E.
all stories and essays by Sean Rein
What Does George Do?
Anyway, Chris and I went to a Parliament/Funkadelic concert at First Avenue in Minneapolis (that place Prince made famous). It wasn't a P-Funk All-Star show, but it had George Clinton, Ray Davis, Clarence "Fuzzy" Haskins, Grady Thomas, and Calvin Simon.
Bootsy Collins and Bernie Worrell were not there, unfortunately. I would have paid big bucks to see those two freaks. Don't get me wrong, these old kooks brought the house down, but you can't go wrong with Bootsy and his Space Bass.
Along with the old guys was a weird looking drummer that I could hardly see, a skinny keyboard player with a green shirt, another keyboard player that was white and looked dorky and out of place with his Cat in the Hat hat, a bass player that was a stone freak, a guitarist that looked like Kalid Al-Amin, and another one that looked like a cross between the Reverend Al Sharpton and Ron Jeremy. His coonskin cap was pretty swank.
Topping it off were the two ladies that sang back up. If you two honeys are by chance reading this, call me, I'll do you til' you're satisfied!
They played nonstop for three hours, just like the billing said. That is a lot of beer-drinking time. George, Ray, Clarence, Grady, and Calvin would leave stage for twenty-minute breaks and the back-up band would stay onstage for what I though was the best part of the show. They would just jam, laying down great, funk while The Reverend and Kalid would guitar duel.
When the old guys were rested, they would march back out and play some more old favorites. "Up on the Down Stroke," "P. Funk," and "Give Up the Funk" were mixed in with some newer stuff. The big finale was a twenty-minute rendition of "Flashlight." I danced so hard that my pelvis hurt.
By the way, if the really cute little blonde woman with the cool glasses is reading this (you know who you are), I could not hear a word that you shouted into my ear. If you were hitting on me, I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. A doctor once told me that I have very small ear canals; they match my small nostrils.
The highlight of the whole evening was when the band started letting members of the audience onstage to dance. Chris was a little shy at first, but I convinced her to go up. Sure as shit, she got up there and was dancing with George himself! I could not believe it. He even got a little friendly with her, if you know what I mean. The Godfather of Funk getting handfuls from my wife. How about that for heaven?
This brings me to my point (I do have one). Other than singing the chorus, groping women on stage, giving out the occasional high five to the drunk, white, college student, and smoking the big, bad Bob Marley joints that get passed up to him onstage, George really doesn't do much. Oh, sure, he did dress up like an Arab, but what the fuck is that? Why is his name synonymous with the whole funk movement?
The only thing that I can figure is that he is the Greg Sax of Parliament. He must be the straw that stirs the drink, the glue that holds it all together. Because other than assembling this mob scene of a group, I really don't know what he does. I read the back cover of a Parliament CD and he is credited with writing most of the songs, along with Bernie Worrell. Is he a songwriter, or just a funky freak that brought together a super-kickass bunch of musicians who were right for the time?
Whatever it is, I want to thank you, George. For whatever it was that you did to me that night.
P.S. Hey, Scott Hamilton guy. That was some good weed.
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