undrgrnd Cliquez ici Toys KDP nav-sa-clothing-shoes nav-sa-clothing-shoes Cloud Drive Photos cliquez_ici nav_egg15_2 Cliquez ici Acheter Fire Shop Kindle cliquez_ici Jeux Vidéo Gifts

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil


Essai gratuit

Découvrez gratuitement un extrait de ce titre

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

Désolé, cet article n'est pas disponible en
Image non disponible pour la
couleur :
Image non disponible

Brothas Be, Yo Like George, Ain't That Funkin' Kinda Hard On You?: A Memoir (English Edition) [Format Kindle]

George Clinton , Ben Greenman

Prix éditeur - format imprimé : EUR 25,48
Prix Kindle : EUR 18,75 TTC & envoi gratuit via réseau sans fil par Amazon Whispernet
Économisez : EUR 6,73 (26%)

App de lecture Kindle gratuite Tout le monde peut lire les livres Kindle, même sans un appareil Kindle, grâce à l'appli Kindle GRATUITE pour les smartphones, les tablettes et les ordinateurs.

Pour obtenir l'appli gratuite, saisissez votre adresse e-mail ou numéro de téléphone mobile.


Prix Amazon Neuf à partir de Occasion à partir de
Format Kindle EUR 18,75  
Relié EUR 25,65  
Broché --  

Idée cadeau Noël : Retrouvez toutes les idées cadeaux Livres dans notre Boutique Livres de Noël .

Les clients ayant acheté cet article ont également acheté

Cette fonction d'achat continuera à charger les articles. Pour naviguer hors de ce carrousel, veuillez utiliser votre touche de raccourci d'en-tête pour naviguer vers l'en-tête précédente ou suivante.

Descriptions du produit


Brothas Be, Yo Like George, Ain’t That Funkin’ Kinda Hard on You?


The Bomb. That’s the first thing I remember. It was the end of World War II, and I was four years old, living in Washington, D.C., where all the talk was about the atomic bombs the United States had just dropped on Japan: Little Boy on Hiroshima and Fat Man on Nagasaki. People hoped that they would bring an end to the war, because the country was getting worn-out, and not just the soldiers overseas. They were having blackout drills where you had to turn your lights off at seven o’clock at night, and the planes flying overhead couldn’t even see the city. Other days there were military aircraft in the sky, rows and rows of them, and an overall sense of power, or threat, depending on your point of view. Nowadays people say they come from military families but back then every family was military: I had uncles who had been in the war and an aunt who was in the WACs. When the first bomb fell on Japan, people were happy, but they were also holding their breath: no one knew what was going to happen next. The only other thing I remember was potato chips. The Wise potato-chip factory was near us, and we could smell them in the air. Atom bombs, potato chips—you can’t eat just one.

I hadn’t been born in D.C. I was a proud product of the state of North Carolina, coming into the world in Kannapolis on July 22, 1941. I wasn’t born in a hospital, and there are rumors that I wasn’t even born in a house, that I emerged into the world in an outhouse. I can’t confirm or deny that. I was brought to the city not long after. My parents, George and Julious, didn’t live together for the most part, but for a little while they lived near each other. Both of them were government employees: my father worked at the U.S. Mint, disposing of money that had been taken out of circulation, and my mother cleaned up at the Pentagon. When the war ended, we moved again, this time to Chase City, Virginia, a small town about seventy-five miles from Richmond. I remember picking asparagus and running in fields. There were two white kids named Richard and Robert who used to take me and my brother Bobby Ray—a year younger than me—fishing and teach us about farming. They also told us how we should stay inside some nights because the Klan would come riding through on horses, wearing sheets. The way they described them to us, I imagined headless horsemen, holding their own heads like flaming pumpkins. I never actually saw them coming through town, but it’s a vivid enough memory anyway. Other than that, racism was only an abstract concept to the younger kids in town. There was one movie in town and we all went to the movie, black folk upstairs and white people downstairs.

I was a pretty quiet kid. I watched the world because the world seemed so big. About thirty years later, in 1978, I went back to that house in Chase City, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was a well outside that couldn’t have been more than two feet deep that I had thought was six feet deep at least. There was a little creek that I thought was a river. I thought the backyard was a mile long and two miles wide. I would run around and not come back until dark. At that age, I didn’t have a clear sense of being a musician or a songwriter or an entertainer or anything. I wanted to be whatever I was seeing in the movies: a cowboy, probably.

