Earlier this month when media outlets briefly broke the story of
the death of music great Rick James, two words stuck out in
particular: “natural causes.”
James, after all, had for years lived the fast life emblematic
of many an out-of-control superstar, battling legal troubles toward
the end of his career and, by his own math, spending millions of
dollars on cocaine alone.
That a man who at one point seemed bent on joining the ranks of
tragic music-star deaths would pass away peacefully in his sleep
was not the kind of final chapter one would have expected.
But James does join a growing number of noteworthy musicians to
pass away for reasons less sensational than the immortalizing
tradition of overdoses, suicides, plane crashes and drive-by
shootings. Ray Charles, liver disease at 73; Johnny Cash, diabetes,
71.
These are artists whose primary contributions to music came
decades ago. We seem to be in a time when many pop music pioneers
are dying simply of old age, and the passing of each one, though
sad and unfortunate, gives plenty cause to celebrate contributions
instead of mourning a career cut tragically short.
Though the masses will most likely remember James only for the
singles “Super Freak” and “Give It To Me,”
the MC Hammer sample for “Can’t Touch This,” and
saying “I’m Rick James, bitch,” his impact on
fans was far reaching.
When I first heard the news, I was on my way to meet a group of
friends, among them one whom I’ll call
“Brendan.”
Now Brendan is a Rick James fan in a big way. As a little kid he
would put on Rick James records and bounce around his bedroom in a
funk-induced frenzy. He tells me this without shame.
In fact, Brendan even attended what turned out to be
James’ very last concert in June at the Universal
Amphitheatre. I asked him how Rick had looked.
“His favorite dance move was this,” he recalled
fondly, tracing circles around his nipples with both forefingers.
“He was doing a lot of that. He didn’t look very
healthy.”
The night James died we decided to go outdoors for a little jam
session in his honor.
My friends have a school break tradition of going at night to
secluded areas and trying our hands at random instruments. All
kinds of drums are passed around in addition to harmonicas, pan
flutes, kazoos, guitars, tambourines, maracas and a slew of
percussive instruments we make up names and uses for.
Brendan brought along several pages of Rick James lyrics, and
the half dozen of us found ourselves a nice spot along a cliff and
rocked out in tribute, testing our falsettos and whatever sweet
funk grooves we could muster up.
We got so into it that we had to stop in the middle of our grand
finale, “Mary Jane,” that sweetest of Rick James tunes,
and give it another go after someone yelled, “We’re
starting over! That sounded like crap. This is “˜Mary f—ing
Jane’ we’re talking about.” More heartfelt words
have rarely been spoken.
Then, on our hike back, a car full of inebriated teenagers
rolled up and asked in cruder language exactly what we were doing
carrying instruments down the street in the middle of the
night.
“Jammin’ for Rick James,” we said.
I think he would have been proud.
Lee thinks he’s living in the late ’70s. E-mail
him at alee2@media.ucla.edu.