Linda Trujillo

Elvis and James Brown

1.

Within one rainless week, nostalgia shimmered twice in the San Diego spotlight. Two aging stars spread their sparkling rays to delight their people. The King of Rock and Roll. The Godfather of Soul, Elvis Presley and James Brown both rolled their hoop-de-doo revues into town.

Innumerable comparisons lie before us. both men are giants in their respective musical fields. Their fortyish ages show from softening tummies, and critics review them with "over the hill?" queries. The razz matazz of ever bigger potential productions glosses over the possibility of their decline. The superstars are well aware their names are more than names, that their mere presence is hypnotic.

Both men are extremely popular, and appeal to wide age groups. Their original teen fans have grown up, married, had kids. Now it's Mom and Dad, little Ted and Alice, maybe a mother-in-law or two, all waving their arms in glee at the living musical instruments.

2.

It's Easter Sunday, and finger-snapping is a few minutes away. Waiting for the elevator and for James Brown, one can look out over the Convention Center plaza. Moth. Millions, bilions, zillions of fearsome, Texas-size moth shoot everywhere, from ground level to above the ten-story building, up into the sky like mad stars. Gone batty by spotlights blazing in the plaza, waves of moths dive-bomb, ricocheting from light bulb to light bulb.

The elevator arrives. The convention hall is nearly sold out. Images of Mothra, magnificent creatures of Japanese Godzilla films, rise from mothdust. Cool black cats eye the few white honks. But inside it's serene. The J.B.'s, James' (120man backup band) are still tuning up, people scurrying for their seats.

It's a family outing. Mom and Pop are wearing their six-inch lapel flashy clothes. Their four sons sit in order of age and height. The four kids are fidgety. They rise in unison and turn for the refreshment stand, each putting his own little dip in his walk, each with some Superfly or Sly of the Family Stone knit hat pinned to his head.

The J.B.'s swing into a pounding instrumental. Many have been with James for ages. Mayfield Parker, alto sax, is famous for his solos performed on gold Brown hits. He gets a chance to show off early, tilting his saxophone sideways, tooting mad at the mouth. But after his blazing stint, Mayfield tries to sing "Me. and Mrs. Jones." He does a fair job with the Billy Paul song. But the tune calls for an extended high note at end. Rumbling towards the finish, it doesn't appear he can make it. Mayfield reaches back, his moustache crinkling, and he's about to let it go when the announcer jumps in, grabs the mike, "Well, thank you, Mayfield. Let's hear it for Mayfield Parker!" Mayfield gets his warm applause for his sax play, despite the amusing ol' hook-around-the-throat routine.

The announcer goes into a spiel. He costars with the titan, and the same will be true at the Elvis in the wings, stop-watch in hand, keeping the show clicking tightly. And the announcer adds Las Vegas showtimes, his predictable stance acting as a foil for the star.

"Here now, ladies and gentlemen, is a man known throughout the world as not only a writer, producer, arranger, but singer, dancer, and drummer, and organist, and ..." The announcer's voice goes way up, then drops way down, a crazy throwback to the Amos and Andy caricatures. "And here he is, the singer's singer, the Godfather of Soul, James Brown? The The Godfather of Soul James Brown! The Godfather of Soul — " Three more "Godfathers" bestowed on beat with the band by the glockenspiel voice.

James coolly struts out. The audience holds its breath at the sight. His white suit sparkling, light dances off his knifing legs as the mail-like material ripples. He has a soft, black felt hat turned down over his eyes, his head leans back, a natty half-step behind his body. He grabs the mike, peers royally from under the brim, and screams into "Down and Out in New York City," his new hit from the movie Black Caesar.

Supercool, he jams with the group on organ. He sings with Lyn Collins, whom he unintentionally leaves for dead with his slow, bluesy solos. Suddenly flash, strobe lights on, James whips a five-circle spin, drops into a split, and he's off and running a 30-second sprint. The audience instantly leaps to its feet. The strobe is a hot gimmick. it makes him look faster than he is. he finishes with an amazing little jog where he slides off stage seemingly without moving his legs. For a minute, he's mechanical Mr. Mattell, with unbending metal legs and battery-driven tractors hidden in his shoes.

The second half of the show begins with Lyn Collins. Her style is nightclub, her dress is Ella Fitzgerald, and her voice is undistinguished.

James to the rescue. The best is saved for last, and he's snorting fire. He wears a grey jump suit and jacket, with a red bull over his heart. "I'm Taurus and I'm a mean bull." He starts rapping to his audience, mixing funky ghetto talk with astrological sign nightclub schticks. "Who's Scorpio?" A large roar in response. "Well, get down!"

His hair is long and straight, and after awhile, stands wildly on end. He's heavier than his youthful version. He's a large, cuddly bear, and he's ready. "I may be old but I'm clean. And don't you all worry, we're gonna do the good stuff, get down to it just like old times."

James swings into it, punching and jumping, keeping the strobes popping, feet flying. Splits, spins, hand jivings, and square jerkings of a puppet dance. And good songs. The oldie moldie "Poppa's Got a Brand New Bag." Then he updates with sheer, snappy killers, "Superbad," "Get on the Good Foot," "Hot Pants," "Be a Bad Mother." The titles are the tunes, James is pumping them, sweat glistening on his deep black skin, doing badass grunts and grinds. Women pack the front of the stage yahooing. he plays the role of the macho sexual dude to the hilt. "Cock it five times and I'm spittin' balls 'n' chain!" People are on their charts, snapping their fingers and tapping with their feet.

