Ed. Note: This is not my greatest moment as a music journalist. For years, I'd been hoping to get an interview with George Clinton, who'd been something of a formative influence when I was growing up in Detroit. (I did once see him shopping at the Northland Mall in full P-Funk regalia, but was too chicken to do more than gape. This was before his mid-'90s resurgence, and nobody else seemed to recognize him. So I thought, ridiculously, "What if it's a guy who just looks like him?") Finally, I got my big chance, and called him up at his Atlanta hotel room. We talked for about 45 minutes; he was funny and honest and seemed okay with talking over the phone to some stranger about his life. Afterward, congratulating myself on a job well done, I rewound the tape and hit play, only to hear: "Xxsdklj daoid, shsoldp aowiesss eirsss!" The entire conversation had been reduced to a tangle of hisses and clicks, courtesy of a cheap tape recorder. Thus, I had to resort to my notes… and my notes sucked. So this is the unhappy result. At the very least, it can provide an overview of the P-Funk universe, but it's not the revealing profile I was hoping for. At any rate, Clinton's Sony deal doesn't seem to have lasted long after this story was originally published, and I'm not even sure if he's currently associated with a record label. It's a shame.

 * * *

Sir Nose D’VoidofFunk reigns over the land.

The musical airwaves are being bleached by the emanations of a thousand funk pretenders purveying the Placebo Syndrome. You got extremely uptight suits in D.C. decreeing laws on what we can see, hear and even play. You got the Children of Production more interested in Glock guns than Bop Guns. And the original Guardians of the Funk seem to be consumed by the Ego Munchies…

All except one, that is. Dr. Funkenstein is in the lab cloning the Funk, and–Ho!–the Mothership is ready to Re-Connect. George Clinton and the P-Funk All-Stars are reunited at last (again!), simultaneously laying down tracks for a new album and touring the country performing for Funkateers young and old. If ever there were a time for a new P-Funk resurgence, this would certainly be it–people need an earhole liberation, and George aims to provide.

"Just got back from a trip we took to the Caribbean, got some fishin’ in and caught me a couple of nice wahoo, 80 pounds, so I feel REAL good," proclaims the architect of Funkedelia. "That’s always a good omen whenever we cut a new album. Bootsy and I used to go fishin’ before we made an album to write the lyrics. And as soon as we finished, we would go back there and drain it, you know, kick back. This is the first chance I had to do that in, like, 10 years."

Yes, the signs are good, and the world is ready. But who the heck is George Clinton and what is P-Funk?

Clinton, a.k.a. Dr. Funkenstein, is the leader of a musical empire that spans not only decades, but also entire philosophies of thought. Parliament, Funkadelic, Bootsy’s Rubber Band, Parlet, Brides of Funkenstein, the Horny Horns … all were intergalactic funk bands from the ’70s that he either led or produced, all revolving around an original sound known as "P-Funk," all espousing a simple yet often ignored principle: "Think! It ain’t illegal yet!"

Just recently getting his musical dues–in the form of reissues and boxed sets, samples on every hip-hop record worth a damn, and near total command of his Lollapalooza tour–Clinton isn’t ready to settle for becoming a mere nostalgia trip. He wants to drop the Bomb one more time.

FUNKENTELECHY

I first heard the word of P-Funk in the late ’70s. I was in the midst of my album rock indoctrination, sucked up into the radio world of Kiss, Queen and Boston. My junior high peers and I knew no other sound than that which was being prescribed by middle-aged guys with droopy mustaches at the dominant rock stations.

At that time, Detroit was White Rock City: the home of Ted Nugent, Bob Seger, Alice Cooper. There was not a whisper of long-forgotten Detroit punks like Iggy Pop and the Stooges or the MC5, none of their songs disturbing the airwaves. I had no idea who they were.

But then one night I accidentally discovered the sounds of another Detroit icon, sounds that caused a cataclysmic shift in what I defined as "cool music." I had my ostrich egg-shaped Pioneer headphones clamped onto my ears, and I was spinning the dial on my dad’s Fisher Hi-Fidelity stereo. For some reason, I had decided to explore past the boundaries of the official rock stations and see what else I could find.

And suddenly, my headphones lit up with the sound of a descending spaceship, engines pulsing. An awed electronic voice declared "The Mothership is Landing!" and I was soon welcomed into the world of The Electrifying Mojo. "If you’re ever at the end of your rope," he admonished in a burbling voice, "tie a knot and hang on!"

This was no sedate, droning disc jockey in a turtleneck cueing up the latest from Foghat. No, this was a High Funk Priest, and he soon delivered the sermon: something called Parliament. It was unlike anything I had ever heard before, full of cosmic slop, maggot brains and psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop. This was … funky.

I was splanked by the Bop Gun, and have never been the same since.

Next: The Ultimate Funk Source

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Sidebar: A P-Funk Glossary

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