Goodbye, Rick James.

August 7th, 2004

“Rick James, Rebel Rocker of ‘Punk-Funk,’ Dies at 56″ New York Times, August 7, 2004

My reaction to a celebrity death is often unpredictable. This year, the big ones — Ronald Reagan and Marlon Brando, for example — seem to have barely made an impression on me. A lack of emotion following the Reagan death is understandable, but I really liked Marlon Brando. Well, maybe I just saw both of these coming a mile away. Reagan was so ill. And Brando, well, he’d been among the walking dead for about fifteen years now.

But Rick James? Gone? Man, that hit me kind of hard. Until today, until I had reason to sit and think about him, I don’t think I’d grasped the substantial importance of the Super Freak to American pop culture. His legal troubles and drug problem in the 1990s are the stuff of legend, representing one the most severe celebrity demises in the tabloid canon. Also, James contributed some of the absolute best-worst album covers in the history of pop music. Back when I used to go to Cheapo Records in St. Paul, Minn., to shop for cassettes…used cassette tapes (did we ever really do this?)…my friend Carl and I used to stop by the “J” section in the used vinyl stacks. There was never any shortage of Rick James albums, and the cover art was never short of breathtaking. In nearly every shot, James wielded a guitar–often a bass guitar–in some setting where a large musical instrument was totally inappropriate.

Take the cartoon used “Busting Out of L-7,” for instance (above). In it, James was, well, busting out of prison with a bunch of women. Was the prison co-ed? Was the guitar used in the escape? Were was he going–to a gig? How did he get those leather pants into prison? God bless you, Rick James.

I felt a lot better when Rick James was with us. Sure, he ceased being an innovator in the music industry 20 years ago. But when he was at the top of his game, he created and performed music such weird abandon and shameless flamboyance. And since no contemporary artist is able–or willing–to take this same chance, I had to comfort myself with the knowledge that Rick James, clean and sober, reformed and wisened, was out there somewhere. And perhaps he was thinking about something really crazy. It would never take shape, but I was comforted by the thought. Now that he’s passed on, we lack a suitable heir to his freaky legacy. Who could possibly fill James’ thigh-high red leather boots? An aging, Jehovah-ized Prince? No. Outkast’s Andre 3000? Maybe. Former Illinois Republican senatorial candidate Jack Ryan? It’s possible, but I’m waiting for his next move. But no one can completely fill the void left when James died quietly in his sleep this week. Happy trails, Rick. From “Ghetto Life,” on 1981′s Street Songs:

She was very kinky
In the ghetto
She laid her pigtails down on me
In the ghetto
And I was feeling oh so sneaky
In the ghetto
I had to see what love could be
In the ghetto

I knew it all along
That my game was strong
But I was wrong that time
I knew I had to pray
And give myself away
Did you think I was man enough?
Yeah
Did you think I was smart enough?
Yeah
Did you think I was strong enough?
Yeah
Did you think I’d work it out?

The Ghetto Life