Working for the Man, Playing in the Band: My Years with James Brown
280
Working for the Man, Playing in the Band: My Years with James Brown
280Hardcover
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
In this unvarnished account of toiling under one of popular music’s most notorious bosses, Damon Wood details his six years spent playing guitar for James Brown’s Soul Generals.
In a memoir certain to fascinate Mr. Dynamite’s millions of fans, as well as musicians and industry insiders, Wood recalls how a chance encounter with James Brown led him to embrace soul and funk music under the tutelage of its greatest progenitor. Numerous interviews with bandmates provide multiple perspectives on James Brown’s complex character, his leadership of his band, the nature of soul and funk, and insights and sometimes harsh lessons learned along the way.
This is a sideman’s story of the gritty reality of working close to the spotlight but rarely in it. Damon Wood describes life on the road — often on James Brown’s infamous tour bus — with one guitar, a change of clothes, and two dozen comrades-in-arms as they brought the funk to clubs, theaters, and the biggest music festivals on earth. Working for James Brown could be fear-inducing, inspiring, exhilarating, and exasperating — all in the space of a single performance.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781770413856 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ECW Press |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2018 |
| Pages: | 280 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.30(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.10(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Trial by Funk “Welcome, son! We’re gonna have a good time tonight!”
James Brown called out to me as he approached from across the stage. I’d known him professionally for a little over a year, but I hadn’t seen him for eight months. We were on a multi-level stage in the open-air Earth Theatre in Thessaloniki, Greece. Mr. Brown had arrived several days earlier without his two “go-to” guitarists, prompting him to call me to fill in. Mr. Brown, as he preferred to be called, seemed genuinely glad to see me, and he was his usual smartly dressed, perfectly coifed self. In contrast, I wore faded jeans and a nice set of bloodshot eyes, having just flown halfway ’round the world on a moment’s notice. I knew that Mr. Brown did not like jeans, but he diplomatically ignored my appearance. He was aware that I’d just spent the better part of a day flying through multiple time zones with only a change of clothes and a guitar to answer his call — “the call” I’d been working for and waiting for all my life.
“We’ll tell you what key we’re in,” Mr. Brown assured me. “We’ll give you a few solos. The guys will show you the stuff. You’ll be fine, son. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Mr. Brown was smiling, clearly at ease, and now he had a guitarist who could deliver the trademark “chank” sound so integral to his funky grooves. Mr. Brown knew I didn’t know his whole show. But I’d been on stage with him a half dozen times in the past year or so, and he knew I’d been studying his music. I’d seen several of his shows by then and opened shows for him, backing his protégé and current companion, Tomi Rae Hynie. I’d met most of the band and most of them knew me. They also knew I couldn’t be truly familiar with the James Brown show because of how complex and ever-changing it was, even for them. But I was welcome to give it my best, and everyone made me feel like I could pull it off. Mr. Brown radiated so much confidence that I undoubtedly absorbed some. Perhaps he could see that I was a crazy mix of fatigue and nerves. At this point, I knew enough not to ask him what had happened to his two guitarists. Within 24 hours I’d know the story, and over the next seven years I would live my own version of it. But right now I had to get through a sound check. Then I’d clean up, grab a bite to eat, and learn whatever my bandmates could teach me in the two hours remaining before show time. I kept telling myself: I had to survive the night. Who knew where things might lead? As it turned out, I rarely looked back for the next seven years; facing forward took everything I had. Only now, more than 18 years after I joined James Brown onstage in Thessaloniki, does the whirlwind that began that afternoon make sense.
My adventure began in late June 1999. I had been quarreling with my girlfriend at her apartment in Las Vegas, my hometown, when the phone rang. Miss Ware at James Brown Enterprises was on the line. “Can you go to Europe for Mr. Brown?” The tone was like, “Can you do Mr. Brown a favor?” It was the call every musician dreams of. I gave the only answer a sane man would give. “Sure!” Then I added, “W-when?” Miss Ware said, “You fly out tomorrow morning at six a.m.” I had a difficult time sleeping that night, but I boarded that plane. I can no longer piece together my route from Las Vegas to Thessaloniki beyond the fact that it included three or four flights and lots of dashing through airports in the course of one very long day. In retrospect, it was like passing through some sort of portal into a new life. My former life faded to sepia tones; my new life most definitely would be in Technicolor. The Thessaloniki gig was 30 June 1999, my first proper gig in James Brown’s band. I was 29 years old, a professional guitarist of 10 years standing, and I’d been a few places. Thessaloniki was not one of them.
