James McBride - Kill ’Em and Leave: Searching for James Brown and the American Soul

T he statue sits smack in the middle of downtown Augusta, Georgia, face high, because the old man never wanted to be standing above anybody else. He wanted to be down with the people. And as you stand before it on this deserted stretch of cheap stores and old theaters on a hot August afternoon, you say to yourself, This is what they dont teach you in journalism school: to walk through the carcass of a ruined, destroyed lifethis broken life and the one behind it, and the one behind thatto navigate the maze of savage lawyers who lined up to feed at the carcass; to listen to the stories of the broke musicians who traveled the world in glory only to come home with a pocket full of nothing; to make sense of the so-called music experts who helped themselves to a guys guts and history trying to make a dollar change pockets. Everybodys got a hustle in this world. Meanwhile the guy who made the show, hes deader than yesterdays beer, his legacy scattered everywhere but where he wanted it.

James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, Americas greatest soul singer, left most of his wealth, conservatively estimated at $100 million, to educate poor children in South Carolina and Georgia. Ten years after his death on December 25, 2006, not a dime of it had reached a single kid. Untold millions have been frittered away by lawyers and politicians who have been loosed on one another by various factions of his destroyed family.

Its a sad end to an extraordinary yet tragic life, though you figure with thousands of poor kids in South Carolina and Georgia needing a good education, somebody would have the integrity to figure the whole thing out. But thats a long shot these days because, in part, that would mean weve figured out James Brown. And thats impossible. Because to figure him out, wed have to figure ourselves out. And thats like giving an aspirin to a two-headed baby.

Its an odd thing. Theyre big on him here in Augusta, his adopted hometown. They named an arena after him and a street, held a James Brown Day, all of that tribute jazz. But the truth is, other than this weird statue, theres not a wisp of James Brown in this place. Theres no feeling of him here. Hes a vapor now, just another tragic black tale, his story bought and sold and bought again, just like the slaves that were once sold at the Haunted Pillar just two blocks from where his statue stands. Browns saga is an industrial-strength story, a big-box store of a life filled with cheap goods for any writing hack looking for the equivalent of the mandatory five-minute gospel moment you see in just about every Broadway show these days. Lousy story, great music. And everybodys an expert: a documentary here, a book there, a major motion picture, all produced by folks who knew and loved him, as if that were possible. The fact is, it really doesnt matter whether they knew him or not, or loved him or hated his guts and hoped somebody would tie him to a pickup truck and drag his body across the quit line. The worst has already happened. The guy is finished. Gone. Perfect dead. Paying him homage now doesnt cost anyone a thing. Hes like John Coltrane, or Charlie Parker, or Louis Jordan, or any other of the dozens of black artists whose music is immortalized while the communities that produced them continue to suffer. James Brown is forgotten in Augusta, really. The town is falling apart, just like his memory. Hes history. Safely dead.

But over in Barnwell County, just across the state line in South Carolina, the place where Brown was born and was living when he died, theres no uncertainty about who James Brown is. He is not a vapor there, but rather a living, breathing thing.

There used to be an old black-run soul food joint on Allen Street in the town of Barnwell, not far from James Browns birthplace, called Brookers. Every time I would go to that town to pick around the bones of James Browns storywhats left of itI would head to Brookers and eat pork and grits and collards and whatever else Miss Iola and her sister Miss Perry Lee were serving. I had a lot of fun goofing off in that joint. Id sit at a table and watch the people come inyoung, old, some quiet as bedbugs, others talkative and friendly, a few suspicious, folks of all types: small businessmen, local workers, farmers, an undertaker, hairdressers. Id always leave the place laughing and saying to myself, They dont teach you this in journalism school eitherto stand in somebodys hometown and still hear the laughter and the pride. They love James Brown in Barnwell. They dont see his broken life; they dont care about the bottom-feeder lawyers who lined up to pick at his bones, or his children fighting over the millions Brown left to the poor instead of them. Theyve seen enough evil in their own lives, going back generations, to fill their own book of sad tales. So why talk about it? Laugh and be happy in the Lord! James Brown died on top. The white man can say whatever he wants. Put that down in your little old notebook, kid: We dont care. We know who James Brown was. He was one of us. He sleeps with the Lord now. In good hands! Now, here, have some more pie.

They laugh and smile and make you feel good. But behind the laughter, the pie, the howdies, and the second helpings, behind the huge chicken dinners and the easy chuckles, theres a silent buzz. If you put your ear to a table, you can almost hear it; its a churning kind of grind, a rumble, a growl, and when you close your eyes and listen, the noise is not pleasant. Its nothing said, or even seen, for black folks in South Carolina are experts at showing a mask to the white man. Theyve had generations of practice. The smile goes out before their faces like a radiator grille. When a white customer enters Brookers, they act happy. When the white man talks, they nod before the man finishes his sentences. They say yes sir and right on and laugh and joke and say I declare! and Is that right? and howdy em and yes em to death. And you stand there dumbfounded, because youre hearing something different, youre hearing that buzz, and you dont know if its coming from the table or the bottom of your feet, or if its the speed of so much history passing between the two of them, the black and the white, in that moment when the white man pays for his collard greens with a smile that ties you up, because you can hear the roar of the war still being foughtthe big one, the one the northerners call the Civil War and southerners call the War of Northern Aggression, and the more recent war, the war of propaganda, where the black guy in the White House pissed some people off no matter what he did. Its all about race. Everybody knows it. And theres no room to breathe. So you sit there, suffocating, watching this little transaction over your own plate of collard greens, as these two people laugh and small-talk over the chasm that divides them, and you stare in amazement, feeling like youre sitting on a razor blade, waiting for one or the other to pull out a gun and blow the others face off. You think youre losing your mind as the buzz in your ears grows louder; it morphs into a kind of electricity that builds until its no longer a buzz but an unseen roar of absolute fury and outrage, marked only by an occasional silent glance of unsaid understanding, one that slips between you and the rest of the blacks in the room like the silent dollar bill that leaves that white customers hand and slips into Miss Iolas old cash register, which closes with a silent click.