Let's start with the obvious: James Brown was among the two or three most incendiary performers of the rock 'n' roll era. He presaged the likes of Michael Jackson, Prince and all the other brothers with soulful voices and slick dance moves who came after them. In the 1960s, Brown didn't cross over to a white audience; the white audience crossed over to him. He achieved widespread commercial success without ever sanitizing, without ever suppressing the essential African-Americanness of his music.
Yet as much as white folk listened to Brown on the radio, bought his records and watched him on TV, attending his concerts remained a shaky proposition, one that brought out the pervasive fear and distrust of the black inner city — because most of the time that's where you had to go to see James Brown in concert.
Many a white JB fan walks the earth today having never seen the man on stage in his prime (me included). That ship has sailed, of course, but the loss can be mitigated a little with the release of the three-DVD set I Got the Feelin': James Brown in the '60s (Shout! Factory).
Actually, the set's title underplays its value. These DVDs do more than show an extraordinary entertainer on stage; they capture a fascinating slice of American micro-history.
Spring of 1968. James Brown's status as a figure in the black empowerment movement is on the rise. He is not a believer in Dr. Martin Luther King's policy of passive resistance; neither has he aligned himself with strident black militancy. But he respects and supports both. Then King gets shot down in Memphis. Riots beset many American cities.
Black leaders had some decisions to make about what message to convey to their people, and many of them discouraged angry mobs from burning and looting their own neighborhoods — with limited success. James Brown got it done. The linchpin disc of I Got the Feeling is The Night James Brown Saved Boston, a documentary directed by David Leaf, which chronicles Brown's role in calming the simmering cauldron of Beantown, one of the few big cities that was spared a major riot.
Basically, James Brown played a show at Boston Garden on April 5, 1968, and in the wake of the previous day's King assassination, the city fathers hastily arranged to televise it on the local public channel. People stayed home to watch. Boston didn't burn. Nothing involving James Brown is ever that simple, though, and the doc adroitly chronicles the behind-the-scenes negotiations, crises, hand-wringing and machinations that put Brown in a position to save Boston.
Foremost, Brown was not driven by pure altruism. He wanted his money. The Godfather of Soul was not in on the decision to televise the concert, and when he found out (and watched the box office plummet when ticket refunds were announced), he was livid and demanded the city pay him $60,000. The administration, although taken aback by what they perceived as insolence, reluctantly agreed. To this day, there is a dispute over whether the bill was ever fully paid. Then-mayor Kevin White, one of the film's interviewees, said it was worth every penny of the 60K, while Brown's business manager said all they ever received was 10 grand.
A roll call of talking heads (Brown's longtime friend Al Sharpton, black academic Cornel West among them) offer up socio-cultural analysis and anecdotes that render the movie nothing short of riveting. And then there are those priceless little moments, like when the stiff public radio voice announces a show "featuring Negro singer Jimmy Brown and his group."
All that and lots of footage of James Brown doing his thing onstage. Another of the DVDs shows the Boston concert in its entirety, including a particularly tense moment when some kids rush the stage, a white Boston cop shoves one of them, and Brown has to take the microphone, admonish everyone and restore order. The policeman had a nightstick; if he'd used it, it's likely no one could have prevented a Boston riot.
The third disc captures a Brown show at Harlem's Apollo Theater a few short weeks prior. The performances are similar on each DVD, as Brown starts out with ballads like "It's a Man's Man's World," and then works into a drenched, funky froth on "Cold Sweat," "I Got You (I Feel Good)" and "I Can't Stand Myself (When You Touch Me)." (JB aficionados take note: His cape routine had become truncated and perfunctory by this point.)
Those not familiar with Brown's performance oeuvre will recognize dance moves that have become staples of black male R&B performers: pelvic thrusts, multiple spins, long slides across the bandstand (on one foot or two), an effortless command of the groove. Brown's primal power is mesmerizing, even though the footage is grainy and often clumsily edited.
I Got the Feeling mixes history lesson with raw, unfettered entertainment. It also acts as a welcome counterweight to Brown's later life, the period of the frazzle-haired mugshot, the incarcerations, the overt misogyny, the performances that had turned into parody. This package is a vivid reminder that in the '60s and '70s James Brown was a pretty damned important cat.
This article appears in Apr 29 – May 5, 2009.