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Friday, Jul 10, 2009
George Clinton and Parliament-Funkadelic are a hugely groove-alicious influence on contemporary pop culture. But could anything like Clinton's grand artistic vision -- and inclusive politics -- thrive in today's shallow realm of bling?
Sep 18, 2003 | "The P-Funk clientele has always been a peculiar mix of ages, sexes, races and nationalities, and faiths unified and collectively categorized by a common state of mind. Funk fans knew world order as 'One Nation Under a Groove.'"
-- George Clinton, "Funk: The Music, the People, and the Rhythm of the One"
You might not know it from the mania surrounding thug lifers like 50 Cent, multi-genre salesmen like Ludacris or crossover marketing dreams like Eminem, but George Clinton's fingerprints are everywhere in today's hip-hop landscape -- and everywhere in pop culture. (Consider acts as diverse as Prince, Primus, Lenny Kravitz, the Roots and Public Enemy, to name just a few.)
Created by the mercurial Clinton (who also went by the name Dr. Funkenstein, among others) and rounded out by the irrepressible Bootsy Collins on bass and the amazing Bernie Worrell on keyboards, the Parliament-Funkadelic monolith -- three of whose timeless '70s classics, "Up for the Down Stroke," "Chocolate City" and "Mothership Connection," have recently been reissued on CD by Universal Music -- birthed a heady mixture of party music, democratic optimism and prodigious technical skill that reshaped the consciousness of generations of pop acts and pop fans. And to get specific, next to James Brown, P-Funk's collection of funk classics is by far the most sampled catalog in contemporary hip-hop.
In fact, take a quick look around and you'll find a budding or entrenched Clintonite ready to answer the question found in P-Funk's classic tune "Mothership Connection": "Who wants the funk?" Of course, there's Snoop Dogg, the Long Beach-bred franchise, whose P-Funk worship shows through his stoned paeans to gin and juice, low riders and the ghetto life of leisure. Snoop's antics and music have ignited the imagination of hip-hop nation worldwide -- as well as led to a score of film roles and a new show, "Doggy Fizzle Televizzle," on MTV.
Those who haven't picked up their copy of "Mothership Connection" or caught sight of Bootsy Collins onstage might not realize that much of Snoop's vibe -- from the fur-lined coats and diamond-studded sunglasses to the laid-back raps and musical prowess -- comes directly from Clinton and, especially, from Collins. Snoop makes no bones about his love of P-Funk, and has spent much of his successful career paying homage, either through collaboration or appreciation or both, to its outrageous pioneers.
"Snoop reminds me of me when I was coming up," Collins explains in an interview, "so when we actually played together, we just clicked so much. A lot of the time, we don't even have to say anything. We just feel each other. And it's good to see that spark in the younger generation. Snoop is taking P-Funk to the younger generation in a cool way, in a way that I would have done. There's something special about that to me."
Then there are those funky upstarts, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who asked Clinton to produce their second release, "Freaky Styley," and are now rock icons in heavy rotation on both MTV and its sister station, VH-1. Much of the Chili Peppers' music -- and attitude -- has also been structured around the ambitious work of their bassist, Flea, who cites none other than Bootsy for helping him see the funky light.
"Flea will tell them in a minute!" laughs Collins. "Parliament-Funkadelic was one of his major influences. And now all the kids that dig the Peppers connect the musical dots and, the next thing you know, they're picking up a P-Funk record and going, 'Whoa!' To me, it's evolution. The new fans are going to keep taking it to the next level. Kids will say, 'I got into this because the Chili Peppers were doing it' and so on. It's all connected, whether the kids realize it or not."
Yet, though the Red Hot Chili Peppers have spawned legions of similar bands, not to mention countless fans, few of them would recognize Clinton or Collins on the street. In a musical landscape that's more focused on flavor-of-the-month product than ever, it's difficult to entice listeners to dig past the samples and guest turns for some historical perspective. And there are some who feel that problem has more to do with the proliferation of media than the apathy of the beat-addicted public.
"People are fans of the medium now," asserts Davey D, an Oakland-based hip-hop historian and DJ who's been in the rap game almost as long as Eminem has been alive. "They're not fans of the artist. If it ain't on the radio, it doesn't exist. I recall one time at KMEL, James Brown stopped in but they wouldn't put him on the air. I'm going, 'James Brown? The Godfather?' He didn't fit the format. We have to look at how there isn't an appreciation for the past. The past is undermined, sometimes intentionally or sometimes unwittingly, to the point that it's very hard to build off of the legacy that was left behind. It's even hard to get people to respect it."
Indeed, if today's hip-hop medium, or format, has a message, some would argue that it's removed from the spirit behind the funk on which it was built. Take, for example, the bling-bling contingency, whose videos -- featuring a non-stop medley of Bentleys, ice, pool parties and phat ass -- are still using the mode of expression that Dr. Dre's party music adapted almost completely from Parliament's "Mothership Connection."
