James Brown, ‘Soul Brother No 1’ and ‘The Hardest Working Man In Show Business’, is coming to the end of his four-hour concert. Behind him are ‘The Famous Flames’, a band so drilled and precise as to make the Band of the Coldstream Guards seem sloppy and under-rehearsed. Immaculate in their tuxedos, they punch out Brown’s patent and unique brand of Funk. The band refer to this as ‘the One’ because its fundamental rhythmic emphasis falls on the first beat of the bar; ONE, two, three, four, ONE, two, three, four…Their leader, his face glistening with perspiration beneath his extraordinary, rigid, sculptural coiffure, launches into his last encore, ‘Please, Please, Please’, with its refrain of ‘Please don’t go!’ reflecting the wild audience’s wish that their hero could funk on indefinitely.
James howls and screams, and his feet which, given his stocky, muscular frame, seem incongruously small and neat in their gleaming patent leather pumps, flicker and flash across the stage. As the relentless funk continues, his head starts to sink a little, the flying feet slow and suddenly he falls to his knees. The man is clearly exhausted. From the side of the stage, Danny Ray, James Brown’s MC and stage manager enters anxiously. He carries a silver cape over one arm and gently pats the singer on the shoulder before deftly spreading the sparkling cape over his back. Protesting feebly, Brown allows himself to be led towards the wings, still weakly shuffling his feet to the beat.
But as he reaches the side of the stage, he seems to revive. He hears the Funk. He is called by the music, and the summons cannot be ignored. Suddenly he straightens up and flings the cape from him in distain. He must do more. Running back to the microphone he screams another chorus, ‘Please! Please! Please!’ The audience go wild, but after a minute or so, his energy reserves seem to have been exhausted, and once more he falls to his knees, grasping the microphone stand for support.
From the wings Danny Ray emerges again, carrying a different cape, this one is blood red, and embroidered with the slogan ‘The Godfather of Soul’. Again he casts the cloak about James’ shoulders and tenderly raises him to his feet and leads him, a broken man, to the side of the stage. Pathetically, the singer is still shuffling his feet in time to the music. He’s finished. But no! His audience need him and Brown won’t stand for it. He has given nothing if he has not given everything. He suddenly comes back to life, casts the crimson cape to the floor and, ignoring the protests of his MC, he runs back to centre stage. ‘Please! Please! Please!’ Just one more time!
But after only a few moments it is obvious that he has given his all. For a third time he falls to his knees, and the ‘cape man’, now clearly determined to save his boss from himself, hurries on with a third cape, this time of glittering gold, swathes his ‘Mr Dynamite’ in its folds, and finally manages to lead him slowly off the stage.
And is this hokum? I would say not. If a performer pretends exhaustion and is then helped off the stage, with or without a cape over his shoulders, then that would be hokum. But James Brown does this three times, with three different capes. The cape routine is no longer hokum; this has become an act of ritual theatre, and like all ritual theatre, it has its roots and foundations in the truth. James Brown really is The Hardest Working Man In Show Business, he really is exhausted, he really doesn’t want to leave. He really would like to go on all night, but it’s the end of the show and it’s time to go. So good night! This is ritual theatre. And this is genius!
