TIME: Almanac 1990/1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso/time/022089/02208900.045

Text File | 1990-09-17 | 5KB | 87 lines

NATION, Page 40

Soul Brother No. 155413

A legendary singer winds up in the slammer

By Alessandra Stanley


    I Feel Good pounds in the background of a TV commercial for
spark plugs. Papa's Got a Brand New Bag sells a brand of rice. It's
been a long time since the raw, driving soul music of James Brown
sounded dangerous to mainstream white America. The rhythm-and-blues
man, who says he is 55, belonged to a presidential task force and
is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He has won two Grammy Awards
and has had an audience with the Pope. When the phone rings in his
office in Augusta, Ga., a receptionist crisply answers, "Godfather
of Soul." But the boss can't come to the phone right now. James
Brown, the self-styled Hardest-Working Man in Show Business, is 70
miles away in South Carolina's State Park Correctional Center,
serving a six-year sentence.

    There he is listed as James J. Brown, No. 155413. "I'm just
sitting quiet, not saying a thing, serving my time," says Brown
from a pay phone inside the minimum-security facility. Every day
he rises at 5:15 to dish out breakfast in the cafeteria, wearing
a cook's white uniform and cap, embellished by purple wraparound
sunglasses and a matching purple foulard scarf. He directs the
chapel choir, and attendance has doubled since he got there. On
Saturdays, his wife Adrienne, a former hair stylist with the
television show Solid Gold, brings a dryer and a bag of salon
products to primp his curly coiffure.

    Brown's fall from the top of the charts to a four-man prison
cell has been going on for several years. In 1985 the IRS slapped
a lien on his 62-acre spread on rural Beech Island, about ten miles
outside Augusta, and he was forced to auction it off. His
eight-year marriage to Adrienne, his third wife, has been
tempestuous. Last April she filed suit against him for assault,
then dropped the charge. (Among other things, he allegedly
ventilated her $35,000 black mink coat with bullets.)

    About a year ago, rumors that Brown had a drug problem began
to surface. He was arrested last summer for possession of PCP (he
claimed his wife had planted the drug on him), illegally carrying
a firearm and resisting arrest. He was given a $1,200 fine and
ordered to stage a benefit concert for abused children. In
September, Brown stormed into an insurance company next door to his
office, waving a gun and complaining that strangers were using his
bathroom. When the police arrived, Brown sped away in his pickup
truck, touching off a high-speed chase through Georgia and South
Carolina that ended only after the cops shot out his tires. The
city of Augusta, which had honored him three years ago with a James
Brown Appreciation Day, turned on him. "Enough was enough," says
Mayor Charles DeVaney.

    It is not Brown's first stint in the slammer. Born in a shack
in rural South Carolina, Brown grew up dirt poor, shining shoes
and dancing for pennies. At 15 he was sentenced to eight years for
breaking into cars. He sang in the prison choir (his nickname was
"Music Box") and, on his release after three years, started a band.
Brown's pioneering rhythm and blues soon had black audiences up on
their feet dancing to funky drums, taut horn riffs and
sweat-drenched lyrics that sometimes rose to the level of pungent
urban poetry. A 1968 hit gave a slogan to an era: "Say it loud, I'm
black and I'm proud."

    Before he started to slide, Brown racked up 15 No. 1 R.-and-B.
hits; amassed a personal empire that included radio stations in
Augusta, Knoxville and Baltimore; and inspired later generations
of rock 'n' rollers, including Mick Jagger and Michael Jackson. So
great was his influence with young blacks that he was summoned to
Boston and Washington to cool off race riots during 1968.  He
eagerly ticks off the Presidents he has met and supported,
including George Bush. "I've been the American Dream," Brown
plaintively notes. "When you say Old Glory, I'm a part of it. It's
just very bad that sometimes the country forgets."

    These days, Brown feels abandoned by the black and white
musicians who became famous by copying his style and gyrating dance
techniques. He says, "The only two people who have shown love and
respect for James Brown are Little Richard and Al Sharpton," the
New York City preacher who stirred up a storm over the purported
rape of Tawana Brawley and is now organizing a campaign to gain
Brown's early release. Complains Sharpton, who sports a Brown-style
hairdo: "The country would never have done this to Elvis."

    Brown is not eligible for parole until 1992. His lawyers, who
are working on an appeal, may seek a form of work release. Brown
says what he misses most are his fans, touring overseas and fooling
around until 3 or 4 in the morning with friends. "I'm well rested
now," says the Hardest-Working Man in Show Business, "but I miss
being tired."