For Helen

Contents

Information Page

Introduction

Chapter 1: Pre-Funk

Chapter 2: Nothing Before Me But Thang

Chapter 3: There’s A Riot Going On With Laughing Sam’s Dice

Chapter 4: Motor City Madness

Chapter 5: Mommy, What’s A Funkadelic?

Chapter 6: Looney Tunes And Scary Melodies

Chapter 7: America Eats Its Young

Chapter 8: Standing On The Verge Of Getting It On

Chapter 9: Space Is The Place

Chapter 10: The Awesome Power Of A Fully Operational Mothership

Chapter 11: Don’t Fake The Funk Or Your Nose Will Grow

Chapter 12: The Empire Strikes Black

Chapter 13: Invasion Of The Booty Snatchers

Chapter 14: Old Dog New Tricks

Chapter 15: Give Out But Don’t Give Up

Epilogue

Where Are They Now?

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

Introduction

November 1989, Apollo Theatre, Harlem

For the last two hours George Clinton and his faithful Mothership crew members have been giving up The Funk on the legendary boards which probably figure higher in Dr Funkenstein’s history than any other stage in the world.

An extraterrestrial Biblical vision in long white robes and multi-coloured hair, this last great figure from black music’s seminal sixties and revolutionary seventies is showing he can still trump anything from the eighties as he conducts both band and rabid audience through immortal P-Funk classics such as ‘Cosmic Slop’, ‘Maggot Brain’ and ‘Flash Light’ for over two hours.

A few months earlier I’d realised the lifelong ambition to interview George, followed by subsequent meetings where he relived and recounted what it had meant to be the planet’s loudest and most innovative exponent of The Funk and its nasty essence. A quarter century later, here’s my chance to tell the astonishing tale of this towering figure of 20th century music and the stellar musicians who flew with him during his incredible journey, along the way creating the most gloriously crazy (and most sampled) catalogue in music.

You will hear about the self-described blackest, funkiest and filthiest band of all time that would materialise from a pyramid onstage in America’s biggest arenas while a giant skull puffed a six-foot spliff; the landing of a full-blown Mothership obtained from their record company at a cost of half a million dollars to disgorge Dr Funkenstein in all his space pimp finery; ‘Starchild’ Garry Shider wielding his stroboscopic Bop Gun while flying over disbelieving crowds; a lineage of guitarists clad only in oversized diapers; the cartoon space-bass funk onslaughts of Bootsy Collins; the horrific drug guzzling contest which nearly sent Tawl Ross – furthest out Funkadelic of all – beyond the point of no return; Eddie Hazel – the only guitarist to ever carry Hendrix’s incendiary mantle before tragically losing his own inner battle; epoch-making powerhouse drummers such as Jerome ‘Bigfoot’ Brailey; oddball satellite bands such as Sparky & the Pimpadelics and spin-offs such as the Brides Of Funkenstein; how an artist called Pedro Bell defined a new cartoon world of doo doo chasers and hardcore jollies; old-school music business skullduggery sparking full-blown mutiny and the subsequent fall of an empire; trailblazing masterpieces arising from hard, high or triumphant times set against a backdrop of Black Power, barbershops, socio-cultural revolutions and vast quantities of mind-expanding drugs.

It’s hard to imagine what life would have been like without P-Funk or how music might have ended up today. This is a story about famous dogs told through the eyes of a lifelong ‘maggot’.

Let’s take it to the stage …

Chapter One

Pre-Funk

Whether indulging in expert myth-stoking or extreme barbershop ribaldry, George Edward Clinton always says he dropped into the world in the outside toilet of the family home in Kannapolis, North Carolina on July 22, 1941.

He maintains that this was where he entered the world simply because his mother, Julia Keaton, told him, recounting at different times, “My mother thought she was just going to the bathroom” or, “She was on her way to the bathroom. I almost got wiped out.” This may not be as glamorous as Dr Funkenstein ascending from the hatch of the Mothership but George has always been a master of the grand entrance.

George liked to describe Kannapolis as “out in the sticks behind the pigpen”, painting a picture of a rural backwoods, although the town was known for its household linens and textiles industries and now enjoys small city status. It’s also the home of stock-car racing, which sprang out of night-time bootlegging runs during the twenties.

Brendan Greaves runs the Paradise Of Bachelors obscure Americana label from a nearby address and knows the area well. He told me, “Kannapolis spans two counties, bearing the odd distinction of being named for Cannon Mills; a rather bittersweet association given the rapid decline of the textile economy here in the mid-South in the last few decades.

“The Western Piedmont of North Carolina demonstrates a rich warp and weft of culture and landscape. Situated on the edge of the Piedmont’s rolling hills, near the Appalachian foothills, it’s beautiful country – known as one of the state’s centres of textile production (the Piedmont was once one of the foremost producers of denim).

“One of the notable cultural contributions of textile mill towns is the development of the string band and bluegrass music fostered in these and surrounding communities, black and white alike. It was perhaps sonically influenced in part by the rapid, mechanised pace of the textile machinery in the factories, in addition of course by mountain ballads, old-time string band music, minstrelsy, parlour guitar music, and African American Piedmont blues and banjo styles. Earl Scruggs and Don Gibson, as well as David Lee Roth, hail from Cleveland County.

