James Brown

While Motown deliberately dials down Black musical markers for commercial reach, James Brown refuses to compromise—and that stance unexpectedly wins him more white listeners, huge commercial success, and the foundation of his status as the Godfather of Soul. We turn to James Brown’s music and the special setting around it. His music almost never compromises for listeners or white taste, yet through the 1960s and 1970s album after album crosses to the pop charts with huge success. Why? Why can he ignore Berry Gordy Jr.’s crossover formula and still succeed so fully? Look at the career. In Black pop history and in twentieth-century American pop, he is a fascinating figure. Early years. Born in South Carolina, raised in southern Georgia. He and the Famous Flames gain local notice in the mid-1950s. The Famous Flames are handled by Little Richard’s manager—Little Richard also from southern Georgia. After “Tutti Frutti” goes national, Little Richard is a star. His manager has many gigs booked for him but wants him on TV and larger, not Georgia-only dates—so James Brown fills those shows. I am not sure audiences were always told they were not seeing Little Richard. Either way, substituting for Little Richard is one early breakthrough. First hit: 1956’s “Please, Please, Please,” No. 6 R&B. He signs to Syd Nathan’s King Records in Cincinnati and keeps a long King–Nathan relationship. In many ways Nathan is a mentor. In the 1950s Brown’s music is mainly doo-wop. Listen to “Please, Please, Please” and it sits with other doo-wop of the time—perhaps rougher, because his fierce, fervent, even aggressive voice rides somewhat above the pleading lyric. Into the 1960s the style shifts. Before that, stage craft is central. He is often called the hardest-working man in show business. In the early 1960s he adds signature elements that make him famous in R&B—not only fluid dancing. We noted the Temptations’ agile, forward dancing; Brown is another who can move that way. When Michael Jackson is a child, whenever Brown appears on TV his mother calls him to watch; Jackson is drawn in and treats him as a master. Looking at Jackson from child star through late 1970s–early 1980s, much of the kinetic dance vocabulary draws on Brown. Another trademark (if you have not seen it, find footage): the end-of-show routine. He pretends exhaustion, even disorientation, from the performance. Aides drape a cape, jacket, or robe and lead him off as if without them he might not know where to go or might fall. At the last second he throws off the cape, runs back, grabs the mic, energy restored—again and again. Audiences come to expect it. If he does not repeat it five or six times, they feel shortchanged. He tells them: tonight I spent every ounce for you—the audience matters that much. The routine becomes a signature; live performance is a large part of how people experience Brown’s music in those years. When careers are planned around him, unsurprisingly they cut a live album: Live at the Apollo, fall 1963, reaches No. 2 pop—mainly a Harlem Apollo show. It displays range and energy and is key documentation of this important crossover artist early on. 1963: a man sings without apology in a Black style, for a largely Black audience in New York’s main Black neighborhood, and the album hits No. 2 on the 1963 pop chart. Album sales then matter less than later—albums are secondary; the trade still privileges singles. Still, 1963 brings a great show. From the 1960s on, Brown’s music takes more soul influence and partly leaves doo-wop. He is often called the Godfather of Soul; we hear that tight, forceful style where bass, guitar, and drums lock into a groove as if every instrument were percussion, and the whole track is built on that groove. On that groove you can picture him dancing, repeating lyrics without much harm. Sometimes the words sound a bit wild or off. He does not tell a story or romance the way other pop songs do; the lyrics seem almost beside the point—his voice joins the percussion, and for a moment everything fuses into that groove. 1964: the well-known “Out of Sight”; 1965’s “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag,” No. 1 R&B / No. 8 pop; 1965’s “I Got You (I Feel Good)”; 1966’s “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World”; 1967’s “Cold Sweat, Pt. 1”—all stamped with him. If you hear a 1960s record labeled James Brown, it can only be this James Brown. Industry people call him among the most valuable artists. The sound is a brand; a few seconds tell you who it is. As noted, one of the most interesting reasons is that the music in many ways carries a marked Black style. What elements build a “marked Black style”? If I do not know the artist is Black and only listen, what traits are most obvious? The question is interesting; the harder you try, the harder a precise answer. Most of us still feel it by intuition even if we cannot spell out the traits. Anyway the music is heard as distinctly Black, with no compromise toward white preference. Why do white audiences still love it? I think the song traits: emphasis on groove, hip rhythmic figures, full energy, an aggressive voice driven by rhythm, and lyrics that mean little—comic, not solemn. The Black markers in Brown’s music feel non-threatening—just groove and musical pleasure. While Gordy works for elegance, Brown plays what he truly feels. The band rehearses hard; members who err are said to be fined. They rehearse fiercely for perfect tight figures. If someone misses in performance he points it out and docks pay. Honestly, many tell such stories and we cannot know whom to trust—but that people believe it at least shows rehearsal stricter than many bands then called excellent. As we close this chapter and look toward Part Two’s discussion of 1970s Black pop, one event in 1960s Black culture—or American culture—marks Black pop history deeply: the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in April 1968. It is widely seen not only as a turning point for Black communities but for Black music; even Stax’s Steve Cropper says the room feels different after that day. Stax people had never had racial fights, yet after 1968 something shifts. We can imagine artists angry over King’s murder. The country is in turmoil; anger sparks new racial conflict, and Black pride movements begin to gather force. You might think that puts people like Brown in a bind; the opposite happens—he plays an outstanding mediating role in the late 1960s. He is booked at Boston Garden the day after King’s assassination; city and mayor worry about young people gathering after riots elsewhere. So they decide on a free TV broadcast: anyone in the Boston area who wants to see James Brown can watch. Only a few thousand go to the Garden—good front seats—while the show airs live. Through Brown’s effort the concert helps Black and white communities in Boston stay together, learn understanding and tolerance, and to some degree checks rioting. We continue Motown and James Brown in Part Two’s “Black Popular Music of the 1970s.” Next chapter: late-1960s psychedelic rock—what happens when rock goes psychedelic?