DISGRACELAND - James Brown: Papa's Got A Brand New Bag... Of Meth

Episode Date: June 26, 2018

What happens when the hardest working man in show business takes a break? Idle hands are indeed the devil’s workshop. This episode will detail James Brown’s scorching career as well as the scorching high speed chase he led cops on that led to his arrest and jail sentencing for drugs and firearms. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. This episode was originally published on June 26, 2018. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about soul singer James Brown are insane. Notorious for fining his band members for dropping beats and for firing them for dropping acid, he himself would later mix his angel dust in with his cream corn for breakfast. He once took his shotgun and blasted up a juke joint in an attempt to murder fellow soul singer Joe Tex, injuring seven people in the process.

When Elvis Presley died, James Brown requested and received a private viewing of the body, where he kneeled over and whispered to the dearly departed king, Elvis, you rat, I ain't number two no more. The myth surrounding the birth of James Brown is that he was a stillborn baby, but worked so hard that he overcame the impossible, and then applied the same work ethic to overcome the soul. soul-crushing poverty he grew up in to become America's soul brother number one. Coming from nothing, he worked his supernatural talent hard and took it as far as he could take it

to the top, becoming one, if not the, most successful musicians of all time. It goes without saying that James Brown made great music, some of the greatest music ever made, in fact. That music at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Samba Organ 6-8 Low MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the license for Don't Worry, Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin. And why would I play you that specific slice of inspirational acapella cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on September 24, 1988. And that was the day that James Brown, with his shotgun at his side, and high-eastern.

Georgia Pine took authorities on a wild PCP-induced high-speed chase across interstate lines, kicking off what would become the last chapter of his wildly entertaining career. On this, the last episode of Disgraceland, Season 1, Angel Dusted Cream Corn, Samba Organs, inspirational A Acapella Chies, a high-speed chase in the hardest working man in show business, James Brown. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land for the hardest working man in show business. James Brown hated not working. He hated time off. Nothing to do except get high and fight with Adrian. Adrian wasn't around this morning. Thank God. So Mr. Brown sat in his truck, alone, sweating in a black Adidas track suit.

The PCP he'd smoked for breakfast had him on edge, so he was rolling a joint to help level him out. Bobby McFerrin's Don't Worry Be Happy was threatening to make his way through the static on the pickup's FM dial. He hated the song, but his hands were too preoccupied with the weed to deal with the tuner at the moment. Don't worry, be happy. How are you going to write a song like that and wake up every morning and look at yourself in the mirror? In 1988, for James Brown, there was a lot to worry about and little to be happy for, as arguably the most successful black entertainer of all time, one of, if not the most influential musicians of all time, was 55 years old, broke, strung out, losing his teeth, and having a hard time doing what he

was put on this earth to do, to work. It was Saturday morning in Augusta, Georgia. Everyone was out running errands, which meant nobody was at Mr. Brown's office, which meant it was a perfect time and place for privacy, but even the weekend had its complications. Mr. Brown kept a business office in Augusta, a single-level, nondescript roadside strip-monde space that he rented out to local businesses and also used as an excuse to get away from his wife. For some reason, beyond his comprehension, his office had been overrun that morning by a bunch of herbs, white dudes and khaki pants and running shoes, bad ties, and cheap frames. It was an insurance seminar or some nonsense.

A bunch of pencil nicks, no class. But Mr. Brown admired the hustle. A seminar on a Saturday. Hail to the working man. Still, they were messing with his plan. It used to be that no matter what the complication, if James Brown wanted something done, there was someone at arm's length on salary to take care of it.

But that wasn't the case these days. By 1988, tax issues and declining ticket sales forced Mr. Brown to cut back. No more private jets, no more personal hairdressers, no more bag men, and no more muscle to sort out life's little annoyances for him. It had been years since Mr. Brown cut baby James and Henry Stallings loose. Both men were part of his security team, or what he called, his hit squad, big men, capable men, able to take on all comers. He regretted cutting them loose, especially this morning. Henry would have this mess in hand in no time. And baby James, well, he'd kill for less. Mr. Brown remembered them fondly, particularly a night back in Harlem not

too long ago, when their unique skill sets were put to use and allowed the hardest working man in show business to do what he was put on this earth to do, to go to work. Jimmy! The voice crackled over the backstage phone at Harlem's Apollo theater. The accent, a mix of old-school Italian, in a 1970s, Brooklyn. Jimmy, we know you like your bags of money, Jimmy. We're going to send a couple guys down with 30 large. Buy some new suits for the band. Get a suite at the plaza and stay a while.