“Twenty-five miles to the south west, Charlotte is the closest major city and, in its heyday, preceded and rivalled Nashville as a major recording nexus for ‘hillbilly music’. The Carter Family, Uncle Dave Macon and Bill Monroe all made early recordings there, but ultimately the city couldn’t compete with Nashville’s WSM (Radio) and Grand Ole Opry. However, Charlotte remained a recording hotbed on a smaller scale, with Arthur ‘Guitar Boogie’ Smith’s studios hosting sessions by James Brown and legions of soul and country stars and aspirants. Kannapolis plays a vital role in the soul and gospel music history of the Carolinas. Even in his short time there, George Clinton would have been exposed to a wealth of music, both sacred and secular, black and white.”

Like many African-American families, the Clinton clan lived in extreme poverty. George found responsibilities thrust upon him at an early age, being the eldest of nine children born to Julia, who tried to support her family through cleaning and baby-sitting work, but times were hard.

George told John Corbett, author of Extended Play: Sounding Off From John Cage To Dr. Funkenstein, “The first thing I can remember I was about five years old. My father had just come back from the service. The war was over; everybody was talking about the atomic bomb. I can remember the blackouts, big searchlights all over the sky at night. And in the daytime you couldn’t see the sky for rows and rows and rows of planes. I mean, it literally had a top on it, all day, every day.”

George’s first memory of music having any kind of impact on his soul was as a seven year old, hearing his mother and sister playing Louis Jordan and Charlie Brown records when they were getting ready to go out. His father wasn’t around much of the time.

Starting during World War One, large numbers of rural black families migrated to cities along the northeastern seaboard, west coast and industrial belt running from New York and Philadelphia through Cleveland to Chicago. Looking for work and a better standard of living, the Clinton family headed north, first taking in Virginia and Washington DC. In 1952, they settled in New Jersey; the ‘Garden State’, birthplace of FM radio, drive-in movies, the zipper, the phonograph, the motion picture camera and ice-cream cone, along with Dionne Warwick, Faye Adams, Frank Sinatra, Count Basie, jazz pianist Bill Evans and the Four Seasons.

Like many, the Clintons gravitated to Newark, New Jersey’s ‘Gateway City’. During the 19th and early 20th century, the state’s largest metropolis had been a vital centre of the Industrial Revolution as one of America’s major air, shipping and rail hubs and centre for the pharmaceutical and chemical industries. However, Newark was in decline by the time George and his family arrived, and was among America’s most impoverished cities.

George attended the recently opened Clinton Place Junior High School (off the main Clinton Avenue thoroughfare) in downtown Newark. By all accounts it was a brand new facility with several cool teachers. The school song reflected the optimism of its educational ideals; ‘Nestled in Newark on a busy street, stands a school that can’t be beat, Clinton Place, oh Clinton Place, your banners raised on high, we sing to you as song of praise your name never will never die’ – George was singing his name at a young age. While still attending school, he proved he could work with people when he made it to foreman during his first holiday job, at the Wham-O hula hoop factory. The company led the market in blockbuster fads, following the hula hoop with the frisbee to huge success, accompanied by suitably zany advertising.

Having made the long trip from North Carolina, Newark would have been the first vibrant black community the young George spent any amount of time in, with new social patterns, entertainment outlets and a cultural legacy for him to explore. In the early fifties, black music was pretty divided between songs of religious devotion and the rhythm and blues that would soon magnetise George. The term ‘rhythm and blues’ was originally coined by Billboard in 1949 as a means of describing ‘race’ music in a less offensive way to blacks and make it palatable to white audiences. R&B quickly began to evolve into something approaching the sound and meaning of its name, in much the same way as would subsequently happen with rock’n’roll, doo-wop, or punk.

As theatrical rocker Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, an early perpetrator of sinister onstage props and theatrical shock tactics, later observed, “Can’t get to soul without rhythm ‘n’ blues. And gospel. And what they call rock’n’roll, which ain’t nothing but R&B. Labels are bullshit. You wanna get to the sixties, you gotta start with the forties and the beginning of rhythm and blues … Somewhere along the mid-fifties, people started doing gospel and blues, too. You can’t make a clean separation anywhere.”

In rural areas, rhythm and blues encompassed gospel, hillbilly and country blues as dominating influences, eventually morphing into deep soul and the rockabilly which spawned Elvis and magnetised white teenagers. Iconic vocalist Isaac Hayes recalls being instructed as a youngster that the blues was ‘plantation darkie stuff’. The cities produced their own sleeker, harder model, incorporating urban blues, gospel, big band modern jazz and the harmonies of black vocal groups such as the Inkspots and Mills Brothers. There were two different styles for vastly different environments – country and the ever-growing but already rotting ghettos emerging in the cities. R&B provided momentary escape, whereas church music promoted eternal joy and salvation through devotional celebration.

