that was like a three-ring circus, with something constantly happening. The audience had responded to every move, and' there was dancing and general funkin’ around everywhere, but none of the boisterous bottle-throwing shit that rock concerts seem to attract these days. And with the white audience just beginning to catch on, they’ve got nowhere to go but up.

“I think most people lose at this stage of the game,” George Clinton said the next day. “They get there and they either think they did it alone or that they ain’t got to work no more, or whatever . For some reason, it always falls short right about now. But there’s gotta be a new thing. We just want to go nuts right about now. You know, the only group I think that ever took it to the max was the Beatles. I don’t know if they were aware of what they were doin’ or if they were just ridin’ a vibe, but I don’t think I’ve done it, or Stevie, or Bootsy, or Sly...The Long and Winding Road,’ you know—you just don’t write that kind of shit unless you’re takin’ it to the max. So that’s what we’re gonna try and do—take that mothah to the max—and then some! Time’s righttime’s on our side. If we can just hold up, which I think we can—do a lot of pushups and shit...” He laughs. But he’s got a point. PFunk-Parliament and Funkadelic and all the rest (see The Funk Family: Who’s Who)—is just beginning to take off at the point others have to work to reach. The varidus funksters—there are twenty-five currently in the organization—have faith in funk and have faith in George, and George is gonna make sure they get their reward. Proof? The five key members of the Parliafunkadelicment organization at this moment are George, Calvin Simon, Clarence “Tuzzy” Haskins, Grady Thomas and Ray Davis. Who are they? The same five guys who cut “I Just Wanna Testify” ten years ago, that’s who. “And there are about five alumni,” George adds, “who couldn’t hang cuz they had to take care of their families, but they started on the ground floor and they still do sessions with us.”

TURN TO PAGE 70.

P-FUNK

CONTINUED FBpM PAGE 49.

Qne member, Eddie Hazel, one of the world’s greatest guitarists, will be rejoining the grpup in the near future. Eddie’s been doing some time in prison at Lompoc, California. Seems he bit an airline steward...and he’s just one of the super guitarists around the band. Mike Hampton, “Kidd Funkadelic,” as he’s known, is a 19-year-old wonder whose playing reaches back to Hendrix, forward to Funktopia, and has also been heard to deliver a Marshall Tuckerish sound that would make Macon sit up and take notice. Then there’s that horn section, featuring Fred Wesley and Maceo Parker, who may be familiar to you from the James Brown band of a couple of years ago (Bootsy started out as a J.B. when he was just a wee teen). It’s a weird mix of musicians, a curious fusion of all that’s right with black and white.

Plus, of course, there’s the show. Not only is it entertaining, but, as George points out, you’ve never seen a black show with a better sound system (remember—there are fifteen people up there, and they’re all doing something), with better lighting, better special effects, or a better all-around concept. So why, I ask, aren’t there more white people into P-Funk? I mean, you can’t sell as many records as Mothership Connection and The Clones of Dr. Funkenstein have without selling a lot of them to white people. “Well,” George says, “as soon as they think it’s hip, as soon as they think it’s intellectually acceptable, they’ll get on board. There are people who aren’t ready, I suppose, but they’re only amazed— they’re not really negative. Some people dig it for funk’s sake, for groove’s sake, and some people dig it for intellectual mind-stimulation, some just be fuckin’ around, some’s just cocaine-rappin’. Everybody’s gotta dig it for their own reasop, but whatever reason you get into it, it’s habit-formin’. ”

He’s right. After I saw the show, the music was playing in my head for a week afterwards. I dig it because it’s exciting, because it presents a positive alternative to the basically negative shitrock of Alice Coopfer and Kiss, an involving, , conceptually-loaded (see Funk Theology) fun and sex-based alternative to the neuter, passionless Xerox-rock of Elton John.

“All you got to do is acknowledge funk,” George says, “and it frees you instantly, right there and then.” Well, today, six months after discovering funk, . Tom has climbed aboard the Mothership: he’s working fot P-Funk full time in their Beverly Hills offices. He’s moved to Hollywood, gotten a good job, a beautiful girlfriend—and all because of Funk. Me, I’ve got a Mercedes, lots of good work (beautiful girlfriends may apply c/o this magazine) and I’m feeling better day by day.

But Skip.. .1 don’t know what Funk’s done for Skip. It’s obviously done something, since every time I see fiim, he’s grinning and looking very contented. So the other day I asked him “Hey, Skip, what’s Funk done for you?” He just grinned conspiratorially and said “I can’t telf you right away, but it’s\..

THUH BOMB!!!”