Tucked somewhere between Sly and the Family Stone's '60s hard street rock and Prince's middle-'80s synthesized funk rests George Clinton. His funk conglomerate, Parliament/Funkadelic, slyly moved Black music out of the deadend of love and politics and into, for lack of a better phrase, "a whole new thing."
But P-Funk wasn't street—Clinton dressed his aggregation in a comic book scenario ( Sir Nose D'Void of Funk vs. Clinton's funk dispensing shaman ) and brought the "Mothership" out of the heavens ( actually the rafters, depending on which sports arena you saw them in ) nightly, years before Close Encounters. Grown men dressed in diapers, soul mamas in feathered plumes, co-hort Bootsy Collins, and even Sly Stone himself. As a concert, with the exception of the Tubes, P-Funk was an audio/visual assault unlike any other. Clinton managed to spin-off his sci-fi funk army into a franchise—Parliament, Funkadelic ( actually one group on two different labels simultaneously ) , Parlet, Bootsy's Rubber Band, the Brides of Funkenstein. On stage it looked like a mess—a sort of Mardi Gras mob after a downpour. But it sounded like music from another world.
The Mothership Connection solidified Clinton's vision while crashing the top 20. Ironically, funk competitors Earth, Wind, and Fire ( "Earth, hot air, and no fire," as Clinton called them ) , though far more socially conscious and upwardly mobile ( therefore more "serious" ) , now sound weirdly dated 20 years later, while P-Funk remains fresh and charismatically, well, funky.
Taking his rightful place as the high priest of all things funky, Clinton and the P-Funk Allstars descended on the Petrillo Bandshell in Grant Park, kicking off the first day of A Taste of Chicago with a bang. Not the circus parade of 20 years ago, but there was plenty to see—a full horn section, free styling hip-hop dancers, various vocalists, that guy in the diaper, and a little dog running around loose on stage. Clinton didn't even have to perform—he just had to be there. Well past 50, his voice cracked to a croak, but looking exceptionally robust, he jumped right into a particularly crisp "Cosmic Slop," demonstrating the power of music as a tool for unifying people politically, racially and ( though not as apparent ) sexually.
During a 25-minute rave-up of "Flashlight," Clinton brought up the horn section for an extended jam, scatted half way through the song, and a-rhythmically kept shouting the chorus as if he didn't know where he was. At Petrillo, where the bass and percussion turns to mud, the sightlines are horrendous, and the sun ( on this occasion ) can turn mortals into croutons, it didn't matter. Old school funksters with their teenage kids, tattooed suburban white boys, hip-hoppers, businessmen still in suits, Mohawked punk rockers—all of them waving their arms in unison, singing together, "...Think I've found the Funk...." "One Nation Under a Groove" indeed.
Joan Jett, on the other hand, is a flaming goddamn sexy bitch. Outlasting the legend of the Runaways ( the all-female band blueprint for grrrl rock ) , the imprint of bubblegum king Neil Bogart, touringtouringtouring, and even Rocky Horror, she's now an icon. But unlike Clinton, her status isn't founded in the past but stubbornly current, idiosyncratic, and now ( obviously ) historic.
Like many, the first time I'd heard her was the smash "I Love Rock and Roll," catchy as all get out, but in hindsight profoundly way ahead of its time. For starters, its a bubblegum song with a grunge attack ( the monolithic crunch of the guitars, J.J.'s cat-scratch "Oooo-owww" ) and a muddy dull velocity like a train wreck in motion ( only Pink Floyd came close to that sound on "The Wall" ) . Second, it's a proto-feminist ode to partying and sex, about her picking up a boytoy ( "I could tell it wouldn't be long when he was with me/Yeah ME..." ) , not the other way around.
July 1, J.J. arrived at the HOB with her band, the Blackhearts, and played to a sweaty enthusiastic crowd of older closet rockers who remembered the hits, and young fresh righteous women there to check out an icon. Comfortably out of the closet, J.J. bluntly asserted her attitude with compulsion. Where say, Chrissie Hynde, does the posturing of a bad girl, J.J., I'm convinced, IS a bad girl. Wrapped in a lycra emergency red halter top, and suction-tight black vinyl pants, now with a peach fuzz buzz cut, and a touch of bewitching mascara, she's definitely now, not the past. But where Hynde can get sentimental ( "I Go to Sleep" ) and sticky ( "I'll Stand by You" ) , J.J. slugs past the tears and goes straight for the power cords and the LUST.
Expectations of this being an oldies gig were flushed as soon as J.J. hit the last verse of her opener, "Bad Reputation" ( "I don't give a SHEEEE-IT 'bout my bad reputation... ) . "Do you Wanna Touch Me?," "The French Song," "Fetish," "Androgynous," and Mr. Pop's "I Wanna be your Dog" ( were J.J. slow grinded the monitor with pornographic glee ) cooked, but the finale was wet blistering woman lovin' rock that just isn't to be had in a bottle.
As one of the three all-time great mob-rock songs ( Queen's "We Will Rock You," and Billy Idol's "Rebel Yell" are the other two ) , "I Love Rock and Roll" came roaring to life with 500 people screaming that chorus, arms punched in the air, simultaneously. Her cover of "Crimson and Clover," though at the time the single seemed like a top-40 concession, peaked from the start with a crunching sexy drama ( when J.J. opened the song with that husky damp sigh, the crowd went apeshit ) . Complete with an open admission ( "I think I can love her/but I don't even know her" ) , J.J. ironically put a much-needed spin on that celebrity "out of the closet" problem ( Julie, Anne, Sinead—listen up ) . She's out, she's comfortable, she's cool with it, it's who she is, not a headlining HISTORIC issue. By now it's obvious J.J. is not only an icon but also a role model for our rapidly changing queer times.