For many families, the church provided most of their direct musical exposure. Many of the black singers I’ve interviewed over the last 40 years credit the local gospel choir as their initial musical outlet, the church a vital part of growing up. Rather than running the streets, getting into the kind of trouble which would magnify as they got older, the church gave the most deprived neighbourhoods a sense of unity, equality and inspiration in early years, families out on a Sunday morning in their best clothes, relishing their week’s spiritual and cultural highlight. The power of the preacher and euphoric eruptions of the gospel music which drove the congregations to noisy heights of speaking-in-tongues catharsis would later make its presence felt in George’s devotional funk gatherings.

Although Newark’s church music would find a global audience at Whitney Houston’s funeral in 2012, it had thrived, largely unnoticed by outsiders, for around a century before that. Decorum and etiquette went out the window as the singers let their emotions fly, jettisoning their inhibitions and sometimes discovering unforeseen vocal talents. In the fifties, gospel was a heart-lifting release for participants. It would all be going on inside the warm sanctity of the church, no matter how harsh the environment outside was.

George’s musical enlightenment was enhanced by his cousin Ruth in Passaic, who gave him popular records of the day. Ruth lived next door to one of the Shirelles, long before the girl group goddesses led by Shirley Owens hit big later in the decade with such lustrous outings as ‘Will You Love Me Tomorrow’, ‘Dedicated To The One I Love’ and ‘Soldier Boy’. Their first single, ‘I Met Him On A Sunday’, came about after a schoolmate at New Jersey’s Passaic High School mentioned the group to her mother, Florence Greenberg, who just happened to be president of the Scepter record company.

The wide-eyed, teetering-on-teenage George was allowed to watch the Shirelles rehearse and later witnessed them at Harlem’s legendary Apollo Theatre at 253 W 125th Street. It would become a key venue in his musical development. Occupied by Minsky’s Burlesque until 1932, the Apollo was taken over by theatre-owner Sydney Cohen, who refurbished the 20-year-old building, reopening it in 1934 as the 125th Street Apollo Theatre – a black variety entertainment centre which admitted black customers. After Cohen was edged out by established local promoter Leo Becher, the Apollo started presenting all-day bills mixing variety acts with jazz giants of the day at Depression-friendly admission prices. Operating as a black-run community epicentre, the Apollo established its legend over the next few years, with Wednesday’s Amateur Nights (which unearthed stars such as Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan).

The Theatre got through the World War Two, surviving the 1943 Harlem riot which raged for two days after a black army private was shot by a white cop on 126th Street. It left six dead, looted stores and increased the isolation of what was turning into New York’s black city within a city. White audiences stopped coming up to the Apollo as the neighbourhood gained its ‘no go’ reputation for non-blacks, but the venue continued operating as one of the key spots for black artists to play in the US, along with Washington’s Howard Theatre.

I’ll admit to being a little nervous when my mate Steve and I took a cab up to the Apollo to witness the P-Funk All Stars in late 1989 but the gig was electric and the place carried an aura of venerability and tangible history in the old staircases. Just thinking whose feet had trodden them is hard to grasp. When George was a regular, the Apollo was a madhouse, the crowd either embracing an act they liked or mercilessly vociferous if they didn’t, resulting in the famous hook being brought on to get them off. The cheap seats on the second balcony were named the Buzzard’s Roost, source of much rowdy behaviour (best cleared between houses by the projectionist showing a 30 minute film called The River, the running water performing its bladder voodoo to clear the place).

George’s first time at the Apollo with the Shirelles in 1953 turned into something of a doo-wop epiphany as noted vocal group the Spaniels were also on the bill. He noticed the girls screaming and going crazy at the group, which made more of an impression on him than the music at that time.

After being smitten by one of the great singing groups at this early age, the young George enthusiastically pursued the doo-wop singing being sent out over urban rooftops by poor black teenagers. Like other tough neighbourhoods at that time, downtown Newark was awash with gangs, a product of the new independence and self-awareness which motivated post-war teenagers to create their own codes of dress, music and slang. This new world of music ended George’s flirtation with a neighbourhood gang called the Outlaws, replacing criminal kicks with a burning ambition to perform. This was typical of the kind of street-spawned motivation which contributed more to the evolution of R&B than is commonly recognised, as each group brought their different styles and the music evolved organically. In George’s case, he’d got out of gang life after his friend Leroy was murdered right in front of him, recalling on his VH1 Legends series documentary George Clinton: Biography, “This car drove up and boom!.. Blood and everything spattered all over everything, and nobody knew what had happened. We realised that somebody was hit and it was like … Leroy was shot, and the car pulled off. Then it went blank on me.”

As one of the most basic musical genres, doo-wop was an early form of teenage punk rock; the sound of disaffected or under-privileged kids making music the only way their circumstances would allow – with the human voice. Initially a black movement, it was an expression of post-war urban blues defined by the poetry of inner city life. Most ghetto teenagers were unemployed and living in poverty, with no interest in school. A lifetime’s gospel services had ingrained call-and-response vocal patterns and group harmonies on many, but R&B’s swagger, subject matter and sense of discovery was far more exciting. From tenor leads to booming bass, it didn’t cost anything to gather in a stairwell, on a corner or subway station and unleash the one instrument they didn’t have to buy, hoping they might make it out of the ghetto by imitating singers who already had. It also got them out of their overcrowded houses and away from controlling parents – an escape from daily despair and drudgery, even a way to be heard by the world. By the mid-fifties street singing had become a way of life.

