I didn’t know it was called funk when I grooved to it as a child. I didn’t know that I, a white child, wasn’t supposed to groove. I just felt the thumping play and the sense of play, and I wanted to shake my booty, which the adults around me considered slightly scandalous. I listened to that top 40 Chicago AM station and got caught up in its infectious rhythms; I didn’t know their names as well as I knew the Beatles’ catalog, but they became part of the background music of my childhood. I know their names now: “Flashlight” by Parliament, “Fire” by Ohio Players, “Mr. Big Stuff” by Jean Knight, “Tell Me Something Good” by Rufus and Chaka Khan (which gave me goosebumps as a child).
Years later, in college, I followed a community radio show that dealt in blues and funk, mostly funk. The first time I heard Parliament’s Aquaboogie, I sat there with this goofy grin on my face wondering “What the hell is this?” and called the DJ to ask. That was my introduction to Parliament/Funkadelic/P-Funk.
As I studied the genre (as an adult, I study everything) I discovered that funk, in addition to being playful, was sexy. And political. And inspirational. For example, P-Funk melds aspirations of political dominance (“Chocolate City”) with tales of survival (“Cosmic Slop”) and perseverance (“Aquaboogie”). The politically incorrect “Superfreak” rubs elbows with the motivating “Yes We Can” from the Pointer Sisters.
I’m very aware as I listen to the music that I am, as P-Funk would have it, devoid of funk. I do not have the shared experience of slavery and discrimination that funk seeks to rise above; I don’t even have the ice cool of David Bowie, whose “Fame” fits the genre. (I detest the song “Play that Funky Music White Boy” because it seems to be blatant co-opting.) I think about this because I’m going to see George Clinton and his P-Funk All-Stars tonight on his closing tour, knowing that I was not the audience funk was written for. I hope funk will accept me as a respectful tourist.
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This is for Steve Emmerman, who was the DJ for that long ago funk radio show on WEFT.
Tag: funk
Every which way
I’m sitting on my couch, before the day’s meetings and errands and editing (and no gardening as we’re on a flood warning with rain expected. My mind is going every which way:
- So much to do these next couple days — meet students, prep for conference, plant stuff, write, prep for conference …
- I am in a holding pattern for Making Things Happen. I don’t want to requery Prodigies until my dev editor has another shot at it (in June), I don’t know if I want to requery (this is now a word) Voyageurs at all (don’t know if it’s viable), can’t get re-written Apocalypse to the dev editor till June … when I send queries out, I get out of my funk because of this concept of possibility. I’m not really looking at any possibilities right now except for one big long shot.
- I think I’m going to be rejected by TSA precheck. I don’t know why, unless it was those anti-war protests I participated in during the Gulf War or the guy I dated, equally long ago, whose father was a card-carrying member of the Communist Party. Or the fact that I’m a Quaker, or that I have a metal bar in my left leg that guarantees I’ll be patted down like a terrorist. The website says “Eligibility Determined” but does not give me a code number.
- I’m pretty sure my last query out is going to be rejected. As I said, I shot big with that one.
- I’m not feeling good about my writing lately. I hear this happens.
- It’s just feeling like an unlucky day. My mood needs to be kicked in the butt, I’m sure, but not sure how to do that. The problem with feeling down is that feelings are so vivid that they take on the weight of truth.
Words Like Me 