Evidently, Questlove, drummer for the Roots and director of last year’s exceptional doc “Summer of Soul,” is teaming with Mick Jagger to produce a four-part documentary focused on James Brown. Sounds great. Can’t wait. Pardon me if my enthusiasm seems a little low.
Here’s the deal. I love James Brown. Loved him before I knew him, loved him for the short time I was an acquaintance and love him now. But Jagger has already produced a James Brown documentary, and it was not the first. I just feel like the empowered story of James Brown’s rise and fall and rise again has been told a lot since his death in 2006. Let’s give it a little room to breathe before we roll it out again. Unless, that is, we can find a new angle which, coincidentally, I believe I have.
Imagine a documentary that combines the uplifting musical spirit of Summer of Soul with the can’t-look-away aspects of the twinned Fyre Festival docs. You want to talk about James Brown, his troubled relationship with his beloved hometown and an all-star event that never quite takes flight? Then instead of setting cinematic sail for the same James Brown tales told time and again, set a course for Memorial Day weekend 2006. The weekend of the ill-fated James Brown Soul of America Festival.
More than 15 years on, this remains my litmus test for almost everything that can go awry with live music events. Truth be told, if I had to trace the cynicism I feel every time someone announces a big outdoor event in Augusta – say at a ballpark – it would all lead back to Soul of America.
When it was announced, the event was billed as a massive three-day event that would include live streaming around the world, a golf tournament and an A-list stack of stars to include Justin Timberlake, Usher and, of course, the Godfather himself. Only one of those things happened, and it almost didn’t.
And that’s the appeal of this documentary idea. There was no streaming. No golf. No Usher or JT. Most of the acts promised were notably absent and those that showed – a James Brown tribute act, a not-quite-rising boy band and the clearly displeased JB drummers Clyde Stubbefield and ‘Jabo’ Starks seemed confused by the chaos they encountered. Can’t say I blamed them. I spent all hot day at that event I never quite understood it either. Except for one moment. The moment that almost didn’t happen. The moment that makes this movie. The moment that James Brown and his band, despite being on tour in the Northeast, stepped onto the quickly erected stage and, as only he could, brought the funk. Nobody that day knew this would be his last performance in his hometown, that he was essentially saying farewell. His death, some seven months later, surprised us all. But we had that one last memory, that short set played not as paid professional but as a native son wanting to do something for his community.
That’s your movie.
Questlove. Mick. I hope you have your ears on.
I don’t need absence to feel fonder. Just the possibility of absence seems to be enough.
This week Peter Excho, the founder, owner and barker-in-charge at Pexcho’s American Dime Museum had what those with delicate sensibilities might call a “cardiac incident.” I’m quite fond of Peter. I find his approach to not only his business, but also the community – the family really – of self-proclaimed oddballs and eccentrics that have found a sense of place there inspiring. I’m quite fond of his museum. I find its winking approach to truth – stretched or otherwise – refreshing in a world where facts – stretched or otherwise – are often weaponized.
I’m quite fond of his approach to collection. I find the sense of harmony produced when manufactured oddities share a case with the real thing a pretty perfect metaphor for disparate ideas approached with equal respect. So, yes, when I heard that Excho had been ambulanced away from important preparations – the museum has a two-headed T-Rex on its way – I panicked a little. Where would those people, those objects, those ideas that the Dime Museum has fostered go? It felt like a very particular hole that could not possibly be filled.
But here is the good news. Reports seem to indicate that the indomitable Peter Excho is on the mend. That his good heart – so to speak – and infectious personality remain intact and focused on getting back to not only his collection but the people that love it. My advice to you is, once he has pulled on his topcoat and tied his cravat, pay Peter Excho and a marvelous museum a visit. Support it. Love it. It’s a local treasure, and Peter has an adopted dinosaur to support.
Buried Treasure – Beet by Eleventh Dream Day: Over the course of 40 years, this Chicago band has trafficked in albums that are routinely praised by the press while being routinely ignored by the public. And while most will point to the excellent Prairie School Freakout as the band’s high point, I’ve always preferred the band’s 1989 major label debut.
Sounding a lot like classic Crazy Horse liberally seasoned with Velvet Underground attitude, it’s a relentlessly propulsive collection on songs that never lose sight of this melodic core. The “hit” – and I use that term loosely – is probably the psyche-rocking Bagdad’s Last Ride. But I prefer the more character-driven tunes such as Michael Dunne and Teenage Pin Queen. I also must confess a certain fondness for the tongue-in-cheek snark of the Grateful Dead takedown Bomb the Mars Hotel. A word of warning, however. I advise against playing this album in the car. I have found that it makes me drive fast.
Steven Uhles has worked as professional journalist in the Augusta area for 22 years, and his Pop Rocks column ran in The Augusta Chronicle for more than 20. He lives in Evans with his wife, two children and a dog named after Hunter Thompson.
