Aquarian Weekly 1/3/07
JAMES BROWN – 1933-2006
He was black. Very black. Hard-core, greasy-skids, funk-gut, foot-spin, mike-punch, kick-on-the-one, snap-the-snare-on-two, big-blast-horn-section, cape-flip, snazzy-jazz, rip-the-joint black. Dark as night. Dark as soul. Brotha dark. Mutha Popcorn. Real black. Black, as in beeeeuuutifulll. Not streamlined for the burbs, sold to the kids kinda Chuck Berry or Little Richard or Jimi Hendrix off-black. No. Black. Down and dirty. Dangerous. Pure as silk. Nasty as they come. Holy as they go. No slave. Fist. No dispassion. Scream. No quarter. Paper money, please. High. Mighty. Groove. Sex. Midnight. All night. All right!
Godfatha.
He was thump-thump. Hah! Heh! Git-up! Git-on-up. Shit. Like a boot in yo ass. Two-boots. Or Bootsy. Hah! Heh! Huh! Gimmie-da-beat, sucka. Like a machine. Grinding. Thump-thump. Swack! Thump-thump. Swack! Heeeaayyy. Fuck ya’ll. Push it. Pump it. Righteous fool for the rhythm. Grimy. Sweaty. Glorious rhythm. Like Billie Holiday, angel. Like Robert Johnson, blues. Like Charlie Parker, fuse.
Mr. Dyn-O-mite.
He was Da-Funk. Uptown. All the way up. 125th. Still alive. Apollo. “Ladies and gentleman ” Rafters shake. Git-on-yo-feet. New Yawk Citttaaayy. Lemmie-hear-ya-say-HUH! Hardest working man in Show Biz. Ahhhhh-feeeeel-good. Lak-ah-nooo-that-ah-wooooood. Proud. Violent. Raw. Jungle groove. Can I git a yeah? YEAH! He was black. Very black. Dream black. No light. Too cool. Cold, like sweat. Prism. Dance. Like a man. Like a riff. Like a stroll. Like a crawl. Clap. Say clap. Say dance. Say the Band. One mo-time.
Black. Soul. Funk. Smooth. Brown. Real brown.
James Brown.
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