Around 1950, I said good-bye to Virginia, too. It was spring, I think. My father didn’t show one day, and not very much was said about it. Some time later, a few weeks maybe, he reappeared, but something was different. He was driving a big black new Kaiser automobile, for starters, and the second he stepped out of the car he told us that we were leaving Virginia for New Jersey. I was excited to leave. It sounded like a fresh start, and not just because of the word New. We were going north. We were going in style, from the first moment we got on the highway all the way into New Jersey. From then on, to this day, I traveled the same routes and got familiar with all of the places, all of the road signs, the cigarette advertisements and so on. When we got into Philadelphia there were advertisements for Buttercup bread, Gillette razors. There were lots of Howard Johnsons lining the highway, and gas-station signs I had not seen before. That sparked my infatuation with being on the road and seeing the rest of the world. How could you not love it?

When my family pulled into New Jersey that first day, it was like a different world from Virginia. In Chase City, there had been only one movie house. In Jersey, there was one every four or five blocks, playing King Solomon’s Mines or Harvey. There were more cars and kids and street peddlers and less sky and air. My mother moved north soon after my father did, and she ended up in East Orange, about ten minutes from where we lived in Newark. Now and then we’d head into New York City, and that was another thing altogether. There were buildings that blotted out the sky. There were more people than I ever knew existed.

Work brought my father to New Jersey, and work kept him there. He unloaded ships at the docks, and when he came home at night he had a wagon piled high with potatoes and apples and cabbage that he would sell. That strong work ethic of his was passed down to us, both by example and by constant lecture. All of us who made the move there—me, Bobby Ray, Tommy, and Shirley (we had three others, Brenda, Robbie, Marie, who moved there later, and Jimmy and Patsy were born in Jersey)—were working from pretty early on: not only did we do our chores at home, but he made sure that we got jobs at local stores, too, sweeping up at the end of the day. We did good clean work, not always fun, but that’s what my father wanted. He was the boss, and all of us did what he said: get up in the morning, eat, wash up, clean up, keep things neat, don’t get into trouble. He didn’t play at all.

If I got my sense of hard work from my father, I got my love of music from my mother. My father was a churchgoing man and he liked singing gospel, but he worked all the time so it never really had a chance to take hold. He was part of little groups out of church, though, who organized living-room events where a few friends would get together and sing the hits of the day. He was a Sunday singer. My mother, on the other hand, had the music bug and had it bad. She played records around the house all the time and sang along with them. She liked blues, but not only the pure blues—she liked jump blues and rhythm and blues, too, everything from B.B. King and Muddy Waters to Louis Jordan and Wynonie Harris. It was the same kind of music that I would hear later on, in the sixties, coming back to me through British bands like Cream.

New Jersey in the fifties was a breeding ground for the next generation of American music—or, more specifically, African-American music, though it wasn’t called that then. In East Orange, my mother lived right next door to Reverend Mancel Warwick’s grocery store. He had been a Pullman porter and then a cook, and he had ended up as a promoter for gospel records. He was also Dionne Warwick’s father. When we went to visit my mother, the Warwick kids were always out playing in the neighborhood, and I got to know them all: not just Dionne, but Cissy, Dee Dee, the whole family. I used to steal candy out of the reverend’s store, and my friends and I played at the ballpark up the street, right there in East Orange. I wasn’t any good at baseball. I couldn’t even be on my own team. They called me Porky and Feet—I had huge feet, adult-size by the time I was twelve years old.

There was another branch of my family over in Passaic: my aunt and my cousin Ruth, who took me to the apartments in town where the Shirelles were working on “Mama Said.” I was swept up right then and there. Ruth also took me to the Apollo, where I saw the Drifters, the Chantels, and dozens of other groups. I listened to them obsessively and loved them unconditionally. I loved the Flamingos, who had a huge hit with “I Only Have Eyes for You.” I loved the Spaniels and especially their lead singer, Pookie Hudson, who became the model for almost every young singer within earshot. I loved the Bobbettes, who were from Spanish Harlem and had a hit with “Mr. Lee” in 1957, and the Blue Belles, who were from the Trenton-Philadelphia area and featured a girl named Patsy Holt. They had a hit with “Over the Rainbow,” and she had a real powerful voice even then. Cindy Birdsong, who would later replace Florence Ballard in the Supremes, was also in that group. Years later, when Patsy was renamed Patti LaBelle and I was a hairdresser, I would end up doing her hair.