They called him Jimmy. Punks. Everyone else. Even the president of the United States of America called him Mr. Brown. Quote unquote, Jimmy hated these guys. They called or came around every time Mr. Brown came through New York. Always wanted to just give him. money. But he knew what that meant. Alone from the mob and then they owned you. Back in the

60s, he had to humor them and politely refuse. James Brown didn't need anyone's money, especially not a white man's. He was bankrupt himself, in debt to no one. In the late 70s, the Italian mafia's grip on Manhattan was more powerful than ever. So Mr. Brown took the telephone call out of obligation. And also on the advice of his quote-unquote new son, the young man from Brownsville Brooklyn by way of Queens, Reverend Al Sharpton. The Rev, as he was called, told him he had to at least hear the wise guys out. Young Al Sharpton knew exactly what was up in New York City, which was in part why James Brown kept him around. He liked young people who knew what he did not. Plus, the rev would do anything for Mr. Brown. He was the dad he never had.

James Brown sat on the phone and stared at the walls backstage. He loved this old theater, the scene of one of his greatest triumphs. His 1963 live at the Apollo was one of the greatest selling live albums of all time. He'd be hard pressed to find a black household in America that didn't have a copy filed away next to the family record player. But man, these days, backstage at the Apollo, was a rat hole. Nonetheless, Mr. Brown built this place. He'd be damned if he was going to be extorted by some goon for the opportunity to work at the Apollo of all places. Insulted.

It was zero patience left. Mr. Brown cut to the quick. Listen, I don't need you money. I never needed your money. Now, I've got to go. I got to go do my thing. The voice on the other end of the line grew tense. Now you listen to me, Jimmy.

We know you got the IRS all over you. We know you're burying cash in your backyard and the squirrels are eating it faster than the little fatty Sharpton works the off a table. We know you got X-Ys coming out of your ass threatening to sue. We know you ain't selling tickets like he used to. Now take the goddamn money, Jimmy. If you don't, our guys ain't going to bring cash. They're going to bring bags of rats and let them loose throughout the Apollo during the show. How you like that? Mr. Brown just hung up. Any other performer would have called the FBI or worse, taking the money. But Mr. Brown wouldn't back down. He knew what to do. How could he not. Years earlier, he got his start on the Chitland circuit. A post-World War II Rhythm and Blues

concert circuit that existed almost entirely outside of the law, the practically invented vice that was built on the back of the numbers racket, a tight network of black-owned nightclubs that existed only but for the grace of bribed white politicians, where women of ill-reput with names like Caldonia, short-fat fanny, and long-tall-sally, and spruce. Bired men named Louis Jordan, Larry Williams, and Little Richard to immortalize them in song. Richard's inspiration being secondhand, of course. Dice parlors, dance halls, bootleggers, and great live music by some of the greatest most consequential musicians in American history. B.B. King, Ike Turner, John Lee Hooker, and countless other rock and roll pioneers cut their teeth on the Chitlin circuit.

This is where band leaders went to college. No textbooks required. Just bag men and muscle. The circuit was so corrupt and violent that getting paid at the end of the night, if you got paid at all, was to take your life into your own hands. To get paid, you needed three things.

Number one, a 38 caliber pistol on the willingness to use it and show the steel subtly. Maybe shift it casually from under one side of your belt strap to the other when negotiating the terms of your payment. Number two, a dude on your payroll big enough to demand half your fee up front before the show. In a bag, preferably a dirty one with grease stains, made to look like nothing more than a greasy sack of fried food.

