The Language Wars had commenced. Verbs, if uttered around certain people, were subject to the death penalty. Get caught mouthing a noun out loud and it’s the pillory; besmirch a consonant and prepare yourself for five to ten in a Sensory Deprivation Prison--no sounds, no sensations, no nuthin’. The Technocrats had found that language had been a constant source of confusion and trouble for humanity. It was too vague, too imprecise. So it had been eliminated. All except for the official State Vocabulary List, that is, containing 5,000 computer approved entries. These were the only words allowed; all others were illegal.
Let it be known that you’re really into one of the various religions of the word and yo’ time is up baby! They raid an adjective rally you’re attending and you’re meat, Jack. Yup, uh huh, just plain meat. They’ll send you up in one of those void probes as survival food for a pair of giggling Puerto Rican bionics, survive and maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it to the Motherplanet, the other planet, the planet under one groove. The place of rhymes. The place of music. The place of funkadelia. The legendary place inhabited by the descendants of the Mothership Connection.
Scan your history loops, blood. Check January One, 1995. Check New York, New York. Check Madison the Square Garden, daddy. Yup, uh huh, that’s the time those crazed brothers did it. Oh, it had been planned for years, but that was the night they actually did it! I know, I was there. Yup, uh huh, I was there--’member it like it was yesterday.
The entire Garden was swaying with the winds of rhythm. The Brides of Funkenstein--yup, uh huh, that’s what they called themselves--were strutting their silver heels to the beat of a song called, “Disco to Go”...What’s disco? That’s another story, that’s what it is. Anyway, these two babes was wailing away, I mean their jam was so tight it was terminally bad. Then Clinton--yup uh huh, I SAW George Clinton--brings out the rest of the band, they were called the FUNKADELICS, a kind of musical collective. And they kinda settle into this crazed thing called “One Nation Under a Groove,” and I mean this song was smokin’.
Then it happened. As one particularly unified grooveallegiance wafted out into the night air, a low bass hum was heard and out of nowhere came the Mothership, and all the other ships. The Mothership silently moved itself overhead, blocking out the night in a dazzling, lights-a’-flashin’ vision of serene beauty. The crowd hushed. There was a moment of silence, then a brilliant flash! The entire band and the Mothership had disappeared. The only reminder that it had all actually happened were the band’s instruments--they were still playing. Neither the band nor the Mothership were heard from again.
Not until 10 years ago that is, when a faint signal was heard from a remote corner of the void. It was a confusing signal, a signal that has become the invocation of freedom for some, and the promise of the future for others. Yup, uh huh, that signal came down the celestial pipeline and set it all in motion again. A signal sweet and musical, it was: “One Planet Under a Groove, gettin’ down for the funk of it...”
Say, who’s knockin’ on the door? Yup, uh huh. No, No, we ain’t telling no stories in here...
* * *
It’s only a matter of time before the entire P-Funk show hits the road and spreads the gospel of funkadelica to the stars, where it belongs, where it can be properly appreciated. This latest LP, One Nation Under A Groove, is a powerful excursion into a rapidly expanding mythology based upon the fashions and fiery movements of funkography. It cannot be denied and it crosses all cultural boundaries creating a ritual of rhymes everyone can grab ahold of and wallow in, a ritual as complex as language itself and as simple as the fundamental joy of outright entertainment.
Sure the Funkadelics owe plenty to the likes of Jimi Hendrix and his nipped-in-the-bud philosophy of planet love and to James Brown’s innate mastery of earthly rhythms, but they pay homage to these two by incorporating them and creating new, more exciting arenas of funk experimentation. And speaking quite honestly, I think George Clinton and his funkograms are genius. This fantasy of funk is a man after my own vocabulary.
One Nation Under A Groove is literally sizzling with magical rhymes ’n’ rhythms. From the inspired reworking of the Pledge of Allegiance, “Grooveallegiance,” to the refined, infectious beauty of “Into You,” the Funkadelics blend musical quasars that pulse out at you with an insistent majesty. Yet to the honest funk merchant, the real moment of truth comes on “Promentalshitbackwashpsychosisenemasquad (The Doo Doo Chasers).” This fecal folly foils all the supposed (beat) boys and lays bare the soul of language. If you cannot feel the beauty of lines like “Ego-munchies/Images doggie bags/Me Burger with I sauce on it/A myself sandwich” or the cortex-chewing anthem, “Fried Ice Cream is a reality,” then Mister you’re gonna be met by the Doo Doo Chasers ’n’ they’re gonna whop your (dewky) stick...
A part of the Funkadelic/Parliament madness ’til now only in the background light of the overall funkified duty roster are the rapidly rising Brides of Funkenstein. Composed of two Funkettes, Lynn Mabry and Dawn Silva, the Brides show a less hectic and more simplified aspect of the Clinton canvas. Their songs are long, and lean heavily towards the disco side more than the mayhem side of the Mothership Connection, which is a nice change of pace at times.
While it’s certainly too soon to tell if the Brides will develop the female force of funkettes out in the land to a fever pitch, this first venture speaks well, very well, indeed, for the future. Besides the current hit, “Disco to Go,” the Brides really get worked up on “Warships Touchante,” my favorite here. This album is certainly full of black holes waiting to absorb new matter. It does however, have one truly inspired moment--at one point while the Brides are scat-singing futuristic style, the background music goes berserk with a take-off on “Close Encounters.”
So if you’re bored with life in concrete, slip into something comfortable and take a casual dip into the cosmic slop--you’ll never see things quite the same again. Yours ’til Rod Taylor gets back from the future.
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