The excellent Doo-Wop: The Forgotten Third Of Rock ‘N’ Roll by Dr Anthony J Gribin and Dr Mathew M Schiff (one of the few in-depth books about this music) exhaustively validates doo-wop as a vital (and distinct) entity in music’s evolution; often overlooked and ham-fistedly misrepresented when it was shown to the masses in movies such as Grease – where it was portrayed as some brief craze which grabbed innocent teenagers as they gambolled through puberty. Rather than being a mere fleeting substrata of rock’n’roll trampled by the Beatles, doo-wop actually commanded an entire department of the notional R&B superstore.

Failing to see how a major new wave was crashing into America’s cultural mainstream, record labels tried to brush it off as a fad. Meanwhile, the music was performing an enormous service to post-war integration, as audiences became increasingly mixed. George has always cited doo-wop as his biggest influence and its multi-tiered harmonies resonated through P-Funk into the most extreme Mothership outings; from obvious elements such as Ray Davis’ bass ruminations and Garry Shider’s imploring lead vocals to more subliminal structural traits. While it provided foundations for George’s later sonic skyscrapers, barbershop group singing was led by group harmony rather than backing a lead vocal. George would be referencing an earlier style on the Funkadelic and Parliament chorales of ‘Biological Speculation’ or ‘Give Up The Funk (Tear The Roof Off The Sucker)’. It speaks volumes about his natural aptitude for assimilating trends and the inherent progressive essence of cutting-edge black music that George would subsequently master happening forms such as funk and hip-hop (itself a continuation of the DIY doo-wop spirit).

Groups such as the Spaniels and the Fiestas defined an a capella style possessed of an angelic beauty which now sounds like some kind of alien transmission from a distant, innocent time. Listening to the interplay and passion sparking and intertwining can be a startling, moving experience; evoking a time before the human voice was abused and castrated by studio manipulation and edge-sanding gadgetry. Doo-wop was romantic in an idealised way, its love songs born from gospel bordering on pure prayer, but placing the subject of the singer’s affections (rather than the Lord) on a pedestal. As well as aspiring to the celestial, singing was also a good way to get girls.

“The fifties in New York were an incredibly romantic time to be brought up hearing that stuff,” George later affirmed. “That was the music of your day. It was the music you fell in love to. I imagine it’s like that for every generation, but here you had the soundtrack to incredibly in-depth emotions of love. You combine that with being a teenager.”

Doo-wop’s roots as an urban vocal style go back to 19th century barbershop singing, which subsequently gave rise to black vocal outfits such as the Ink Spots and the Mills Brothers, who influenced the first pioneering wave of R&B groups. Baltimore’s unearthly Orioles, who took the music into the charts in 1948 with ‘It’s Too Soon To Know’, are widely credited as the most innovative of the R&B groups, originating four-part ballad harmony with tenors, baritone and bass, a major influence on both the R&B groups of the fifties and early rock’n’roll.

The Ravens first appeared in 1946 with ‘Honey’ before releasing a further 42 sides for National; being the first ‘race’ group to achieve international fame and also push forward a lead bass vocal. No group had done that before and group co-founder Jimmy Ricks can be viewed as the godfather of the ba-boom vocal style, although the Robins and the Coasters were quick to follow as the bass voice became the rumbling foundation of doo-wop. The animated voices, high and low, on ‘Be I Bumble Bee Or Not’ could be a flying insect portent of the areas where George would be cavorting some years hence, by which time he would have developed one of the best bass voices in the business.

By 1950, the success of the Ink Spots, Ravens and Orioles opened the door for street-corner groups to hear themselves on record. As the decade progressed, the Moonglows from Cleveland sprang to prominence through Alan Freed, the radio DJ who exposed white teenagers to R&B and put on huge stage shows featuring artists of the day. Just as George would take black music to mixed stadium crowds, Freed was breaking down barriers, taking the Moonglows with him as their hits on Chicago’s Chance and Chess labels set a template for group harmonies in years to come. Led by Harvey Fuqua, they pioneered the bass voice intro and pleading tenor leads as later used by Parliament. With their unique method of ‘blow-singing’ into the microphone, the Moonglows were perhaps the most influential of all the groups who came up in the fifties.

Other prominent fifties doo-wop ensembles included the Clovers, Drifters, Five Keys, Spaniels, and Larks. Alongside these, upcoming groups such as the Teenagers, Flamingos, Penguins, Crows, Cadillacs, Solitaires, Five Satins, Keynotes and Harptones emerged. Many of these lasted through the decade’s golden age until the style’s demise in the early sixties. All were far removed from the sanitised fifties rock’n’roll archetypes that the media would project through rose-tinted lenses across subsequent decades. The Larks’ ‘Eyesight To The Blind’* is a gutbucket blues sing-along, voices spontaneously buzzing and bubbling behind the impassioned lead. The Crows’ million-selling ‘Gee’ was the first doo-wop 45 to be recognised by the white media – thus blasting the style’s sperm across the purity of white pop, arguably creating the first rock’n’roll record in the process.