And finally, the third thing you needed was to give off the vibe that you just didn't care. Didn't care if you got cut. Didn't care if you got shot. Didn't care if you lived. and didn't care if you died. It was the foundation that the rock and roll ethos was built upon. Not giving a single. The only way to stay alive was to intimidate,

and to intimidate you had to be nutty enough to not care. All you cared about was getting paid and going to work. Despite his success after the Chitlin Circuit, James Brown never forgot this lesson. So that night in Harlem, with his livelihood in the Apollo Theater under the threat of the mafia, with their bags of rats, Mr. Brown dispatched his own hit squad into the crowd to keep an eye out

and to discourage any wise guy hijinks. Baby James spotted some shan-na-looking dude skulking along the back wall with a big bulge under his jacket, out of place, and with a style that was 15 years out of fashion and not paying any attention to anyone else in the building, just moving slowly like a creep along the back wall of the. theater. Before he knew it, he was swept up under each arm by what had to be mountains posing his men. Sean Anadud had no idea what was happening. He was being moved fast. A hand on the back of

his greasy head pushed his face into two exit doors. The doors opened and he was airborne. Thrown out of the theater and into the alley. He landed hard. Face first. Stars under his islands. Rats scurring out from the bag at his side and off through the alley. He heard a sudden roar from the crowd from inside the Apollo as the hardest working man in show business without anyone getting in his way started to do what he was put on this earth to do. So now, ladies and gentlemen, it is Star Time.

Are you ready for Star Time? We'll be right back after this word, word, word. James Brown was the hardest working man in show business and that work was paying off. He was a millionaire, had his own jet, fur coat, a new Stetson for every day of the week, a traveling hairstylist. His records flew off the shells and into black and white homes alike.

He played upwards of 360 dates a year with multiple shows a day, and his appearances demanded tens of thousands of dollars in fees. And beyond the money, he had influence. To African Americans young and old, he was an example of the American dream. A real life rags to riches story with supernatural talent. And by the late 60s, James Brown, Brown had positioned himself at great risk to his own personal wealth and standing at the center of the black power movement. James Brown invested his money in black businesses, black neighborhoods,

and invested his time into black causes. His hit, Say It Loud, I'm Black and I'm Proud, in 1968 America literally changed the country's social dynamic. All of a sudden, young African-Americans were proudly embracing their heritage, and like Mr. Brown, growing their heads. hair out for that natural look and leaving behind the white-influenced rebel without a cause processed pomp. And he did all this while at the height of his musical powers, with his bands the famous flames and then the J-Bs, James Brown wouldn't just challenge musical genres. He would invent them. Soul out of necessity, funk on purpose, and hip-hop as a matter of influence. But by the 70s, success was starting to slip. The IRS was in relentless

pursuit of his unreported millions. President Richard Nixon had managed to get Mr. Brown's tax charges bounced down from criminal to civil court, but it wasn't enough. The taxmen do take their bite, and Nixon's affiliation had the added disadvantage of alienating a large part of James Brown's black audience. James Brown would never come to understand why. He supported Nixon because Nixon believed in self-reliance, in socioeconomic independence. The very idea is that James Brown saw his keys to his own success, a sentiment that in the late 80s suddenly had new meaning compared to when it was written in 1970. Without salaried muscle, getting it himself was the only option. So, on the morning of September 24, 1988, James Brown, high on PCP and weed,

grabbed the shotgun out of his pickup truck and opened the door of the office adjacent to his, an office full of white insurance men and women who quickly grew terrified of this wild-eyed, past his prime, high as holy hell, shotgun-wielding black power superstar. James Brown, the godfather of soul himself, stood before them, pacing, sweating, taking turns between sternly lecturing them

and laughing to himself at some joke that apparently only he was in on. He waved the shotgun around as he spoke. The herbs were terrified. He was growing more and more angry, but at what? It wasn't entirely clear. Something about someone using his bathroom or office without permission. Didn't they know it was rude to use another man's commode? Why'd they have to invade his privacy? Didn't their parents teach them any manners? James Brown was practically raised by

wolves, but he knew better than to mess with another man's privacy, especially on his day off. Then he heard the sirens. Somehow, someone managed to call the cops. James Brown knew instinctively that despite whatever celebrity status he still had, he was still a black man in the South who was waving a shotgun around at a bunch of white people. Time to get on the good foot. And James Brown high-tailed it out of the office. Shotgun in hand, jumped into his pickup

and squealed out of the parking lot and out onto the highway. The sirens grew louder. He could see them in his rear view. Hot damn, how many police cars did they have in this county? Whatever the number, they all seemed to be in pursuit of him at this moment. God damn it!

