James Brown is dead

from: I beat you to it, pencil dick
25 Dec 2006

You ain't qualified. If I had to play "I Feel Good" one more goddamn time I'll beat somebody's headlights out with my favorite bass (my homemade fretless Jazz with EMGs - including the onboard compressor masquerading as the "tone" knob - with a hipshot drop-D lever) into their fucking grill. Goddamn, you GOT to play that motherfucker TIGHT, especially the "pops" on the way to the "~when I hol' you, in my arms...~" part (y'know what I mean? "p.p.p.p, PAH!") so tight you can almost hear James yellin' "Fi'tty-dolla fine!" You CAN'T do James' death notice without what you got a few thousand of those under your belt, small change. Yeah, he was an asshole, and a bit of a joke in his later years (when I worked in a music store, right about the time James got arrested, and Tascam sent us the first of those 8-track cassette recorders, so we demo'd it with an ASTOUNDING tribute to James called "Honkies In Ma Baffroom" with some ultra-tight backbeat, like on "Night Train" with the bass laggin' the drums just a tiny bit, with James-ish ejaculations like "shoot out ma tires. Heh. ride on de rim!" and "gotta get ma shotgun! Aim for he haid!" and another tune called "Washed Ma Johnson" that was pure ultra-funk nasty-ass ripoff of "Sex Machine" only about James in his 50's; "`washed ma johnson. Heh. Goo'Go'. So the funk won' dra-a-ag me down...~") and if we all didn't know Bootsy-era James it woulda sounded like a bunch of white boys, but as it was it fucking SMOKED! Unfortunately, 8 tracks on cassette was a really bad idea and it ate the tape about two months later. Not surprising, since we played the fucking thing at LEAST 40 times a day, trying to get dumb sumbitches to buy one. So yeah, James is dead, on Christmas Eve and at least I beat that miserable cunt stash to the punch before he cut-and-pasted some soulless obit from whatever godforsaken site he digs them up from. I'd fucking HATE to see some no-talent littledick do that to James. I knew him through his fucking music. Later days, James. (Choke on my girth, Corky!)



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