CAMEO FIGHTS FUNK IMAGE

To Larry Blackmon, funk is a dirty word. But he can’t escape it. Funk follows him everywhere. Everyone thinks his band, Cameo, plays funk--a raunchy, seamy, poundingly rhythmic form of R&B.;

“We play black rock ‘n’ roll,” Blackmon insisted in an exasperated tone that indicated he’d made this denial dozens of times.

Cameo, headed by Blackmon, Tomi Jenkins and Nathan Leftenant, has been around since 1977. During most of that time, there were few debates about what kind of music the band played, because not that many people knew about Cameo. For the first time in the history of this band, formed in New York but now headquartered in Atlanta, it’s in the Top 10--both with its PolyGram album “Word Up” and the single of the title song.

Blackmon is wrong, though. Cameo’s music really is funk. But it’s not the normal raw, raging, one-note variety. Cameo’s funk is complex, multi-layered and expansive, reflecting rock, pop and jazz influences. Catchy and danceable, it’s a few cuts above run-of-the-mill funk.

The success of “Word Up,” the 12th Cameo album, was set up by last year’s “Single Life” and “She’s Strange” (1984). That’s when pop audiences first took an interest in Cameo’s funk. “Word Up” expanded and solidified that new audience.

But, when listening to Cameo, most of that new audience thinks it’s listening to funk. “You can’t lump us in with those other funk bands,” Blackmon said. “We’re better than that. We set trends. “

As you can see, when he’s talking about Cameo, Blackmon ignores modesty. You can’t really blame him though. He’s bragging but he’s not exaggerating. Cameo really is that good. Just ask anyone who saw its recent Santa Monica Civic Auditorium show.

Matter-of-factly, Blackmon continued to boast: “Kool & the Gang copied us. The Midnight Stars of the world copy us. And Rick James . . . well, I won’t go into that.”

How about outrageous funkmaster George Clinton?

Blackmon doesn’t mind Clinton, but he’s not crazy about his music, which is classic low-down, profane, back-alley funk. But, most of all, Blackmon hates being compared to Clinton.

“George Clinton, George Clinton, George Clinton,” he grumbled. “When I do interviews in England, that’s all they talk about. If they knew anything about Cameo’s music, they wouldn’t even make those references. George is coming from a different place with that music. It’s more traditional. His whole mentality is in a different place.”

The funkster stereotype really rankles Blackmon. Funksters are regarded as untamed, lustful, rowdy, sub-literate rogues who regard the world as one big party.

“I refuse to be classified with those down-and-dirty funk people,” Blackmon said. “I’m a businessman. I’m bright. I’m articulate. I’m not subhuman.”

At that point, Blackmon aired his grievance about white writers who quote him in black street dialect: “This isn’t the ‘Amos ‘n’ Andy Show.’ I know how to speak intelligently. Writers should quote me that way, not in street lingo. That perpetuates this image of R&B; artists as morons.”

Blackmon, obviously agitated, also pointed out that some people have the gall to classify Cameo with the rap groups. Blackmon, you see, isn’t too fond of most rap groups.

“Some people look at rap groups and think that this is the way black people are,” he noted incredulously, mockingly talking in an exaggerated black street accent. “Blacks don’t talk in rhyme. All of us don’t talk street jive either. Putting out some of that rap stuff is like making black people take 10 steps backward.”

That evening during cocktails, Blackmon, who’s famous for airing grievances, aired many more. For instance, most of today’s music, he said, is trash:

“It’s music for lost souls. It’s self-indulgent with no depth. It’s skin deep. That’s one reason people took to the ‘Word Up’ album. There was nothing else good out there to listen to. Our album really stood out.”

But what really makes him angry is rich black artists who lose touch with the black audience.

“I could name names but I won’t,” he said. “You know who I’m talking about anyway. It’s like, now they have all that money, they can forget they’re black. They don’t have to worry about money. They could say and do a lot of things for black people but they don’t. All of them would be nowhere without that black base audience that gave them a start.

“One guy in particular I used to hang out with when he had nothing. I remember when he was playing bars on Seventh Avenue (in New York). Now he’s big and all of a sudden very white. That bothers me.”

Black artists, Blackmon insisted, can appeal to the pop masses without sacrificing their blackness: “We did it. We have a share of that white audience and we’re not going to ignore our people and make them feel like they’re in the back of the bus.”

Blackmon, who runs Atlanta Records and a sizable production company in Atlanta (“a mini-Motown,” he calls it), has a reputation for being a shrewd businessman. He’s well-respected in the industry. The 34-year-old musician is creating an empire, which is why he’s often called a budding Berry Gordy.

You rarely hear anything bad about Blackmon. For the last few years at least, he’s had a relatively noble image. But he’s no saint. His closet, he said, is bulging with skeletons.

“I know about evil first hand,” he said. “I’ve lived through a thousand deaths. I scared hell out of myself with some of the stuff I was doing. But I had the good sense to straighten myself out before I went off the deep end.

“But I’m no saint. I wish I was. St. Larry has a nice ring to it.”