There’s a little psychic preparation required when attending a George Clinton show. Chemicals, of course, remain optional, but one must at least be ready for a long haul of atypical description. You see, George has never really done things by the book — whether it’s leading two groups (the over-the-top funk band Parliament and the experimental rock band Funkadelic) with identical lineups but different labels, or encouraging his mammoth ensemble to make diapers and pimp suits the stage-wear of choice — he’s going to out-maverick any Republican. Clinton is, after all, the extreme living example of what happened when LSD hit the '60s R&B scene. And with James Brown no longer on earth, he’s also the uncontested (albeit lysergically twisted) monarch of funk. Opening acts? Sacrilege. And curfews be damned.
You could sense the nervous anticipation amongst the curious funk fans and crusty hippies filling the Phoenix Sunday evening. How big was the band going to be this time, how far out was it going to go? And for how long?
The eventual massing of at least four guitarists — including longtime members Garry "Starchild" Shider (aka “Diaperman”) and Michael "Kidd Funkadelic" Hampton — before a wall of amps reassured us that there wouldn’t be any shortcomings. Spooky keyboards and a hidden Sun Ra–like voice-of-god also suggested spacey weirdness to come. And with a “Shit, goddamn, get off your ass and jam,” the marathon was afoot.
Strolling onstage with his trademark look of relaxed bewilderment, the rainbow-coiffed Clinton immediately kicked his crew into “Make My Funk the P-Funk,” peppering it with copious Sly Stone and James Brown lyrics. But unlike Brown, who was always the uncontested focus of his funk vanguard, Clinton continued to prowl the stage, faux-conducting, only occasionally approaching a microphone for a chorus. Nonetheless, his mere Godfatherly presence seemed enough to keep everything precariously glued together. But you still didn’t know who to look at amid the visual chaos.
Seamlessly moving into “Aqua Boogie (A Psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop),” it soon became clear that Clinton’s key to controlling this mob was by riding one simple groove forever (like, twenty minutes forever). The result was hypnotic, sending security into spliff-extinguishing overdrive. “We do this,” Clinton announced as the band slid into yet another groove. “This is what we do.” Nobody was arguing.
Ironically, flagship P-Funk tracks like “Up For the Down Stroke” didn’t come across as well as lesser-known jams — perhaps spontaneity has been wrung from these songs over the years. As well, some of the guest singers could have been reined in (Clinton did actually pull the plug on his rapping granddaughter Shonda "Sativa Diva" Clinton). Still, “Flashlight” and “One Nation Under a Groove” saw the audience and stage — heckling pimp dancers et al — going completely apeshit.
Clinton had obviously decided on a funk-heavy set this time, so sadly no “Cosmic Slop” or much else from the rock-oriented Funkadelic canon. Nonetheless, following an exodus off-stage by most of the band (presumably for some form of refreshment or another), guitarist Hampton re-emerged dressed like Emperor Palpatine in a kabuki mask to perform a blistering, Hendrix-esque take on “Maggot Brain.” The tie-dye set were driven ballistic once more, and even Shider remarked that Hampton’s solo had “fucked him up.”
After over three hours of what sometimes seemed like one pulverizing song, the set finally ended in a singularly heavy riff that, again, went on pretty much forever. That Clinton and key bandmates have done this — utterly straight-faced, though probably not straight — for over forty years is astounding. Clearly, they don’t build them motherships like they used to.