Even without the music, I loved living in Newark, in part because I was royalty. All you had to do was look at the signs. One of the main drags in Newark was called Clinton Avenue, and there was a whole area called Clinton Hills. They were all named after the early American politician George Clinton, who had been the governor of New York and the vice president under Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. Some days the world seemed to revolve around me, a George Clinton who could go walking down a street named for him in an area named for him. In the middle of this neighborhood where I was royalty, in 1956, they built a new junior high school, and if you can believe it, they called it Clinton Place. And if you can believe that, in that first graduating class, there were no kids whose last names ended in A or B, so I was the first graduate: George Clinton of Clinton Place. You can believe it all because it’s all true.

As I got a little older, I moved out of the jobs my father got for me and into jobs of my own. I remember delivering milk, working on the Alderney Dairy trucks. I rode a route on Avon Avenue, and the driver of the truck would tell me about all the people who lived there. One of them, he said, was Sarah Vaughan. I knew of her from my parents, who had lots of her records, and a little later she had a big hit with “Broken-Hearted Melody.” I never saw her, just dropped bottles at her door. Years later we met backstage somewhere and I told her about it. “I brought you milk,” I said. She kind of squinted and frowned until she realized what I meant.

Maybe my most important early employment was on the street named for me, Clinton Avenue. There was a record store there called Essex Records, and I had an after-school job there sweeping up. They didn’t do returns too much back then—when records didn’t sell, they didn’t go back to the label, but into the trash bin behind the store—and so lots of records ended up there. Some of them I kept for myself, and some of them, especially the white doo-wop groups and the white rockers, I took to school to sell to the kids. I was the record king of Madison Junior High School for a little while. When American Bandstand started, there was suddenly a way of seeing the differences between the artists—some of them, much to my surprise, were white. But in the mid-fifties, no one knew and no one really cared. You moved to what moved you and you got your hands on anything that made you feel larger. Little Richard would have been one of the records I sold to the white kids. I got fifteen cents a record. Jerry Lee Lewis was another one of the artists that moved, especially “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” Jerry Lee was my favorite too. He had a band that was tight as a motherfucker. Elvis was made to be funky and he had a crew surrounding him, but Jerry Lee was funky for real, stupid funky. When he got going he tore shit up. I also loved bands like the Isley Brothers: they were doing it like motherfuckers since “Shout” in 1959, moving and singing like three Jackie Wilsons all rolled into one.

Revue de presse

"Clinton’s irrepressible spirit, eloquence, and musical acumen flow full-force through this candid, hilarious, outrageous, poignant, and resounding chronicle of perpetual creativity and hope." (Booklist)

"From the barbershop to the Mothership, from doo-wop to hip-hop, Dr. Funkenstein's tale is filled with honesty, insight, and a whole lot of rhythm goin' round. With this book, George Clinton gives up the funk and then some. The Bomb!" (Alan Light, former Editor-in-Chief of Vibe and Spin magazines)

“A perpetual conceptual moving target, George Clinton has always been more about the dogs than the dogma, and his ideas are always layered deep in the 24 track mix. In this insatiably readable memoir he finally parks his Mothership and tells the tales that the funkateers have wanted to hear for years.” (Rickey Vincent, author of Funk: The Music, the People and the Rhythm of The One)

"People will come to this book looking for druggy tales and eccentric stories, and they will not be disappointed. However they will also encounter a highly intelligent, visionary man who happens to have an encyclopedic knowledge of pop music from doo wop to hip hop. P-Funk worked because George Clinton knew how to weave all the threads together." (Nelson George)

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 23613 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 417 pages
  • Editeur : Atria Books (21 octobre 2014)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • Synthèse vocale : Non activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°235.891 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)

En savoir plus sur l'auteur

Découvrez des livres, informez-vous sur les écrivains, lisez des blogs d'auteurs et bien plus encore.

