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Shake that funky
booty -- that big, black, funky booty. And that's exactly how
it went down when George Clinton and his extraterrestrial brothers
and sisters converged to drop acid-fried visions of rock and
R&B on a small group of rump shakers.
The get-down-booty-scratchin'
funk rolled into the swank new House of Blues without hesitation.
Known for his four and some odd hour concerts (literally and
figuratively), the hipsters and Deadheads alike prepared for
the mother-show by dropping acid
and pulling one-hitters in the crowd, as the Clinton entourage
filtered on to the stage.
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Mars attacks.
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With talk of the
return of bassist Bootsy Collins floating around the windy city,
the mere earthlings danced a jig for 50 minutes before the head
afronaut
finally descended on stage. And when Clinton finally did touch
down, he brought with him that break-my-foot-off-in-your-ass
style funk-punk.
The P-Funk broke down "Atomic Dog" to its most primordial
form when Clinton's first mate, Gary Shider, pulled up his trademark
diaper and let the crowd have it. Over the past few years, Clinton
shows have been flooded with special guests and famous friends
who have extended a helping hand and a shaking booty to round
out the freak show, but not this time out.
Clinton was forced to energize "Aqua Boogie" and
a lengthy version of "Chocolate City" with the help
of his shipmates and a few nameless stragglers that wandered
in and out of the picture. With the exception of a 5-year-old
kid with a huge rubber nose strapped to his mug, most of the
stage goers were hippies of old trips gone by.
Indeed, old farts and snot-riddled teens got downright ugly,
and regardless of what memories were wafting in the House, the
funk conductor pressed on, sharing an occasional howl and his
minimal vocal presence, passing the mic from stray to stray.
As the much welcomed
karaoke
session faded in and out, the usual group of unknowns came and
went in a steady flow across the mothership's runway. George
Clinton, not usually known for stopping the groove to air his
dirty bed-sheet capes, did take a few seconds to enlighten the
crowd. "There's more profit in saying that we're stopping
it," he said, "than selling it." But then it
was immediately back to business.
The funk never
petered-out and the dancing crowd had the inflamed bunions to
prove it. Bootsy
never did show, but it really didn't matter. The P-Funk could
have played with themselves for four hours and it wouldn't have
made a difference. Fans were there to get nasty and the grand
Martian
was there to lead the parade of freaks into any galaxy they
were willing to go to. With a subtle "Peace" it was
over, and the sweaty mass danced its ass out the door.
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