Say It Loud: It’s The Worst Music Article Of The Year!

There was little doubt that James Brown’s death on Christmas was going to inspire some posthumous re-appraisals (the guy was no angel, after all). But we didn’t expect anything like this piece from the U.K. Guardian, in which writer John Harris tries to be contrarian, but winds up coming off like an ill-informed turdsmith:

…let’s say it loud: funk is the worst musical genre ever invented, a big old stain on Brown’s CV and the cause of at least four decades of grinding misery.

This, I will allow, is less a matter of such trailblazing proto-funk Brown pieces as Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag, Sex Machine and I Got the Feelin’, as the ongoing nightmare of chronic indulgence and musical slop they undoubtedly spawned. If you doubt this, listen to the supposed high points of the genre: anything by the likes of Tower of Power, pre-disco Kool and the Gang, Cameo before they discovered pop music, or the woeful Ohio Players. And before anyone mentions the peak-period work of George Clinton, I say only this: hats off for the UFO, onstage fancy dress and occasional pearling tune, but did everything have to be so long? (I have a friend who saw Funkadelic in Manchester in 1975 – a six-hour performance, he says, that amounted to an experiment involving the limits of human endurance.)

And that’s just the beginning. Some more painful examples after the click-through.

…All that said, funk’s acme of unbearability was only reached thanks to two developments: 1) its decisive hybridisation into jazz-funk, surely as awful an invention as, say, the thumbscrews; and 2) as with so many things, its wholesale appropriation by a certain kind of white person. On the latter count, I speak on the basis of experience: though the totemically funksome technique known as slap-bass was probably the invention of the sometime Sly & the Family Stone bass man Larry Graham, I will always associate it with a teenage acquaintance named Steve. He would occasionally drop in on my mod band and borrow our bassist’s instrument, using his well-trained right hand to give it the old bink-bap-dip-dup, to nobody’s great benefit.

Twenty-five years later, I saw decisive proof of funk’s utter evil. On a trip to Clarksdale, Mississippi – one-time home of the blues, now home to a small blues industry – a friend and I were taken on a tour of a part of town that seemed to have been suddenly deserted in around 1975, leaving empty buildings and grass growing through the cracks in the road. Though I naively assumed this was probably down to the mechanisation of the cotton industry, our guide put us right: “Funk did this,” he said (really, he did), claiming that, in killing the last traces of the blues, the nightmare genre had also done for his community. Just for a moment, my mind was filled with the image of a bass player dressed up like a BacoFoil model of a partridge, standing at the top of one of the town’s taller buildings and blitzing all in front of him with every miserable thwack of his thumb.

So there you have it: Funk was evil, all because this guy once saw a white guy play bass poorly, and because he visited a decrepit Southern town. It’s as if all you need to write for the Guardian are some sprawling generalizations and a few iffy anecdotes. Yay, dingbat limeys! Yay, bad journalism!

Funk Did This [Guardian]