The Grand Funk
I like this bit from Jody Rosen’s obituary of James Brown at Slate:
Listen closely, with a good pair of headphones, and the thousand pointillist details of Brown’s genius open up to you: the shifting accents and registers, the variations in dynamics and attack, the disconcerting spaces and silences, the beats piled atop beats. But, of course, that genius is never more apparent than when the headphones come off and you lose yourself in the steamy blur of a packed dance floor.
I have always been fascinated by James Brown. Either because I enjoyed his music or because his personal life was so damned weird. But, like all truly great American artists, Brown’ s contribution to his culture is beyond question. His music is beautiful (dig the cavernous sounds of “It’s a Man’s World”) and fun (”Sex Machine” is actually infectious). Sometimes, you’ve got to —as the once-great Eddie Murphy knew— jump back and kiss yourself.
The incoherent poet. The Mercury on rims, flinging sparks, rubber, and mad grooves. The outsized motor and the overboard man of passion, motion, and funk. Thank you for making the engagement, James Brown, and so to make the bridge.