McFerrin was back on the radio with that ridiculous song. How many times a day could they play this garbage? In every life, we have some trouble. But when you worry, we make it double. Mr. Brown punched the tuner. Bye-bye, Bobby. Another peek in the rear view. More cruisers.

This was bad. Where was he going? He didn't know. Just away. Away from this madness. What happened? How had it come to this? Constant drama.

The fighting with Adrian. The flailing. career, the drugs. I mean, he was clean most of his life. He fired Bootsie Collins for taking LSD, and now here he was, sweating PCP through his Adidas track suit, teeth rotting out of his head, arthritic legs, in bad need of another joint to cool him out, and in a high-speed car chase with a bunch of good old boys and a loaded shotgun at his side. Something had to give and quick, or he was likely to be ventilated by one of those new police-issued clock 19s. Mr. Brown gunned it, who took off.

Now, more cops on his tail. And up ahead, a makeshift roadblock with two state troopers standing in the middle of the road. Legs spread, guns drawn, pointing straight at Mr. Brown in his fast approaching pickup. He pinned the gas pedal as hard as he could, pain shooting straight up his arthritic leg as he set off straight toward the two troopers who quickly parted, one to the left and one to the right, as Mr. Dynamite sped right through the middle of them. They turned and took game. Bullets now pierced the body of the racing pickup.

More cops in the rear view. It was like a goddamn Dixie police parade. Up ahead, another roll block. This one, with two cruisers in the middle of the road, their grills kissing one another. Again, troopers in the middle of the street, fixed in a shooting stance, arms outstretched, glocks trained on the pickup,

fear racing through their veins. Don't you fucking do it. Don't you speed up. But that's exactly what James Brown did. covered in sweat, with his angel dusted head hovering high above the turpentine trees. Mr. Brown pinned the pedal. The V8 wound itself into a row. God damn the one, four on the floor. And faster than the breakneck flames version of Think from live at the Apollo, James Brown rocketed through the roadblock, parting the cruisers, destroying the police barricade,

and sending the good old boys diving to safety along the roadside. James Brown screamed as he drove away. For a moment, the adrenaline rivaled the feeling, he had on stage, but the feeling was quickly dashed by the sound of bullets riddling his pickup. A bomb rushing the barricade meant all bets were off. The troopers were pissed and began firing off rounds, hanging out of the windows from their pursuing cruisers, and Mr. Brown was taking shots, his tires were shot. His truck slowed from breakneck famous Flab Speed to broke Dick Bobby McVaron speed, and he was scared now. These white boys were going to kill him, no doubt about it. He kept the truck rolling, slowly, but surely, and eventually over the state line into South Carolina,

and then back over the line into Georgia, where he eventually came to a stop, ending the pursuit. James Brown tried to do what he did best, entertain. He got out of the truck slowly, but loudly singing the words to Ray Charles, Georgia, and then started in on his famous Goodfoot dance. The troopers were not impressed. A plain-closed cop came out of nowhere. and violently brought his fists crashing down into the side of James Brown's face, a cheap shot and a painful one.

But it ended the incident. Good God. Mr. Brown was taken into custody and released almost immediately on bail. And within 24 hours, he would be arrested again for driving under the influence of PCP. Think about the good thing. and think about the wrong things. Prisoner number 155-413 had a lot of time to think.

Twelve and a half years, as a matter of fact. Six in Georgia and then another six and a half in South Carolina. He served half his time before being paroled, but could have avoided prison altogether had he pleaded guilty to the drug charges and gone to rehab instead. But that was a non-starter. Prison, for James Brown, was preferable to rehab. Rehab meant admitting that you had a problem and that you were weak.

