James Brown: Said It Loud, Black and Proud

Remembering the Godfather of Soul

By: Charles Giuliano - Dec 26, 2006

A publicity still of James Brown from the 1970s.

During my interview with Brown at the Plaza. Giuliano photo.

Like a sex machine.

"Please, Please, Please."

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       It was the small, crowded dressing room of the Sugar Shack next to the Colonial Theatre facing Boston Common. The spacious club featured soul music and catered to pimps, hookers and pushers. Late at night there was always a parade as the hos wandered in from working the zone with their pimps in outrageous outfits, fur coats with matching broad brimmed hats, alligator shoes and dripping with bling bling. James Brown was holding forth surrounded by an entourage of body guards and hangers on. He was sweating having performed a set and waiting for another.

     "I used to shine shoes in front of the biggest building in downtown Augusta, G.A.," he said and paused dramatically before finishing the thought. "Now I own that building, three radio stations and my own Lear jet."  It was the early 1970s and not long after the I.R.S. would strip him of these possessions in pursuit of some $4 million plus in back taxes. Rags to riches to rags, well not exactly rags, to riches, well not exactly riches, James Brown led a remarkable life now ended at 73.

     Later,  I interviewed  him again in New York during a media event for the opening of the "Blues Brothers." The second time occured in a suite at the Plaza surrounded by movie publicists who were shuffling in entertainment reporters for a few minutes of face time. Not the same ambiance by a long shot. The Sugar Shack meeting was tense as I was way over my head in a world with limited access. As he spoke it wasn't so much a conversation as a  Baptist preacher spelling out the Gospel of Soul. For each emphatic pronouncement there was a chorus of "right on brother" "say it loud" and "tell the man." I wondered at the time if I would get out alive. But when interviewing the greatest black artists from James Brown, and Jimi Hendrix to Miles Davis and Duke Ellington, there was an understanding of getting messages out to a mainstream white audience. In those days as a reporter for the Boston Herald. It was cool to hang around long as you don't mess up. In his world Brown was royalty and I was an ambassador of soul.

    In a lot of ways Brown was rougher, more remote and complex than the jazz greats I got to know and hang with. Jazz artists could be cerebral and conceptual where Brown was as earthy as the Georgia clay. He had a rough face with hard features. Nothing pretty about him like Miles the dark prince, or elegant like Duke Ellington and philosophical like Ornette Coleman. Abandoned at four, Brown was brought up by an aunt in a brothel. That tough criminal edge was always there despite  success and a lavish lifestyle. It landed him in jail even when he was famous. There were life long issues of abuse, violence and addiction. Understandably, there was a mean streak and anger that ran through him that was simultaneously a muse and inspiration for some of the most powerful lyrics and performances of his generation.

    In later years it was tough to see him perform when thicker in the middle and slower in step. But in his prime he was galvanic to the point of frightening, perhaps, the devil himself. Church going black people often referred to the Blues as Devil Music and nobody incarnated the evil force more that Brown. He didn't perform so much as cast a spell on audience which exploded when he went through the routine of multiple capes, fall to his knees, limp off stage, only to return for a comeback in "Please, Please, Please." The only way to see Brown was before a black audience. Like the Sugar Shack or earlier in the 60s when I talked my mates, Phil Bleeth and Hoey, into taking the rattler uptown to Harlem to see Brown at the Apollo Theatre. They later joined me to see Brown at Madison Square Garden. But it wasn't the same. Leaving the Garden we were stalked by Andy Warhol and a couple of guys. I got Andy to sign the James Brown souvenir photo I had purchased. He wanted to invite us back to party at the Factory but that wasn't our scene.

    A couple of years later Arden and I visited Phil Bleeth in Clearwater, Florida where he was living with his pregnant wife, Corinne, a former model. Corinne was not glad to see any of Pheeele's derelict friends and bad influences. She was French. Need I say more. But Phil wanted to check out James Brown who was performing in nearby Tampa. It was an armory or something. One of the endless one nighters that Brown did all his life. There were no seats just a big dance party. We were the only white folks. It was a little tough what with a well along pregnant woman. Somehow we managed to haul her up to a platform where TV cameras looked down on the floor. It was without a doubt the most amazing of all the James Brown events I attended. Great to see masses of bodies dancing to that great band. He ran a tight show. If anyone missed a beat he would flash a quick hand signal which meant that the offending musician was fined, Not long after we left Corinne gave birth to Yasmine who grew up as a child model, soap star, and later in the cast of Baywatch.

    James Brown meant a lot to me on many levels. Mostly I grew up as a jazz fan starting with Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, Mezz Mezzrow, Duke Ellington, later Bird 'n' Diz, Mingus and Miles. I didn't know much about soul. In the early 60s I walked into Skippy White's on Lower Washington Street and asked Big John what he would recommend for a jazz fan looking to get into soul? He handed over "James Brown Live at the Apollo" on King Records. I wore out the grooves and later a friend turned me on to Smoky Robinson and the Miracles.

    It was with that friend, Blind Jim, and Arden, in 1968, that we watched a WGBH special during the weekend when Martin Luther King was assassinated. Brown's concert at Boston Garden was broadcast live and repeated over and over. He pleaded with black kids not to riot and stay cool. We were living on Fort Hill in the heart of Roxbury at the time so the concert and message was particularly relevant.

    But it could go the other way as well. Like a Newport Jazz Festival appearance in the late 60s. It was an afternoon performance and I was in the press area the first two rows in front of the stage. There was a fence behind us and defiant black teens were pressed up against it as Brown sang "It's a Man's World" and then "Say It Loud I'm Black and I'm Proud." It was a tense time in America and blacks were moving away from the non violence of Martin Luther King to the message of  "By any means necessary" of Malcolm X. As an entertainer and role model Brown was a man in the middle staying on top of the dominant political mood of his audience. As well as facing his own demons. Perhaps he never escaped them. Even at the peak of fame and fortune in his heart of hearts he was still shining shoes in front of that tall office building. He later bought it then the man took it away.