Commentaires en ligne

Il n'y a pas encore de commentaires clients sur Amazon.fr
5 étoiles
4 étoiles
3 étoiles
2 étoiles
1 étoiles
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com: 4.7 étoiles sur 5  103 commentaires
18 internautes sur 19 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Highly recommended for music fans of any stripe 27 octobre 2014
Par Anthony Hardesty - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
I've been a fan of George Clinton and Parliament-Funkadelic's music for over 25 years now, so it's difficult for me to tell if the average non-fan would find this memoir interesting. But for us Funkateers, it's manna. Loaded with interesting anecdotes and insights from a variety of subjects, Clinton's (and Greenman's) voice is original, humorous, and generous. Perhaps a little too much time is spent on Clinton's travails with the music industry, but that's an important part of his story, and one that others might benefit from. Highly recommended for music fans of any stripe, especially the funky kind.
13 internautes sur 14 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Supergroovilisticprofunkstication 24 octobre 2014
Par Steve L. - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Achat vérifié
This book is a must read for any true P-Funkateer, or for that matter, anyone who loves soul/ funk/ R&B. George give a first hand look at the evolution of the revolutionary music recorded by Clinton,Worrell, Collins and the many other contributing members of the funk mob. George shares in detail about the many artists and others in the industry that helped to hone and shape the perfection of P-Funk over time. I loved hearing the stories behind the music. The music brought together the best from all genras of music and helped to shape and influence generations of music lovers from Doo Wop and to the Hip-Hop of today. George's intellect and genius has always been cloaked in "silly- seriousness". In his autobiography, Dr. Funkenstein is exceptionally articulate, insightful and humorous in he way he shares about his life long dedication to the Funk. The book paints a clear picture of a dedicated artist navigating the challenges posed by the largely corrupt and dishonest corporate power structure in the record industry, while being unwilling to compromise core values and creative expression.
Thanks George for taking taking us for a front seat ride on the Mothership. Loved reading about the stories Behind the Funk.
9 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Make my funk the Pfunk! 28 octobre 2014
Par kevin - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
If you came up on Pfunk, then this book is for you. It seems like every book I read about musicians, there's always a story about stolen music rights, this no different. I hope George Clinton and the rest of Pfunk get all that is due to them before they pass on. Funkateers enjoy!
8 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Great book, Lots of pictures 27 octobre 2014
Par Al Campbell - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Achat vérifié
Great book, Lots of pictures. Tells a great story of a living legend in the music business!!! Also some great life stories!!! A must read!!!
9 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Funkin' About Time That George Clinton Wrote His Memoir! 13 novembre 2014
Par HuntleyMC - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
For a long time I've wanted George Clinton to write his memoir. Every time I read or heard an interview with Clinton I would wonder why a publisher hadn't approached him to write his story. Thank you Atria Books for making it finally happen. This book took me a little longer to read than usual because every time Clinton shared a story about writing on of the songs for the Parliament or the Funkadelic I would want to stop reading, listen to it and see if I could notice the different aspects of the song that Clinton was pointing out.

I was introduced to George Clinton Parliament-Funkadelic through my father's record collection. I never really understood what the differences between the two bands and Clinton does a good job of describing the two bands. *The Parliaments was the band that he could use to perform doo-wop. Parliament and the Funkadelic played funk music. I've always heard that James Brown was the hardest working man in show business but from reading Clinton's account it sounds like he could give Brown a run for this title. He would be working on a Parliament album, a Funkadelic album and Bootsy Collins album or some other artist for his record label all while writing music for upcoming albums.

It was interesting to read about Clinton's relationship with fellow artist Sly Stone and how they supported each other's drug habit while also influencing each other musically. Clinton also as an interesting take on rap music and being easily the most sampled artist by rap artists.

The great thing about this memoir was is that Clinton focuses primarily on his life in music. There is very little time spent discussing his family life short of how his relationships are with his children and grandchildren. If the children are involved with music, as a couple are, he discusses how they work together but other wise his private life is left alone.

Clinton shares information on copyright issues he has had on much of his music. At one point he says that he got off the addiction to crack and became addicted to figuring out his copyright problems and getting his music back. He says that he is getting close to filing a claim and going to court. I was kind of amazed that when he is looking to go to court that his lawyers would allow him to write so freely about potential information that could be used in his favor. He also includes the whole deposition that he and his lawyers did with a woman involved in one of the lawsuits.

This book is an enjoyable read of Clinton's life from the barbershop to a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Member. Clinton does not seem to pull many punches when it comes to his professional career. He discusses his drug use, song writing, musical influences and how he feels about the artists that he as influenced himself. It was a long time waiting for this memoir but well worth it.

*Changed from this, "Parliament was the band that he could use to perform doo-wop and the Funkadelic was the band for his funk music."
Ces commentaires ont-ils été utiles ?   Dites-le-nous

Discussions entre clients

Le forum concernant ce produit
Discussion Réponses Message le plus récent
Pas de discussions pour l'instant

Posez des questions, partagez votre opinion, gagnez en compréhension
Démarrer une nouvelle discussion
Première publication:
Aller s'identifier

Rechercher parmi les discussions des clients
Rechercher dans toutes les discussions Amazon

Rechercher des articles similaires par rubrique