It is hard to understand, comprehend and process the hitherto lack of ‘funk’ in my concert going repertoire. There are few (read never) concerts where the crowd constantly chant ‘We want the funk’ at regular stages. The question tonight is can George Clinton deliver the aforementioned substance?
The performance has a ramshackle and ragtag feel throughout. The cliff of chaos is regularly courted, tottered on and often very nearly tumbled over. To be this chaotic and close to utter universe ending cataclysm requires 2 main factors:
1) An impossibly honed and tumble proof band
2) Audience belief in the constellation imploding power of the funk
Neither of these two factors comes even close to being doubted on this showing. To be this ramshackle, abyss defying and funky takes both uber preparation and uber self confidence. The first four songs have a distinct absence of funkmeister George. He enters in a psychedelic hooded jacket seeming like a senescent cosmic gnome. His hair retains its untameable multi layered, multi coloured and multi-dimensional extensions. Here is a man with a vision, a man with a life long mission to promulgate and extenuate the life enhancing wonder of the funk. Beyond the ‘We want the funk’ chant, other leitmotifs of the evening include ‘free your mind and your ass will follow’ and ’shit, goddam, get off your ass and jam.’ Every performer is reliant on the audiences ‘belief’ or suspension of disbelief in the artist (as demonstrated in the flying mechanism in Peter Pan and the Mr Saxon season finale of Doctor Who) Tonight the audiences belief in George and the funk is truly unassailable. Of all the concerts I’ve witnessed at the Royal Festival Hall seldom have I seen such an impassioned reaction and audience compulsion to stand up and ’shake that thang.’ This somewhat deranged psychedelic hobo look-a-like is somehow the answer to the funk needs.
George’s band (are they Parliament, are they funkadelic? Who knows?) are intergalactic cartoon caricatures. The drummer appears to have walked in from a Milli Vanilli convention. The main guitarist wears a man sized nappy. There is also a bank of guitar players including a virtuoso hard rock rotund guitarist who takes the rock solo to pan galactic dimensions later in the performance. There are 2 regular female vocalists, one of whom must possess chameleon DNA (so many costume changes and the absolutely necessary use of retro roller-skates twirls towards the finale). There are lamentably infrequent interjections of a soul diva with an epoch defining voice. Also finally there a comedy foil dressed as though his suit were made from a white shag pile carpet (highly likely) inclusive of ridiculously large floppy hat. This character emerges from time to time with placards such as ‘fuck George. He also has a lithe, gym constructed physique (on display due to lack of shirt budget) The highlight of this ‘negative young George’ ’s evening is to rap in the penultimate song and then perform acrobatic hand stands from the top of a speaker stack.
It would be easy to get lost and irretrievably immersed in all this ensuing distractionalia, where it not for the music. As disjointed and fragmentarily chaotic as the visuals are the music is unified and rare. The reason the audience stands for the whole evening is not out of respect, it is out of dancing necessity. Somehow all these diverse, potentially discordant elements blend into a funk groove of consolidated joy. Atomic dog, one nation under a groove, p-funk and the whole evening blends seamlessly into a divine concoction. The weakest individual element is George’s voice. Without the surrounding carnival it can sound slightly raspy and insubstantial but as part of the whole, the sum parts transcend their individual merits.
During the final song, George’s microphone gives up on him, yet somehow he still manages to broadcast his interplanetary chanting across the whole venue. He may be slightly shuffling, slightly doddering, but he remains entirely and ineffably funkmeisterly. Prince you owe him wholesale.
Vision (10/10): On a whole different planet. Seminal yet still relevant, although borderline deranged
Ability to Execute (9/10): Age is catching up with Mr Clinton but as a whole unit of funk there are few peers
Crowd Symbiosis: (10/10) Adore is too mild a word of endearment in this case
Would See Again (9/10): I would definitely board this pan galactic vessel once again
‘We want the funk’ (A demonstration of job well done)
An incendiary looking pan dimensional performance