The fancy choreography of the JB's meshes tightly with the act. The 12 form a Rockette dance line, but bipping and not kicking. The three trumpeteers. The Fabulous Flames, are going bananas. Spruced up in magneta zoot-suits and wide-brimmed buckle hats, they're prancing in a circle like Indians on the warpath, whooping it up, spinning trumpets like Colt 45s.

The downbeat, hesitation rhythm signals "Ants in My Pants." James rips off his coat, and starts a speeded Charleston. his arms are muscled, his belly is heavy, but he puts out. Razzled by the spotlights, excited by photons, he beats his arms like wings. Holy Mothra! "I got ants in my pants and need to dance, so big fine momma come give me a chance!" Faster, faster, faster, he collapses. The audience whiplashes. The announcer runs to his side and throws a blue-glittered robe over his shoulders. Slumping under the sparkling wings, he starts to flap toward the shadows. But he's drawn to the lights. James heaves, the robe appears, same act. Finally a red robe, and the drenched twitching star bids adieu and flutters away.

3.

The cars are lined up onto Interstate 8 like elephants in a circus, each trunk wrapped around the tail in front. oddly, they jam only one lane, and the two-lane off-ramp at Rosecrans stays two lanes all the way to the Sports Arena. Never look a gift horse in the...

The people are skipping through the parking lot for the doors. High heels click on the pavement. Mink stoles adorn a few women. A fiftyish mother and a thirtyish daughter have matching elephant print pantsuits. hair is short, flashy garb scarce.

Inside the bowl, the place is crawling. Sold out for ten bucks and less, much more than the $5.50 top for James. And 70 percent in the $8 seats can't see a thing without binoculars. A comic is on, some Kahane fellow, who does a cute ritualized Borscht Belt act (the Catskill resort circuit where every Jewish-Irish comic learns his trade). Elvis has brought the Las Vegas act intact. The Sweet Inspirations, has black background singers, do slick pop arrangements of Aretha Franklin tunes and that is the meager first half of the show.

Intermission is where the real act begins. "Buy your Elvis Aloha from Hawaii pinup $2, Elvis photo book $2, giant Elvis poster $2, Elvis metallic portrait $1.50." The moustached mafioso barker bellows on and on; his conservative grey business suit strained by his hard sell and his ponderous middle. "The net half of the show will have Elvis himself. And now is the time to buy food and drink. There are many extra helpers manning the concession stands for the fan's convenience. And hurry to the front of the stage. For the fan's convenience, we are selling Elvis Aloha from Hawaii pinup $2, Elvis photo ... right below my feet! But you only have 4-1/2 minutes left!"

House lights off, the 15-piece band plays a flat version of Stravinsky, better known as "2001." Elvis strides on stage, the arena blazes. Volleys of flashcubes bombard the King. There are more cameras here than anywhere on earth. Nikons, Minoltas, 500mm lenses, and 10,000 Instamatics. Every female fan yearns for a photo keepsake of Elvis, sexual idol.

Elvis looks good. His tall, dark features photogenic. His white jumpsuit, top slit down hairy chest to belly button, covered with tiny mirrors. But his belly. May it not appear like belly fixation, but his tummy has a little corset.

When he opens his mouth to sing, a shallow voice comes over the speakers. Where'd his deep, vibrating voice go? With choir, country-rock quintet, and big brass band behind him. Elvis stands with guitar for one number, and then just stands there. At each song's end he repeatedly crouches and whips a karate chop.

His massive shining stature is his sole support for the tunes. "Blue Suede Shoes" and "Heartbreak Hotel" come in succession, but Elvis the Pelvis has been reduced to shake-a-leg El. He walks about stage, teasing hysterical middle-aged women with his blue scarves. The husbands get a kick from watching their wives act so silly.

"Johnny B. Goode" rocks, but the El doesn't. On "Love Me Tender" he squats for two awkward pelvic upthrusts. On "Love Me Tender"? But the image is bedrock, and women leap from their hot seats. The sexiest he gets is on "Hound Dog," where he plays with his slipping jewel studded belt and makes an aside, "I've got to get it up."

"You Give Me Fever" is better. Elvis's voice becomes earthy as the show nears its close. And Elvis stoops like Sir Lancelot at end. One, two, three, and aide brings a matching blue and white mirror cape. He grabs the cape, spreads it like wings, He's sharper at it than James Brown, his wing span far more impressive. The trumpets signal the Sylvania Blue Dots' final surge, and women rush the aisles. Last chance for those a mile away to see the immortal pelvis. Elvis doesn't like the lights. He has done the songs. He assumes one short listless pose, a Bela Lugosi loom, turns and makes the proverbial fast exit. Three steps behind is the mafioso announcer, chanting "Elvis has left the building." God, the only way he could leave that quickly is if he turned into a bat and flew. Well, maybe he did, chased into darkness by flashcubes and sadly reminiscent eyes.