And for James Brown, admitting weakness wasn't an option. Not when you're born into crushing poverty, in a dirt floor shack in the Jim Crow South, to a mother who would abandon you at four, and a father who would split five years later, leaving you at the age of nine to be raised in a whorehouse by your prostitute aunt, honey. Yeah, James Brown knew how to survive.

Given his violent, neglected upbringing, it's very difficult to reconcile the man with the crimes he committed. And man, did he do some bad shit? Super bad. His transgressions were as offensive as his talent was immense. The book on James Brown goes something like this. In 1949, at age 16, he was convicted of grand theft and served three years. During his chit-in-circuit days, he tried murdering rival R&B.

singer Joe Tex after stealing his wife. James Brown entered a juke joint where Otis Redding and the pine-toppers were on stage, and with his shotgun opened fire on Tex who was seated at a table. Tex went unharmed, but seven people were wounded in the crossfire and subsequently paid off by Mr. Brown to keep their mouths shut. Throughout his life, he openly abused girlfriends and wives. Most notably, singer Tammy Terrell, who he beat savagely. He allegedly once repeatedly hit her in the head with a hammer.

Terrell eventually collapsed on stage while singing with Marvin Gaye, as she was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died shortly after. Between 1987 and 1995, his then-wife, Adrian, had him arrested four times for domestic abuse. And in the year 2000, police showed up at his door to investigate a charge by a local electric company worker who claimed Mr. Brown had attacked him with a steak knife. Domestic abuse charges would plague him for the remainder of his life until his death on Christmas Day in 2006 of congestive heart failure. James Brown saw abuse as something to be endured.

Whether you were a man or a woman, and whether you were on the giving or receiving end because the beatings he witnessed and received as a young boy left scars, defining scars, and it was horrifying. As a nine-year-old boy, he was hung upside down in a gunny sack and beat mercilessly with a belt by his aunt honey. Growing up in a whorehouse, he regularly took beatings from drunk Johns and watched as they abused the prostitutes who roomed with him. A nine-year-old. These were his formative years.

It doesn't excuse anything. Don't get me wrong. But it does help explain James Brown's emotional wiring. When he bounced out of prison at age 19, he instinctively knew. that work was going to be the only thing that would save him. And music was the only semi-respectable work he knew how to do. So he made it happen with zero resources. Brown's first band, the gospel starlighters with Bobby Bird,

performed their first shows without instruments. Literally, no instruments. Without drums, they stomped the beat on floorboards. Without guitars, they whistled riffs. All while they sang with passion, commitment. and drive. It was all they had. At age 19, James Brown was a 5-foot-6-inch, dark-skinned African-American ex-Con,

who broke into the music business and bent it to his will, becoming the most influential black musician of all time. And he did it on his own, through the power of his work ethic. Unlike subjects covered in past episodes of this show, James Brown wasn't good-looking like Sam Cook. He wasn't white like Jerry Lee Lewis. he didn't have a powerful church looking out for him like Beck. He had zero advantages, zero.

All he had was his will, his supernatural talent, and his undeniable work ethic, which is why when the work dried up in the 80s, his world came crumbling down around him. Without work, there really was nothing. The work kept him sane, kept him on the run from himself. Without work, without the daily opportunity to showcase his talent,

to show the world that he wasn't just another ordinary dude from the backwoods of Georgia. There was nothing but demons, PCP, beatings, or worse. I started this podcast. I started disgrace land to try and figure out what it was that makes rock stars so fucking crazy and so entertaining. You can draw a straight line from one to the other, from crazy to entertaining. Rockstars are wired differently. They aren't like URI. Rock stars are more like feral narcissistic animals than functioning members of society,

and this is precisely what makes them so damn entertaining. That wildness, that craziness almost always has something to do with their traumatic upbringings. And it's hard to find a better example of this than the star who is nationally and internationally known as the hardest working man in show business. The man that's saying, I go crazy. Try me. You got the power. Think.

If you want me. I don't mind. Bewildered. A million dollar seller. Lawson. The very greatest release. Night Tray. It's everybody's shout and shimmy.

Mr. Dynamite. The amazing Mr. Please Please himself. The star of the show. James Brown and the famous flames. I'm Jake Brennan and this. is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com.

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and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at DisgracelandPod. Rock a roll.