Shit. Goddamn.
When I was 15 years old, my favourite musical act of all time were set to perform a headline show in Melbourne. This was great news and a great logistical concern: a ten-hour return trip, a hunjy dollar ticket price (a steep dip into supermarket shift pocket change), and the looming threat of an 18-plus only entry condition. It was the latter that was my undoing, with the thought of being turned around at the door after a marathon effort being too frightful a prospect. “You’ll see them another time,” mum said. The fear of a finite timeline wasn’t assuring.
Fortunately, I did get to witness the wacked-out majesty that is P-Funk live – first at their Bluesfest sideshow in 2011, then at their Supernatural Amphitheatre debut in 2013, and most recently at 170 Russell in full formation, cutting loose with no curfew.
There was no revue-style teasing of George Clinton’s introduction, he graced the stage in mack daddy suit along with the rest of the band, blasting off into the cosmos with an introduction of strung-together Parliament classics, just about tearing the roof of the sucker from the outset. Shit was crazy. The brakes were tapped a touch for new material, which wasn’t too bad – transposing P-Funk acumen into modernity in cuts from last year’s Funkadelic album, songs like Get Low and Ain’t That Funkin’ Kinda Hard On You.
Various points of the show felt like a second, third, fourth, fifth wind – Sir Nose D’voidoffunk’s introduction, Something Stank featured Clinton licking his lips while the crowd threw joints like darts onstage, his granddaughter Sativa rapping until grandpa George snatched the mic in playful pantomime as subject matter approached the profane. The late, great Garry Shider’s son Garrett took the lead on One Nation Under A Groove, plus BlackByrd McKnight performed with P-Funk for the first time in over eight years; a triumph during the recreation of Eddie Hazel’s perfect Maggot Brain solo.
This felt special. Clinton was belting out Testify, a song he wrote almost 50 years ago. Buzzy. Just when the night began to slow down or climax, things blew up to another level: Give Up The Funk (Tear The Roof Off The Sucker) tore the goddamn roof off the sucker, a stage invasion for Atomic Dog, then an absolute fucking belter of a closer past the three-hour mark, which featured cuts from Standing On The Verge Of Getting It On, proving that Funkadelic weren’t only one of the first (if not the first) hard rock bands, but still one of the best ones out there.
It seemed ridiculous that my 15-year-old self feared I wouldn’t be privy to a P-Funk show, especially seeing Clinton bursting with energy and idiosyncratic dance moves in a lengthy performance in the bottom end of Planet Earth. I look forward to taking my grandkids to see Parliament-Funkadelic live, possibly while Clinton’s grandkids lead a band of their grandkids onstage. P-Funk will never die.
Get off your arse and jam.
BY LACHLAN KANONIUK
Photo by Ian Laidlaw
Loved: Nearly 3.5 hours of P-Funk power.
Hated: No Cosmic Slop or Hit It And Quit It. But we got that in Auckland one week later.
Drank: Sweat.
