The Grandfather of Soul : At 63, James Brown Has Lost Some of His Punch--but He Can Still Deliver a Knockout

It was sort of like watching George Foreman win back the heavyweight championship a couple of years ago.

Big George lumbered gracelessly around the ring, getting pummeled by Father Time more than by the inferior opponent in front of him, who wouldn’t have lasted a round with George in his prime. But when push came to shove, George still had enough stuff left to cold-cock Michael Moorer with a single, almighty blow, reminding the world that he indeed remained an exquisitely special human being.

Just not as special as he was a couple of decades ago.

James Brown’s performance Friday night at the Taste Of Orange County festival on the grounds of the El Toro Marine Corps Air Station was at once a sad and wonderful spectacle. The man reached gamely for those inhuman screeches that once came so easily but now are just out of his grasp. There would be no kneecap-shattering drops to the stage or groin-rending splits that once were his trademark. But Brown still moved like a man half his 63 years.

Sixty-three years? Can it be possible? JB’s classic debut single “Please, Please, Please” was released in 1956, the same year ‘Heartbreak Hotel” put Elvis on the map. And here was Brown, some 40 years later, performing that same song with the same inspired cape routine for an Orange County audience, most of whom weren’t even born when the song first hit the radio waves.

Much of the magic remains. Brown’s stage show is still second to none: A crack 14-piece band buttressed by an emcee, a row of back-up singers and a bevy of scantily clad dancers produce the sort of professionally executed fireworks that are have all but disappeared from music these days.

Brown is notorious for dishing out fines to anyone who blows so much as a single note, beat or dance step, and it’s a sure bet that everyone was paid in full after this show. Meanwhile, the youthful timbre of Brown’s voice and the soulful melisma remain remarkably intact, even if those blood-curdling screams are now a memory.

Then there’s that bottomless catalog of songs--classic after classic, material that has aged as well as anything ever recorded, and Brown popped them off one after another: “Cold Sweat,” “I Can’t Stand Myself When You Touch Me,” “Mother Popcorn,” “The Payback,” “Living In America,” “Doing It To Death,” “Try Me,” “I Got The Feelin’,” “It’s A Man’s Man’s Man’s World,” “Soul Power,” “Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag,” “I Got You (I Feel Good),” “Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine,” “Please, Please, Please.”

But for all the undeniable excitement generated on stage, the wear and tear of time--not to mention Brown’s notorious bouts of drug abuse, his years in prison and the recent death of his wife--were readily apparent.

Once JB was The Man on that stage; now he shares equal time with his band, a concession to diminished stamina. Bizarre, funked-up covers of the swing-era chestnuts “Blues In The Night” and “The Blues Walk” went on interminably; the bassist sang a feeble version of Sam & Dave’s “Soul Man”; a background singer riffed on Aretha’s “Respect”; a guitarist indulged in an embarrassingly weak tribute to B.B. King.

Brown himself cadged a number of time-killing tactics as well, rhythmically reciting the names of dead rock stars, leading the background singers in a long, a cappella “It’s The Music” mantra, and giving his band way too much time to solo. At times, it bordered on the ridiculous. Better JB should put on a show half the two-hour length of this one, and keep the momentum flowing, than to Vegas it up with this sort of cheesery.

But in the grand scheme, these are relatively small complaints. The man cannot and should not be expected to be able to maintain the intensity levels that he flashed at the “TAMI Show” or in his legendary television appearances on the “Ed Sullivan Show “or “Shindig” back in the ‘60s, performances that made his reputation.

He remains a remarkably vital presence at an age when most people are thinking about life insurance premiums and burial plots. How many 63-year-olds do you know who could even attempt to dance to a single James Brown tune, much less perform them (on and off anyway) for two solid hours?