James Brown's first professional gig was in 1953, probably at Bill's Rendezvous in Toccoa, Georgia. His final performance was November 14, 2006, as he was honored by the U.K. Music Hall Of Fame in London. There aren't enough calculators in the world to add up all the gigs and travel miles during the 53 years in between. Enough, though, that he became, second only to Muhammad Ali, the most recognizable African American on this planet. No, we didn't do polls in Taiwan, Lagos, Croatia, Guadeloupe, Saigon or Tel Aviv  - but he played all those places!

            We who knew and once worked for him always thought he'd die on a stage. The old vaudeville joke was shine a flashlight and he'd do 10 minutes! But what bigger worldwide stage is there than Christmas Morn? None of us will forget where we were and what day it was we when we heard the news.

In 1966 James wrote and sang "Let's Make This Christmas Mean Something This Year". It's known that he'd been unhappy lately with where the world was headed and how his beloved country was doing. He wasn't alone. This year, all around me I sensed a lack of Christmas spirit, including mine. But by the end of Monday's unexpected events, I had discovered a humble gratitude for the many blessings in my life. In 2006 James Brown made THIS Christmas mean something this year.

            Everybody's asking me if I had known he was sick. I didn't. Few did. Turns out he had been ailing for a few weeks but chose to ignore it. My friend and James' manager Charles Bobbit said he showed up in Atlanta on Saturday looking weary and drawn. He had lost weight and his voice was weakened by congestion. Maybe he knew how sick he was and simply preferred spending his last days in gen-pop instead of stuck to a hospital bed.

James hated sickness. In fact, he hated being around sick people. He saw sickness as a weakness and usually willed himself through any colds or flu he might catch on the road. The only time I got seriously fired during my years on his payroll was over me getting sick. In 1971 in Cincinnati I caught a cold that turned into what was probably pneumonia. I've never been as sick before or since – fever, strep throat, couldn't eat or keep even fluids down. After a few days I learned that lack of food or drink tends to weaken a man. By my second week in bed, too sick to even get to a doctor's office, James lost patience. We used to get our payroll wired from the tour receipts on the road and when Friday came, no pay. Finally my girl friend got Bobbit on the phone who reluctantly reported that the boss had told him, "If Mr. Leeds is too sick to go to work, tell him I'm too sick to pay him."  I can't honestly say impending unemployment was the motivation, but soon I was on the mend. After another couple weeks in the penalty box I was healthy enough to confront JB at a gig in nearby Dayton. After a bit of humble pie and the display of enough energy to convince him I was a healthy horse to bet on, I got my job back.

The other time I almost got fired was because he got sick. During a particularly grueling series of one nighters he caught a flu bug. It was a fall weekend and he had spent the night at the Americana Hotel in New York following a show somewhere in New Jersey. He was scheduled to play Providence, Rhode Island, an hour away on the Lear Jet. I was home in Cincinnati, appreciating a rare weekend of girl friend and football. Early Sunday I got a call from Danny Ray warning me that JB was probably too sick to perform that night and for me to remain on stand-by. Around Noon Bobby Byrd called to report that James couldn't even walk from his bed to the bathroom. He couldn't eat or drink…full of fever. Sounded like what I had had. The big payback? Byrd said that the doctor had just given JB an antibiotic and ordered 48 hours bed rest. Cautiously I asked Bobby, "so you think I should cancel tonight's show in Providence?"

"No doubt", he assured me, explaining that James' wife Dee Dee was on her way up from Georgia to nurse the boss back to health and there was no way in the world this man could perform. "Don't worry 'bout a thing," said Byrd. "He can't even talk or walk, how's he gonna sing and dance?".

And so I began the arduous task of contacting the road manager, our local promoter, the venue manager, radio and TV stations advertising the gig etc. etc. Football was raging in the background on the TV in my living room but the only score I knew was how many people in Providence I was unable to reach. Mind you, this was a Sunday in the pre-cell phone era. Businesses and switchboards were closed. By about 4 o'clock I was satisfied that everybody in Providence who needed to know the show was cancelled was in the process of changing their plans for the night. Radio directed ticket holders to get refunds at their point of purchase and the venue was sending home ushers, ticket takers and security. Road manager Freddie Holmes stood by for directions on where to take the band next. We still didn't know where or when JB would be able to resume the tour.

After a deep breath I decided to call the Americana and check on my ailing boss. Dee Dee answered the phone in his suite. I caught myself speaking softly, as if my voice in the phone could have somehow disturbed James. "Oh man, I'm glad you're there Mrs. Brown. How is he?"

"How IS he?", Dee Dee shouted. "How would I know? He left for the gig before I even got here!"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw what would have been a game winning field goal fade short of the goalposts and the Bengals walk dejectedly off the field. I envied them. At least they had another game a week later. I was convinced I would NEVER have another show. My girl friend saw my face and asked what happened, probably fearing I had just received some horrid news about JB's condition. I remember saying to her, "in about 90 minutes this phone is gonna ring and it's gonna be the ugliest call Cincinnati Bell ever carried on their wires."

Meanwhile I frantically tried reaching everybody in Providence to reverse the cancellation - assuring everyone that James Brown would indeed be there. They must have thought I was a moron. But I didn't care what they thought. I cared what JB thought. And it was bound to be worse than "moron".

