Jack & Jill Politics



Who’s the guy in the hat?

Looks of puzzlement spread across the faces of the pulsing crowd at Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel as they percolated in anticipation of Parliament Funkadelic. The opening act, a funk ensemble costumed and led by a master puppeteer, had trotted out onto the stage in force only moments before. The crowd cheered; some recognized the work of local puppeteer Big Nazo Labs; others, consumed in the hazy air of several isolated and fragrant chimney stacks, were in no mood to be anything but welcoming. Creature from Planet X on the keys? Sure. Why not?

As the audience got itself acquainted with the gaggle of monsters and aliens with above- average funk chops, an older man in a crushable brown fedora and beige suit made his way onto the stage. The entrance was sneaky, mischievous; a scamp tiptoeing into forbidden territory.  Shuffling and shimmying between goblins and frumpy-faced oafs, this man, squat with a neck that seemed to strain against his tie, seemed almost absurd in his normalcy. Smiling among the ghouls in his Sunday-go-meet attire, he seemed little more than a proud grandfather happy to be included, goofily grooving along to the tunes of some far-out youngsters. For all anyone knew, he was the grandfather of the praying mantis wailing away on the baritone sax. There were no roars, no adulation, no reverence for him. He was an old man in a suit and fedora, jamming in anticipation of George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic, off the stage almost as quickly as he had taken it, beaming and waving a gold-ringed hand as he shuffled off. Some shrugged, chalking it up to the power of P-Funk.

An hour later, the funky freak show had gone, but the old man was back. The suit was the same, though the tie had ceded a bit more room to the neck. Over his beige ensemble he wore a black and gold cloak. This time his entrance was measured, deliberate. This time, his shuffle brought thunder. He was George Clinton and he came to funk you up.

The crowded roar, but the questions hung in the air, winding their way through the brain until they reached tissue capable of coherent thought. Where was the garish get-up? Where was the chaos of tresses? A bag of Skittles had not informed this wardrobe choice, not unless there were brown and beige Skittles now in circulation. The braid/dread/ribbon masterstroke was nowhere to be fine. In its place: a fedora. Brown. Crushable.

“For all y’all who don’t know, this is Mr. George Clinton, Dr. Funkenstein…” One of the many P-Funk All Stars rattled off appellation after appellation, while somewhere, Idi Amin stewed jealously. Upon conclusion, he wrapped up the introduction nicely. “For all of y’all expecting the George Clinton with the diaper and crazy hair: we ain’t doin’ that shit tonight.” And with that, P-Funk launched into “Flashlight” and electrified for two and a half hours.

Leading up to the show, the staff at Lupo’s was bracing itself for anything. While not a show anyone tries to avoid, it has, historically, been replete with enough characters and wild cards that the nights can be long and adventurous. And long. Work concerts long enough and you can get a sense of what kind of night is in store before the doors even open. Some nights, you know when you’re getting out; on others, you only know when you’re supposed to get out. Parliament Funkadelic nights lend themselves to a lot of speculations. The show was scheduled to end at 12:30,  but…funny things happen when you have a collection of jam musicians who like nothing more than jamming. And smoking weed. And jamming. Couple this with a frontman who knows something of the rock star life, particularly regarding matters of time,  and you find yourself chuckling about that time the tech crew cut George Clinton’s mic and turned the house lights on.

Posted backstage, I knew pretty early on that we were staring 12:30 squarely in the face. The atmosphere was energetic, but orderly. The man who once routinely exited spacecrafts while wearing a diaper sat relaxing in an office, anchored in an overstuffed chair as activity buzzed around him.  Genial and soft-spoken, it took me a while to realize he was a little more than a friend of the band. Even after he took the stage with the opening act, I assumed it was a bit of a tongue-in-cheek goof.

Ah. He’s kinda toying with the idea of not being recognized as George Clinton and then he’ll re-emerge in his regalia and the people who were paying attention will have a good laugh.

But that didn’t happen. He came back on stage in his suit, rocked the house and went back to his hotel, genial, soft-spoken and gracious as he bundled up against the February chill of New England.

Clocking out for the night, I inquired on the state of the evening with the club’s manager. He seemed relieved. The crowd wasn’t a problem and Parliament wasn’t a problem. Having worked far more P-Funk shows than I, he was prepared for anything. I laughed and noted what I observed backstage, that sometimes we allow legend to distract us from plain facts. George Clinton was an older man and those with age–and sense–tend to conserve their energy for the really important stuff. He mentioned that the change in the group dynamic and getting off drugs didn’t hurt either. A few Parliament stalwarts had passed on and with them, in the eyes of some, a good many of the unhealthy influences. The remarks were neither smug nor mean-spirited; merely the earnest and heartfelt observation of a man who has had to ask George Clinton to please not smoke crack in the club’s basement.

“He looked good. Healthy. Though I wish he’d have lost that stupid hat.”

I was preparing to write all of the above before I heard about Whitney Houston’s death. As my thoughts meandered from the capriciousness of life to public discussions of death and where exactly humor falls, I was brought to Whitney and George and fame and demons and time.

When I heard the news Saturday evening, I was on my way into a restaurant. The first of my party to arrive, I sat dumbfounded and alone. Overcome by some need to communicate, I struck up a conversation with a busboy, breaking the news to him and commiserating on what in the world seems to be up of late. I don’t know why I felt the need to reach out; it’s too easy to say it’s because I was upset at the too-soon passing of a music icon. On balance, I am an average Whitney Houston fan. I know the songs you’re supposed to know, love the songs you’re supposed to love and can articulate an argument regarding her pros and cons as an artist. I am average, but I sat bothered drinking ice water anyway.

Mulling over my feelings and inspired by the types of reactions that were flooding my Twitter feed, I was ready to keep my reaction focused on the do’s and don’ts of celebrity death; who you can make jokes about and when. As I considered the criteria, I discovered what was bothering me about all of this.

Five years ago, Whitney Houston’s passing would have been sad. Even today, she’s about twenty-five years too young to be gone so soon. Still, wrapped in the clutches of addiction, we would have sniffled some and cast our eyes down while quietly acknowledging that her demons had finally gotten the best of her. There would have been surprise at the timing, but not the circumstance.

Today, the blow is difficult because the timing and circumstance seem so cruel. At this juncture, I do not know any more than anyone else; the details of Whitney Houston’s final hours will likely be a matter of public record soon enough. What I do I know is what we all thought: that Whitney had come through the fire in one piece and that she had, more or less, overcome her demons. Average fan or loyalist, Whitney Houston’s third act was a matter of interest, a matter of hope with regard to the end of her story.

On Friday night, I saw someone who works as a legend but lives life as an old man; a man who’s jousted with his demons and seems to have come out ahead in his final act.  He, of course, isn’t perfect and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Mr. Clinton did, at one point,  indulge in a bit of sticky icky icky from the crowd but, compared to crack in the basement, I’d say that’s forgivable. In his beige suit and crushable fedora, I didn’t see a man who cared any less about getting people funked up. If anything, I saw a man who’d survived many things, including himself; a man who’d been set free and lived long enough to realize P-Funk wasn’t in his hair. P-Funk was in George Clinton.

For Whitney Houston, no one will wonder about the lady in the hat, smiling and grooving alongside young up and comers. Life did not take her that far. Gone is the opportunity to struggle and survive; no time to live life as an old woman and work as a legend, to come to life-affirming realizations. She is gone and we are but left with the foreverness of her voice.

May she find peace and an overstuffed chair on her journey.

This article was reposted from Pitts Think