parliament funkadelic

Bootsy Collins‘ endless alter-egos — Boot-Tron, Zillatron, King of the Geepies, Bootdullivan, Bedroom Bootsy and, of course, Bootzilla — have always battled for space inside the funk pioneer’s brain. But early in his career, as a teenager in the early 1970s, they hit a wall. “All them boys have wanted to do all kinds of genres, but when I was coming up, I got stuck with James Brown,” the bassist recalls with a laugh. “It’s hard to get out of that funk, you know?”
Collins, now 73, was playing with Cincinnati’s Pacesetters in 1970, when Brown sent a Learjet to fly the band to a Columbus, Ohio, gig, abruptly replacing his own disgruntled road band. The Pacesetters, who’d been hanging around Brown’s King Records studio, knew his songs and could play any of them on demand. “I said, ‘Just call out whatever song you want to go into. We got you,’” Collins recalls. “That’s how we made it through that night — but after that night, we had about two weeks of straight rehearsal, every single day. Which we were used to anyway.”

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Collins and company scrupulously adhered to Brown’s funk orthodoxy for a year. Then, for a gig at the Copacabana in New York, Brown cut the band’s pay and forced them to wear jackets and ties, so they split. Collins went on to join another funk pioneer: George Clinton, whose alternating bands Parliament and Funkadelic were innovating a looser, more improvisational and funnier style that would help define Black music in the ’70s.

In P-Funk, Bootzilla and the rest of Collins’ alter-egos found a receptive home. “By the time I got with George, I got a little more freedom — well, a lot more freedom — to do funk. And the name was Funkadelic,” he says, in an audio-only Zoom from his Cincinnati home, along with his wife and manager, Patti Collins. “So what am I going to do? Am I going to come there and play everything else but funk? No, you’ve got to bring the funk: ‘I’m up to my trunks in P-Funk.’”

Collins — whose bass style “had sap flowing through it, it moved,” according to Brown’s biographer R.J. Smith — was part of a funky bass coalition in the ’70s, including Larry Graham of Sly and the Family Stone and the late Louis Johnson of the Brothers Johnson, which brought the instrument into the foreground. Collins had unlimited musical creativity, and a weird, say-anything persona that he capped with star-shaped shades, bright-colored suits and spangled ringleader hats. And he made several great albums with his solo outfit Bootsy’s Rubber Band, notably 1977’s Ahh… the Name Is Bootsy, Baby. But even then, he felt limited.

“I just got caught, like, ‘OK, Bootsy’s thing is funk,’ so everybody levitated towards that — except me,” he says. “I wanted to play other music, but it was who I wound up with that solidified what I was going to be and what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Collins’ Album of the Year #1 Funkateer, due April 11, allows all these musical detours and imaginary best friends to do whatever they want. In addition to straightforward funk (“The InFluencers,” with guest star Snoop Dogg, a vocal P-Funk adherent), Collins travels into guitar-shredding metal (“Barbie T & Me”), electronic dance music (the murmuring “I.Am.AI,” with competing robot voices) and hip-hop (“Bootdullivan is Soopafly”). Collins’ solo albums in recent years have been long and varied, unlike the Bootsy’s Rubber Band days, when he hit the studio, jammed with his bandmates and occasionally turned on the recording machines.

“Those jams were just so long. You could only put so much on an album back in the day without it not sounding good,” he says. “I never thought we were going to be doing as many songs as I’m doing now, but that’s where technology has taken us.”

On the Zoom, Bootsy and Patti Collins discuss a number of projects, beginning with Bootzilla Records, the pair’s indie label, distributed through Jay-Z‘s Roc Nation, which puts out Collins’ own albums as well as a roster of young artists he discovers online, such as singers Fantaazma and Myra Washington. Collins is also working on an album for guitarist Buckethead, with whom he collaborated in experimental-music bandleader Bill Laswell‘s band Praxis in the ’90s. He’s working with the Wooten Brothers, jazz, funk and bluegrass stars, on an album. And he’s in touch with his old P-Funk mate, Clinton, for the first time in years, discussing a tour.

The two reconnected last summer, after then-Vice President Kamala Harris bought a George Clinton Funko Pop doll during a campaign stop, then asked reporters, “Do you know P-Funk? No. OK, well there are lessons to be taught. Bootsy Collins. Does everybody know who Bootsy Collins is? OK, there’s some education to be done, I can see that.”

So what education needs to be done? Collins explains that P-Funk made great albums, performed on tour for thousands of fans and became influential for generations of best-selling artists from hip-hop stars like Snoop Dogg and Ice Cube to funk bands like Red Hot Chili Peppers and Fishbone, but never hit that multiplatinum megastar stratosphere. “Of course, we sold some gold and platinum records, but it wasn’t like Prince, it wasn’t like Rick James, it wasn’t like all the big boys that raised all that noise with all those records,” Collins says. “Funk was a bad word when we first brought it. Radio wouldn’t even touch us in the beginning. But it was something that the people stood up for and I would never forget that. And that’s what Kamala was talking about: ‘I’m going to have to educate y’all.’”