The progression from street corner into the studio brought about changes in the vocal styles, with different groups adapting the flavours they’d discovered – Harlem’s the Solitaires’ rooftop magic presaging the Temptations, or blues interpretations of the Clovers’ rousing soul music. George particularly liked the Spaniels, the group he’d first seen at the Apollo. Hailing from Gary, Indiana, the Spaniels were doo-wop innovators, being the first vocal group to give the lead singer his own mic. Led by James ‘Pookie’ Hudson’s smooth, quavering tenor, the group uncurled rich, ethereal harmonies, underpinned by Gerald Gregory’s subterranean bass utterances. They were the first to sign to Vee-Jay Records, the first large, independent black music record label, debuting in 1953 with ‘Baby, It’s You’ and becoming its biggest sellers. While gliding through finger-snappers such as ‘People Will Say We’re In Love’, the group were masters of heart-soaring ballads such as ‘Here Is Why I Love You’ and their big 1954 hit, ‘Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight’ (as heard in American Graffiti and even Three Men And A Baby).

The Heartbeats were a Jamaica, Queens high-school quartet who recorded three slow grinds for Bea Casalin’s Hull Records before adding James ‘Shep’ Sheppard as lead vocalist and scoring a hit with ‘A Thousand Miles Away’, a pivotal monster record in the winter of 1956. Only the Dells, who first appeared on Chess in 1956 as the El-Rays, could lay claim to being their successors or replicating their sound in the sixties and into the seventies, having honed their harmonies hanging out outside the Chess building on South Michigan Avenue. Songs such as ‘Tell The World’ and ‘Oh What A Night’ showed how a street-corner group could succeed by following their own sound.

Newark winters were harsh and sub-zero but the hot, muggy summers encouraged hanging out and singing on the corner. In George Clinton And P-Funk: An Oral History George recalls, “I used to skip school and go to the Apollo Theatre. I left out of the eleventh grade. Cocky as hell. ‘I’m not even going back to school.’ That’s how much I knew I was going to sing.”

Doo-wop groups often started young, while still at school, like the Parliaments, formed by the 14-year-old George in 1955. He maintains that the group was called the Parliaments from the start, after the brand of cigarettes. This was happening all over the country, as street-corner groups coalesced as an outward manifestation of the intertwining personal relationships of kids at school or on the street. George’s pals harmonising in the boys’ room included Gene Boykins, Charles ‘Butch’ Davis, Herbie Jenkins and George’s brother Robert.

Like many groups formed in 1955, the Parliaments were motivated by the meteoric success of Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers, who had a similar effect in motivating teenagers to form groups as the Sex Pistols would 20 years later. Lymon was actually a year younger than George. “Then Frankie Lymon popped up with his little hit record ‘Why Do Fools Fall In Love?’ and that was it. Frankie Lymon and them had the girls, man … The doo-woppers had girls running across the stage,” he says in An Oral History.

Although now a well-known golden oldie, ‘Why Do Fools Fall In Love?’ is still one of the most vibrant, universal encapsulations of this era, exploding with the joys of young love with its spring-enforced rhythm and Lymon’s soaring soprano. The group’s own story was not so innocent. Lymon was born in a Washington Heights tenement in 1942, to a truck driver father, who sang in a gospel group called the Harlemaires, and a mother who worked as a maid. The neighbourhood was a hotbed of prostitutes, junkies and dealers (one of his brothers died from drugs). Frankie grew up fighting and getting into trouble. To help his family, he started working as a grocery boy at the age of 10, began smoking marijuana and supplementing his paltry wages by hustling prostitutes by the age of 13, and was enjoying relationships with women twice his age.

He also sang on street corners with a group of mid-teenage boys from school who decided to call themselves the Premiers – with lead tenor Herman Santiago, second tenor Jimmy Merchant, baritone Joe Negron and bass-voice Sherman Garnes. The Premiers changed their name to the Teenagers, impressing Valentines singer Richard Barrett, who arranged an audition with New York record producer George Goldner. On the big day, Santiago had a cold, so Frankie stepped up, declaring he co-wrote the song before unleashing his supernatural falsetto. Goldner signed them to his Rama Records, releasing ‘Why Do Fools Fall In Love?’ in January, 1956.* It stayed on top of the R&B chart for weeks, peaking at number six on the pop chart and number one in the UK. Almost overnight, the group shot from poverty to earning thousands of dollars a week. In 1956, the Teenagers were part of the first integrated rock’n’roll tour, along with gospel-soul sensation Clyde McPhatter, Bill Haley & the Comets, the Platters and the Flamingos, encountering Ku Klux Klan opposition and bomb scares along the way.

The group enjoyed further hits, including ‘I’m Not A Juvenile Delinquent’, but broke up in mid-1957 after Goldner tried to push Frankie as a solo artist. He failed to get off the ground and was shunned after daring to dance with a white girl when he appeared on Alan Freed’s The Big Beat live TV show promoting his single, ‘My Girl’, the perceived outrage resulting in Southern uproar and shows being cancelled. More disaster loomed when Frankie’s voice broke, although he tried straining for the high notes across a few singles. As his popularity shrank, his addiction to heroin grew. The sixties saw failed drug cures and solo records before he reformed the Teenagers. He married an already-married woman, relocated to LA, married twice more without divorce and got drafted into the army. After getting a promising new record deal with the Big Apple label, Lymon returned to New York in February 1968 but was found dead from an overdose in his grandmother’s Harlem bathroom the next morning. However, his work had long been done, paving the way for early teen pop stars such as Stevie Wonder and Michael Jackson, while Berry Gordy used Teenagers songs as a style template.

