Previously in the book: Nebraskan Hal Neely began his career touring with big bands and worked his way into the King records, producing rock and country songs. Along the way he worked with James Brown, the Godfather of soul.
(Author’s Note: Italics indicate passages from Neely’s memoirs)
On October 24, 1962, James Brown was booked to play at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, New York. It was the premium show palace for black acts. I decided to record the show for King. On Saturday nights the Apollo ran three shows, first a movie then a live act, after which they cleared the theater. They sold the tickets for the second show, cleared the house, and sold new tickets for the third show. Many Saturday nights, depending on the live act, some customers would buy tickets for two shows.
I rented the recording gear from Tom Nola’s Studio in Manhattan—a two-track mixer and four mikes. I hung one mike from the theaters ceiling in front of the center stage. James held one mike as he danced and sang and two mikes were in front of his band the JBs. I engineered and recorded the show backstage, wearing earphones. They all wanted to hear the tape recording.
“I can’t use it,” I told them. “There is some old lady sitting in the front row directly underneath the hanging mike shouting, ‘Sing, you mother, sing.’”
The guys all whooped it up and wanted to hear the tape again. Bobby Byrd explained to me that this was a common phrase the black kids yelled at James as he danced around the stage. It gave me an idea–the blacks would all know the phrase.
I knew James’s show routine. He usually did three different shows each night. I suggested they do the exact same routine all three shows– any show routine changes a little every time it is done. I would edit the same three shows and finalized them into one album. I ran out into the lobby to see if I could by chance locate the little old lady. I was in luck. She was eating a bag of popcorn and waiting in line to buy a new ticket for the next show. I went to her and introduced myself as James Brown’s manager.
“Ma’am, I noticed you really enjoyed his show. Would you like to be James’s guest? I’ll reserve the same seat for you.”
She was thrilled with the idea. She lived alone and came to the Apollo Saturday night. It was her weekly entertainment. I bought her a hot dog, new ticket and had a sign placed on her seat “reserved”. She shouted, “Sing, you mother, sing” as if on cue in all three shows. After the third show, I went out and gave her $10, and my card, got her address, and told her I would send her a copy of the album when it came out. She was a happy nice older lady.
James and the band were staying at a nice hotel in Harlem. Late that night another nice old black lady came to see James. It was his mother. She lived in Harlem and had gone to the last show that night. She and James were together again.
I edited the three shows and sent James my edited version for his comments. He loved the album, no changes. Dan Quest, King’s art director, designed the album cover, and I wrote the liner notes.
“James Brown Live at the Apollo” is now ranked the fourth best album of our time. This is the album that taught the white kids what the black kids already knew.
James and I formed “James Brown Productions/People Records, a joint venture company. James owned 49% and I owned 51%. James was still an exclusive King artist. I furnished him with his own private office in my King building on Brewster Avenue with its own private entrance. He had a secretary. Bud Hobgood, one of his longtime employees, was its manager.
James and I grew apart. He started being “self-possessive” and developed a “convenient memory”–trying to cut me out to do his own thing. He signed a contract with Mercury Records in Chicago. I took them to court and won the case and damages from Mercury. James Brown remained an exclusive King artist under personal contract to me.