And Party Every Day: The Inside Story of Casablanca Records by Larry Harris, Curt Gooch, Jeff Suhs Page A
Ads: Link
was new and fresh and totally of his own devising. Never mind that this music—an almost indescribable mix of doo-wop and gospel-tinged jazz with heavy grooves and the volume of Black Sabbath—was almost completely unmarketable. Clinton had taken his music, his flair for the dramatic, and his indomitable personality and carved out an exclusive market niche. He called his music P-funk, and everything associated with it was funkified. He didn’t invent the term or the music (it had grown out of jazz and R&B circles decades before, and James Brown had pioneered it in the 1960s), but he took it in an extreme direction, blending over-the-top ideas and quirks to create his own brand. George was especially adept at role-playing. He was fond of claiming that he had thirteen distinct personalities—including Dimwit, Sneaky, Speedy, Doped, and Sexy—whose names he’d recite like the names of the dwarves in some spaced-out reading of Snow White.
Clinton had created a following that was far more intense than those of groups like the Ohio Players or Average White Band. Parliament’s fans, which he lovingly dubbed “maggot brains” (making George the “maggot overlord”), would be there for every album and every concert. But, given the way that George wrote and recorded his music, the band would not produce a hit single, at least not one that would cross over from R&B to pop radio.
The origins of Parliament are confusing, at best. George grew up in Plainfield, New Jersey, where he formed a doo-wop ensemble called The Parliaments in the late 1950s. That group eventually expanded, and, owing to a dispute with the record company that owned the rights to the band’s name, George renamed the outfit Funkadelic. He released several successful albums for Westbound Records under the name Funkadelic, but by 1974 he’d decided to revive the Parliament moniker and was looking for a record label, even though the player rosters of Funkadelic and Parliament were almost exactly the same. This was an unusual scenario, because we were entering into an agreement whereby we would forgo any proprietary ownership of Parliament; plus, it could be argued that the coexistence of Funkadelic and Parliament would water down the impact of both bands. But Neil didn’t care; he was convinced that George was a moneymaker, no matter what name he used.
Everyone at Casablanca thought Clinton’s management team of Ron Strassner and Cholly Bassoline were hoods. They looked just like Damon Runyon characters, with their fedoras and long black coats, and their attitude was reminiscent of the Mob. But I liked them and their realistic way of looking at the business and the people they were representing. They were certainly not Mob-oriented. Rather like their client, George Clinton, they had their own Detroit Purple Gang kind of flair.
George and Archie Ivy—who was, more or less, George’s personal assistant—would visit me at Casablanca, and over copious piles of weed and blow (George once brought in some uncut and very potent coke, declaring that anyone who tried it would speak Spanish, as the stuff “hadn’t cleared customs yet”), they would pontificate for hours about how they were going to develop Parliament’s stage show into an otherworldly display of pageantry and pomp and how they needed half a zillion dollars to do it. Many times, I had no idea what they were talking about. My eyes would glaze over, and George would ramble on, giving voice to every thought that came into his head, stream-of-consciousness-style, like William Faulkner gone jive. I would stare at him and wonder, “Man, do you come with subtitles?” I often had to ask Archie or one of the two Purple Gang look-alikes, Cholly and Ron, to translate George for me, but sometimes even they didn’t have a clue. But so what if we didn’t understand what they were trying to explain to us? We gave them the money anyway. These advances were always against future royalties, and Parliament
Clinton had created a following that was far more intense than those of groups like the Ohio Players or Average White Band. Parliament’s fans, which he lovingly dubbed “maggot brains” (making George the “maggot overlord”), would be there for every album and every concert. But, given the way that George wrote and recorded his music, the band would not produce a hit single, at least not one that would cross over from R&B to pop radio.
The origins of Parliament are confusing, at best. George grew up in Plainfield, New Jersey, where he formed a doo-wop ensemble called The Parliaments in the late 1950s. That group eventually expanded, and, owing to a dispute with the record company that owned the rights to the band’s name, George renamed the outfit Funkadelic. He released several successful albums for Westbound Records under the name Funkadelic, but by 1974 he’d decided to revive the Parliament moniker and was looking for a record label, even though the player rosters of Funkadelic and Parliament were almost exactly the same. This was an unusual scenario, because we were entering into an agreement whereby we would forgo any proprietary ownership of Parliament; plus, it could be argued that the coexistence of Funkadelic and Parliament would water down the impact of both bands. But Neil didn’t care; he was convinced that George was a moneymaker, no matter what name he used.
Everyone at Casablanca thought Clinton’s management team of Ron Strassner and Cholly Bassoline were hoods. They looked just like Damon Runyon characters, with their fedoras and long black coats, and their attitude was reminiscent of the Mob. But I liked them and their realistic way of looking at the business and the people they were representing. They were certainly not Mob-oriented. Rather like their client, George Clinton, they had their own Detroit Purple Gang kind of flair.
George and Archie Ivy—who was, more or less, George’s personal assistant—would visit me at Casablanca, and over copious piles of weed and blow (George once brought in some uncut and very potent coke, declaring that anyone who tried it would speak Spanish, as the stuff “hadn’t cleared customs yet”), they would pontificate for hours about how they were going to develop Parliament’s stage show into an otherworldly display of pageantry and pomp and how they needed half a zillion dollars to do it. Many times, I had no idea what they were talking about. My eyes would glaze over, and George would ramble on, giving voice to every thought that came into his head, stream-of-consciousness-style, like William Faulkner gone jive. I would stare at him and wonder, “Man, do you come with subtitles?” I often had to ask Archie or one of the two Purple Gang look-alikes, Cholly and Ron, to translate George for me, but sometimes even they didn’t have a clue. But so what if we didn’t understand what they were trying to explain to us? We gave them the money anyway. These advances were always against future royalties, and Parliament
Similar Books