George and friends initially concentrated on the lady-killing ahead of the music. “We got girls before we got records,” he crowed in An Oral History. “I mean, we were the baddest group around the town, ‘cause love songs was the shit anyway. Matter of fact, that’s why I still love doo-wop, because doo-wop was all about grinding and getting pussy.”

George claims he couldn’t sing for shit, but was handling falsetto and bass, while the group honed their harmonies on the subway and in the hallways of the projects. The first line-up of the group consisted of George, Charles ‘Fat Butch’ Davis, Herbie Johnson and Gene Boykins.

The Parliaments’ first gigs were school dances, talent shows and YMCA hops. He told MOJO’s Lloyd Bradley in 2006: “Instantly, we became the favourite group in the area. I don’t know why, maybe because we were the youngest and our audience was very young. Or it might have been the showmanship and shit, because right from back then we put on a show. We had the Newark area sewn up, through the high schools and that. Amateur nights we’d always win, Battle of the Groups we’d always win. We did shows with Joey Dee & the Starlighters … the Four Seasons, Monotones … all of them were in the Battle of the Groups in New Jersey with us and we’d usually win. We won Amateur Night at the Apollo so many times we had to go on under different names.”

George’s first adult job was sweeping the floor then styling hair at Newark’s Uptown Tonsorial Parlor, a typically funky barbershop of the time. “First I started out singing, you know, at 14 or 15 years old. Everybody had a group in Newark, Brooklyn, [or] Harlem. When I came out in the era of doo-wop, everybody sang and when you sang you had to get your hair done. So we started out doing each other’s hair. And I immediately got a job in the barbershop doing processes, which was the big money maker in the fifties and through the sixties.”

Black barbershops had been influential in helping to develop African American culture at the turn of the 18th century. By the fifties, the barbershop was a vital cog of the local community, an African-American cultural institution where news and sport were savoured and chewed, along with a large amount of fat, by fathers, sons, relatives and friends. Along with the shit being shot, plans were made, which inevitably led to bands being formed by the younger customers. From George’s reminiscences, it always struck me as the ghetto equivalent of the old local British pub, an escape from home strife and outside pressure for older patrons, while younger elements were risking a beating by sneaking into this occasionally shady adult world.

This writer lived in downtown Newark in the late eighties, and mention of this sparked a stream of reminiscences from George – in a New York dressing room during his filming for MTV’s coverage of his 1993 team-up with Primal Scream – who sat regaling the rapt group with anecdotes about the Parliaments and those early days. He remembered the barbershop with much affection as a local hangout hated by parents but loved by budding local musicians and juvenile delinquents, some as young as eight. “It was the place to be,” he laughed, while adding that it was also the birthplace of hip-hop. At one point, he put on a cassette of a doo-wop album he had put together, featuring the original songs being sung by his old comrades. It was magical, but was sadly never released.

Notwithstanding the crazed exotic stacks which adorned George’s noggin over the years, hair was the first thing he excelled at, specialising in finger waves and conking (straightening wavy hair with toxic chemicals). While financing his earliest musical endeavours, George’s musical foundations were laid in the barbershop. “After you’ve done other people’s hair for so long you know the concept of doin’ hair,” he explained to John Corbett. “The garbage man looked just as cool as the pimp and the singer when they left the barbershop.”

At its peak George’s barbershop boasted up to 10 barbers working 13 chairs charging five dollars a do. The place was so successful George rarely had time to do his own barnet but used this as an ad slogan under his photo – ‘Come and get your hair done or you could end up looking like me.’ “We was making so much money we had Cadillacs at 16,” he once told me.

George’s growing clientele included visiting luminaries such as Jackie Wilson and the Temptations as well as local pimps and players. “Really, style is just a bunch of bullshit, it’s just how you carry it. If you is safe with that concept, then you can be as ugly as you wanna be or as cool as you wanna be and know that neither of ‘em mean shit! No matter how cool you are, you can go some place where you look corny as hell to somebody. They thought that to have your do was the corniest stuff in the world when you got around hippies. And then a few years later, the afros came out and then the black people started looking silly. So it means that styles just go round and round and ain’t nothing permanently cool or corny.”

The Parliaments line-up was constantly changing, and by the start of 1956 it comprised George, Herbie Jenkins, Robert Lambert, Danny Mitchell and baritone/bass Grady Thomas – the first of the P-Funk’s renowned vocal group nucleus to appear. Born on January 5, 1941, in Newark, Grady worked at the same salon as George and became the first long-term P-Funker to join, staying until the 1977 walk-out. The first known Parliaments recording is an acetate carrying their renditions of the Diablos’ ‘The Wind’ and ‘Sunday Kind Of Love’, captured in a Newark recording booth in 1956.*

Nolan Strong & the Diablos were one of the hottest vocal groups during the mid-to-late fifties, thanks to a string of hits including ‘The Way You Dog Me Around’, released on Detroit’s Fortune label. I’ve never heard the Parliaments take but, listening to the sweet, haunted cry of the Diablos’ original now it’s not hard to imagine that P-Funk chorale unleashing its rich tones.

