Jake Brennan (23:00)
Word, word, word. Rick was dreaming. The past few years had been intense. He'd gone from hanging with his Motown heroes, Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder, to being locked up in the brig for desertion. And then he broke out of prison. A legit jailbreak. The excitement of that moment never left him. When the fever dream came, it was the prison break that jazzed him the most. He could still taste the adrenaline even now, a year later, in his sleep. It got his dick hard, and it was so powerful. Not that Rick James needed help getting his dick hard before and after prison. He'd been on a tear through the new era of free love. And free love was one thing, freedom was another. Rick may have escaped the brig, but he wasn't free. His boys back in Toronto got their shit together without Rick. Neil was in a band with that Stephen Stills cat, Buffalo Springfield, and they were legit rock stars. And Joanie had her thing. Garth and Levon backed Bob fucking Dylan and started the band. And here was Rick James, dodging G Men and dealing coke to get by. In his dream though, he was free. Free on stage anyway. Whipping through Stevie's fingertips with Hendrix next to him on stage and Miles looking on approvingly from the audience. It made no sense. But then again, it made total sense. Rick was a fucking star and he knew it. He knew he had the same talent running through him that Jimmy, Stevie and Miles had. But the truth ratcheted up the anxiety. The truth was that he wasn't a musician like Jimmy, Stevie or Miles. He was a fucking criminal. Common, ordinary and definitely not free. The G Men were on his tail. Hellhounds, white devils. The heat got to be too hot. And this is where the dream usually went from fever pitch to hyperreal. Rick's heart raced as his brain called back to when he turned himself in that second time. Not for going awol but for breaking out of the brig. He was received by the other prisoners as a conquering hero, but the guards had a different opinion. Fuck this guy. The beatings were merciless and the brass must have known Rick was going to bounce a third time and embarrass them further. So they ended up settling with his attorney and processing him out of his court martial on a technicality. Something about enlisting as a minor. And this is usually when Rick would awake, buoyed by freedom, his dick rock hard, his eyes squinting through the late morning California sunshine and his head weighed down in the morass of last night's party. Rick got up off the couch, careful not to step on the half naked body sleeping on the floor. Empty wine bottles and overflowing ashtrays were everywhere. The air stank of grass and Rick had to piss bad. He couldn't remember where the nearest bathroom was. This place was huge. Stephen Stills had too much house. Whatever. Stills was a rock star, he could afford it. Plus, Stills threw great parties and was cool enough to let Rick crash while getting his shit together. Rick Duck walked through the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone. There, the first floor bathroom. Thank God. Rick came to a pathway between the kitchen and the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks. The blood was everywhere and flowing fast. The hippie was still conscious despite the blood torrenting from his forearms. He was mumbling. Wait, was he mumbling or doing something else? The motherfucker was chanting and bleeding profusely from his self inflicted wounds. Rick freaked out, started screaming and ran straight for Stills bedroom. Stills was already on his feet, fastening the belt of his robe and Shaking his head. Shit, he's done it again, hasn't he? He's cutting himself. Right, Stills? Some stone dude is bleeding out in your hallway. Stills hurried toward his kitchen. Rick followed. The blood had now formed a sizable puddle on the floor around the hippie. Stills pulled the belt of his robe, grabbed a dish rack hanging from the oven, and quickly fashioned two makeshift tourniquets around the cross legged hippy's arms to stop the deluge of blood. And through it all, the hippie kept slowly rocking his shoulders and chanting. The Stills gave him a couple hard slaps on the cheek to snap him out of it. Jim. Jim, wake up. Jim. The bleeding stopped and the hippie slowly opened his eyes. And they were beautiful, if not distant. They found their way to Rick, who was looking on in shock. The hippie opened his mouth. Hey brother, it's a beautiful morning, isn't it? Rick had no idea what the fuck was going on. Stephen Stills took a step back, let out a sigh of relief and said, Rick James, meet Jim Morrison. Fucking Hollywood. You couldn't take a piss without running into somebody. So Rick James used his Hollywood connections to get his music career off the ground. But it was slow going. One false start after another. And Rick, frustrated with the momentum his friends had found in the music business and that had eluded him, said, fuck it, a man's gotta eat. And if the music business wasn't gonna provide, then Rick was gonna make it happen by any means necessary. Just like his mama had done with the mob back in Buffalo. Cocaine was fast becoming the drug of choice as the 60s turned into the 70s. And of course, Rick knew a guy and that guy knew a guy. And before Rick knew it, he was in Colombia squirreling away 15 grams of cartel cocaine into his luggage. The flight to Canada, where Rick had planned on unloading the coke, was first class. But upon landing, things went south. Who was a sharp dressed black American with a stick pin and expensive luggage? Rick was braced by airport security and thoroughly searched, but not thoroughly enough. He made it through with the blow undetected, but was rattled enough to give up drug dealing and give the music business one more shot. And finally, Rick. His timing was right on Rick's vision of creating an aggressive, sexy new form of music that combined the best of R and B and rock and roll suddenly had a chance. In a decade where disco, punk rock and theatrical funk and heavy metal were all in vogue, Rick, for the first time in his life, disciplined himself. He pulled together some serious musicians from back home in Buffalo, away from the party scene. In Hollywood, dubbed them the Stone City Band and set about to make his mark on music history. Just like Jimmy Miles and Stevie before him. And that's exactly what he did. Rick James first few 70s records, come and get it bustin out of L7 and 1981's Street Songs are, in a word, unfucking believably good. Is that a word? It doesn't matter. Rick James put a new kind of herd on the funk. It was George Clinton without the bad acid trip. It was Sly Sniper without the manic insanity. It was kisses heavy metal, but with musicians who could play. It was Marvin Gaye, but with a sense of humor. It was James Brown without the preachy social consciousness. It was disco without the cheese. It was disco rock dudes could get into. It was a party. It was all of these things. It was huge. You and I, Mary Jane, come and get it. Give it to me, baby. Super freak. Put those songs on now, even now. And try not to move. Try not to crack that second bottle of wine. Try not to get laid. Those songs are infectious, undeniable hits. And when Rick James unleashed them on the world, the world loved them. And Rick loved the world right back. It was his time and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to enjoy himself. Rick was suddenly in vogue and in high demand. He personally brought his heroes, the Temptations, back from from the Dead with Standing on the Top, a song he penned and produced for them as a favor for Barry Gordy. And Rick had taken his friend, actor Eddie Murphy, all the way to number two on the charts with Party all the Time, another track he'd written and produced. With success, the party grew more wild. Sex, always a thing that was available to Rick James whenever he wanted. It soon became sex with two women at a time, then three women, and then the orgies started. With regularity, Rick moved through a succession of high profile relationships with beautiful women. Linda Blair from the Exorcist, the Dukes of Hazards, Catherine Bach, Marvin Gaye's wife, Jan Hunter, Johnny Carson's girlfriend, Kelly Patterson, and eventually a young Elizabeth Shue. All the while, his drug use got more serious. His cocaine use ratcheted up about 10 notches in the night the 1980s, just like it did for the rest of the entertainment business. But Rick, criminal minded as ever, took it to another level and began freebase. Or as he put it, sucking the devil's dick.