My arrival in Greece was inauspicious. The organization hadn’t sent anyone to meet me. I didn’t have much money. I really had no idea where I was going or where the gig would be held. In Greece you can’t tell the letters from the numbers. All I had was my Gibson Les Paul guitar, a change of clothes, and stack of plane tickets I’d picked up under my name at McCarran Airport in Vegas. So I called James Brown Enterprises in Augusta, which had just opened for the day, and Miss Ware, who was typically mean as heck, got us on a three-way call with the promoter, who was literally speaking Greek. Somehow, I grasped that I was to take a cab to the Earth Theatre and have the driver take me right up to the stage. James Brown’s manager would pay for the cab when I arrived. The cab ride was brief — my driver grasped the urgency of his mission and obliged by speeding through the hills to the gig. “Judge” Alford Bradley, a tall man with a rakish mustache, paid my tormentor. I attempted a beeline for the dressing room to change out of my rumpled jeans — I already knew Mr. Brown’s preference for sharp-looking associates — but Judge Bradley said, “Naaaah. They need you up there right now.”
Out on stage, scores of musicians, singers, and dancers were arranged for a performance. Indeed, I was the only guitarist. I already knew most of the band. Robert “Mousey” Thompson, the first chair drummer, was real outgoing and all smiles from ear-to-ear. I made friends with him right away. Mousey had become the band’s No. 1 drummer after his predecessor, Arthur Dickson, passed away shortly before I joined. Jerry “Louie” Poindexter played the Hammond B3. He was another really outgoing person who instantly made an impression on me. I knew Jerry had something special. He could take you to church with his B3. (To this day he calls me “colored boy” and leaves messages on my phone I can’t repeat.) These two cats were my solid acquaintances, budding friends, by the time I reached Thessaloniki. Just about everyone in the Soul Generals was easy to get to know and pretty open once we’d had a chance to connect. Even the musicians I didn’t know gave me a warm welcome as, suddenly, we were in this thing together. The group included Hollie Farris, trumpeter and band leader — a very physically fit dude — and the nicest guy; he never threw an attitude around. Jimmie Lee Moore was a multi-talented guy who typically played bass but also played a monster guitar. Jimmie was a real showman who could play his instruments every which way and steal the spotlight, a dangerous talent in Mr. Brown’s band. It was easy to get to know Erik Hargrove, the No. 2 drummer. Erik was a stand-up guy, even-keeled, outgoing; we quickly became friends. The others I would get to know in the process of gigging across Europe over the next two weeks. As we headed to the dressing rooms after the sound check, the promoter approached Judge and, within earshot of me, said, “Here’s the per diem money for the guitarist who just showed up.” Bradley pocketed the money right in front of me. “Don’t worry, son,” he said to me, realizing that I had witnessed his routine, “you’re coming out way ahead.” That was a famous phrase of his that I love to repeat to this day. In other words, “You’re gonna make a lot more money this week than you made last week, so don’t worry about the details.” Whenever anyone tells you that, they’re in your pocketbook. The move showed the greasiness of the organization, but I was too tired to really care, and there was no time to dwell on it.
Table of Contents
Preface
Act 1
Trial By Funk
The End of ‘The Only’
The Swim Team
Coming up in Vegas
Getting on the Bus
James Brown University
Acceptance
Have Guitar, Will Travel
Celebrating Y2K in Beirut
Meltdown in Visby
Heartbreak in Augusta
New Year’s in Vegas: Meltdown Redux
ACT II
Getting to Know ‘The Man’
Playing in the Band
We’re Gonna Have a Funky Good Time
Summer 2001
9/11
Harmonious Junk
Japan and Chuck Berry
Denver
Behind the Scenes
Star Time!
Magic Hand Signals
The Sideman’s Role
On the Road Again
Kicking Up a Storm
Danny Ray
The Stratocaster
Chili Peppers in England
Good Advice, and Games
Recognition
The Breaking Point
Aftermath
Epilogue