By 1958, the line-up had changed again, seeing George, Grady, Lambert and a returning Charles Davis joined by Calvin Simon from Beckley, West Virginia, who had been in a group called the Crystals and knew Grady at school. Calvin’s falsetto convinced George to offer him a place in the group, ironically firing Grady to make room for him. This line-up made the Parliaments’ first venture into a studio to record two songs, ‘Poor Willie’ and ‘Party Boys’, released on Hull. Casalin licensed the single to ABC-Paramount’s recently launched APT subsidiary (its name derived from American Broadcasting Paramount Theatres), who issued it in June, 1959 to scant reaction.

Compared to other vocal group records of the time, the Parliaments already carried an edge under their rich harmonies, weaving and soaring through a hefty wedge of doo-wop and gospel-charged stylings over minimal instrumentation. They sound much older than a bunch of teenagers, especially on the flip’s ‘Party Boys’, George managing to dip a ‘glory hallelujah’ hook into rolling sleaze blues.

This Parliaments line-up originally recorded the lustrous, church organ-backed ballad swoon of ‘Lonely Island’ for Newark’s New Records but, instead, it was released the following year on future Rolling Stones producer Jimmy Miller’s Patterson-based Flipp label, backed with the uptempo gospel-pumping steam-whoop of ‘(You Make Me Wanna) Cry’ and its astounding progressive harmony introduction. Local singer Johnny Murray guested on lead vocals for the A-side. Listening to these songs now, it is apparent that the full-throated vocals have formed into a rich rooftop chorale which compares well with the big groups of the day – maybe they’re a bit more ragged, belting raw emotion with young energy rather than spinning silkier tones.

These singles show how the fledgling independent label system functioned at that time. Initially, major labels hadn’t been interested in releasing rock’n’roll or doo-wop, only climbing on the bandwagon once it took off, but still ignoring a vast area of black music. While major labels mainly stuck to white mainstream artists, independent imprints had started springing up by the end of World War Two, funnelling the different strains of black music into independent stores such as Bobby Robinson’s Bobby’s Record Shop, the first black-owned music store, on Harlem’s 125th Street. Independent labels filled the gap, establishing a pattern that would continue to act as a means for the underdogs to have their say on record. Such enterprises included Chicago’s Chess and Vee Jay, New York’s Atlantic, Jubilee, Apollo, Ember, Laurie and Winley; Modern, Kenty, Aladdin, Dootone in LA and Syd Nathan’s King operation in Cincinnati.

As many of these labels operated locally, owners would have their fingers on the pulse of what was going on at street level, living in the culture they were furthering through making it heard, but encountering cash flow and distribution problems in the process. Some labels sold the rights to a record to a major, such as happened with the first Parliaments release going through Paramount. Groups were invariably ripped off, deprived of writing credits and royalties while playing thankless, gruelling tours.

It’s interesting to see how George was getting his name on the record labels from the start, being blessed with the same business savvy which was turning his hair-processing exploits into an in-demand outlet for his tonsorial talents. By now, he had picked up a second hairdressing gig at George White’s Silk Palace barbershop. This was at the site of the former Capitol Bakery on West Third Street in the ‘Queen City’ of Plainfield, 18 miles South West of Newark in central New Jersey’s Raritan Valley. Here, in the back room, the P-Funk empire was born, partly because Plainfield was more of a concentrated, close-knit scene than Newark and the number of kids risking their parents’ wrath to sneak in escalated.

Throughout the Plainfield years, the Parliaments became inextricably linked with another young local group called the Del-Larks, led by Sammy Campbell and Ron Taylor. Although their styles were totally different, the two groups were barbershop regulars, played on the same bills and sometimes loaned each other members. Sammy Campbell was born in Plainfield on May 6, 1941, the seventh of 10 children after his parents migrated from Virginia in 1938 in search of work. Like many, Sammy started off singing gospel at Lovelace Watkins’ small Church of God in Christ on Liberty St. and 2nd (before Watkins went on to Las Vegas fame).

The original Del-Larks formed in Plainfield around 1953, lining up as Sammy singing lead vocals, his brother David (first tenor), Allen Walker (baritone), Louie Dickerson (second tenor) and Harold Erby (bass). The quintet began appearing around northern New Jersey performing sets comprising mostly covers. They split after opening for the Moonglows at Newark’s Wideaway Ballroom, with a new line-up (the first to record) rising out of the pivotal local hotbed of Plainfield’s Washington School. This incarnation featured Sammy, Mert Matthews (baritone), Ron Taylor (second tenor), the multi-ranged Jimmy Anderson, and James Jeffers (first tenor).

Ron Taylor was born in Plainfield on July 6, 1939, his parents originally from Virginia. He started singing baritone with a gospel group called the Male Quartet in his mother’s church at 13, which also included Donald Walker (first tenor), James Boyd (bass) and Albert Brown (second tenor), performing songs such as ‘The Little Brown Church In The Wildwoods’ and ‘I’ll Never Touch It (Smoking And Drinking)’.

In the early fifties, Plainfield hosted a lively vocal quartet scene. During a seventh grade assembly in Washington School in 1953, students entertained their classmates, including a young prodigy called Bernie Worrell on piano. Shows run at the school brought in top R&B acts of the day to preview and promote their upcoming shows, ensuring that the fortunate pupils got to see the likes of the Heartbeats, the Dells and many more. The future Del-Larks decided to form a group outside such a show, sometimes rehearsing at the home of jazz organist Nat Kimble, but more often in tunnels, on street corners and even bathrooms – wherever the echo was good.

Before they recorded, the teenage Del-Larks appeared all over New Jersey, becoming ambassadors of Plainfield’s vibrant vocal group scene, which also included United Soul, Nonchalants, Wonders, Cor-Wrens, Bel-airs and the invading Parliaments from Newark, who they befriended.

The Del-Larks’ recording break came when they won a marathon talent show held at Seidler Field in the East End of Plainfield in summer 1957, triumphing over local groups including the Parliaments, United Soul, the Nonchalants and the Admirations. Their performance impressed a well-connected lady named Yolanda Gregory, the wife of artist Waylande Gregory, best known for his ceramic sculptures. She took the group into New York to cut demos, which clinched a deal with Ahmet Ertegun and Jerry Wexler at Atlantic Records in March, 1958. Hitting the studio, the Del-Larks recorded ‘Lady Love’, ‘Remember The Night’, ‘Bubble Gum Doll’ and ‘Can’t Believe You’re Mine Tonight’ with the Atlantic house band, which included saxophone titan King Curtis. Yolanda secured bookings for the Del-Larks and scored a coveted appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, but the group blew it when an argument about her percentage erupted into a foul-mouthed row, which was unfortunately beamed to a shocked Sullivan over an open microphone. The record was released but Atlantic got cold feet, ending the relationship, and sending the Del-Larks back to Plainfield.

Despite this setback, the Del-Larks continued with their bespoke-suited smart image, contrasting with the Parliaments’ inexorably disintegrating wardrobe as they continued to funk up. “In the fifties, groups had routines and rich harmonies and dressed,” recalled Sammy on the website Classic Urban Harmony. “We had our own suits made. We designed most of our own clothes. We had this tailor, Luigi, down on Washington Ave and 2nd Street. We told him what we wanted and gave him an idea of the style. He made the suits for us. Back then when you compared the two groups with the songs we were singing, the styles were good because George and them were wild … They had a lot of steps. We were more Temptations-ish. But I give George credit, their style was different then. Our style was smooth and pretty; theirs was gutsy and funky.”

The Del-Larks continued to play any clubs and dances that Sammy could book them into around New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York. Then Sammy brought Ray Davis, a new bass singer who had just moved into the neighbourhood, along to a rehearsal. His booming presence moved Jimmy up to baritone.

The future ‘Sting Ray’ Davis was born in Sumter, South Carolina, on March 29, 1940 but had moved up to Brooklyn by the time he hooked up with the Del-Larks. “I had a sister in Plainfield,” he recalled in An Oral History. “I used to come over from Brooklyn every Friday. I had moved there from down south. Being that I’m from down the way, Plainfield was a lot like what I was used to, it was a little bit country, so I felt at home there. That’s when I met Sammy Campbell and them, the Del-Larks. This would have been around ‘59.”

Ray gravitated to the Silk Palace. “Every Friday, that’s where I would be. When I’d hit town, the barbershop was the first place I’d go. That’s where I met George and the Parliaments. We were always harmonising, either in the barbershop or on the street corner. I wasn’t looking to get with a group, I was just the new guy around. Sammy and them were getting their group together and asked me if I wanted to join. I said, ‘Sure, why not?’”

By now, doo-wop was undergoing something of a revival as the sound became ingrained in rock’n’roll and new practitioners sprang up. During the fifties, the New Jersey doo-wop scene was ruled by producer Hy Weiss’s Old Town label, which released records by the Solitaires, the Valentines, the Cleftones, the Capris and Newark’s the Fiestas (the latter rehearsing in George’s barbershop). The Fiestas lined up as lead Tommy Bullock, his brother George, Eddie Morris, Sam Ingalls and Preston Lane. According to legend, Weiss discovered them when he overheard them singing in a bathroom at the Triboro Theatre, next door to his office. Their first single, a cover of the Sheikhs’ ‘So Fine’, made the US Top 20 in April 1959, followed by a string of sublime misses, including ‘Our Anniversary’ and ‘You Could Be My Girlfriend’, before ‘Broken Heart’ made the Hot 100 in 1962.

The Del-Larks released their second single to local acclaim around 1961. ‘I Never Will Forget’ was a fifties-style soul ballad led by Sammy, while ‘Baby Come On’ was more uptempo. The 45 was released on George Eastman’s Ea-Jay label (connected to Flipp, which recorded the Parliaments). Another single called ‘Out In The Crowd’, featuring Ray Davis on lead vocal, and which appeared on the Jet label in the early sixties, is thought to have provided a blueprint for Dobie Gray’s 1965 hit ‘The In Crowd’. The Del-Larks were unaware that the song had been released, but it’s possible it was developed into Dobie’s hit a few years later.