Sure enough the phone rang. The raspy voice was an uncharacteristic monotone. "Mr. Leeds, are you a doctor"?  Not the question I expected. But like a….. um……… moron……I answered him, "no".

"Mr. Leeds I know you're not a doctor. And you know you're not a doctor. Son, I love you for caring about me like that. But I already got a doctor and I don't even listen to him."….his voice began escalating. "SO WHY DO YOU THINK I'M GONNA LISTEN TO YOU???!!!! DON'T YOU NEVER MAKE NO DECISION LIKE THAT UNLESS YOU HEAR IT FROM ME…AND ONLY ME!"

"But Mr. Brown, " I sheepishly responded. "Mr. Byrd said you……". He cut me off abruptly.

"Was Mr. Byrd sick? Is Mr. Byrd a doctor? If YOU were sick you gonna trust your life to Bobby Byrd? Shoot, you know he sings 'I Need Help'. Why you gonna go to a man who already needs help??  I love both you all but now I gotta do a show feelin' like this to half an empty auditorium. I think YOU'RE the one that's sick." And he hung up.

I didn't get fired that time which illustrates the difference between his sickness and that of others. From that day on, ANY time someone told me about any of his ailments, I refused to listen and just asked, "are you a doctor?" I'm mad that after last Monday, I'll never be able to ask that again.

James Brown was about a lot of things to a lot of different people. But to those of us who passed through his inner circle, he was about family. It wasn't always a warm and fuzzy, or even functional family. But it was family. He was that crabby patriarch who'd seldom give you what you wanted but usually give you what you needed. He'd mock your performance and curse your efforts but if you ever needed to "come home" the door was always open.

I met him as a pimply-faced teenage rookie radio disc jockey, interviewing him for my show in Richmond, Va. I was so awestruck at being in his presence that I secretly recorded our pre-interview conversation as he asked me about my radio station and career aspirations, all the while bragging about his new (!) single, "Papa's Got A Brand New Bag". I humbly explained I merely had an hour on the air per day and was just an apprentice, but he waved me off and said, "you sure are hip man and you got the PRIME time, baby! I GOT to know you. You're gonna be ruling radio in Richmond before long."

Of course I left there on cloud nine. Years later, when I went to work for him I realized he pretty much praised disc jockeys like that in every town. I also realized that most of them left him feeling as special as I had that hot Summer day in 1965.

We stayed in touch. I visited his shows whenever he was within a few hundred miles of Richmond becoming a frequently seen face backstage in Washington, Norfolk and Pittsburgh. Gradually I struck what would prove to be life long friendships with the varied characters who rode the JB tour bus – Bobby Byrd, Danny Ray, Gertrude Saunders, St. Clair Pinckney, Fred Wesley, Vicki Anderson, Jabo Starks, Johnny Terry, Baby Lloyd and Buddy Nolan. After I swapped my radio gig for a couple years in college, I was still welcome backstage – the guys treated me like a loyal mascot and James treated me like a Godson. He kept me on the King Records mailing list so that I got all his new records the day before they came out. A week after his tour of Viet Nam, my brother Eric and I sat up with him into the wee hours listening to his unique viewpoint of the war, the government's treatment of his voluntary tour behind the lines and everything else under the sun. After "Say It Loud – I'm Black And Proud" hit the market he spent hours holding court in a cold arena dressing room, explaining it's significance, not just to blacks but to whites who needed to "recognize". Explaining that it was up to "liberated" whites like me to spread the Gospel in the white community, because civil rights was about white ignorance more than about hate.

By then I was convinced that I wanted a career in music. No, not just music, black music. But I couldn't have picked a worse time. In the immediate post-civil rights years, the black music industry was focused on taking control of itself – erasing the decades of institutionalized exploitation at the hands of mostly white record companies, managers, agents and promoters. Atlantic Records' Gerry Wexler had been unceremoniously chased out of a prominent black music convention. Veteran r&b record exec Marshall Seahorn had been mugged and beaten by thugs. The message was clear. But the Godfather saw it differently. "Of course we gotta control our industry. And a lot of old cats gotta go. But pretty soon we'll have enough control to relax. And then the brothas will recognize we need white cats like you who got it together and respect this music of ours if we're ever gonna get it outa the ghetto. Don't listen to them angry cats, just understand them. Meanwhile you come over here with me, there's a place for you."

James Brown wasn't my only friend in the industry. I had come to know several key record execs and many artists. Jerry Butler used to call and play his new demos over the phone asking my opinion on singles choices. I used to drive Joe Tex and Arthur Conley to gigs when they were in Richmond. Otis Redding and Sam and Dave let me promote their local shows to earn some extra cash. Two of the Manhattans crashed with me at my girl friends house after a night of rum, weed and many laughs. But Mr. Brown offered me a JOB.

Mr. Brown. Mister Brown. From the day I met him, backstage he was always Mr. Brown – never James. Deejays, friends and wannabes called him James. But one of the initiations into the inner circle was the unequivocal exchange of James for Mister. It was reciprocal. I went from Alan to Mr. Leeds. It was a transition we had both gradually made even before I joined his payroll. I didn't quite understand why but somehow, among all the other "misters" backstage it seemed normal. When questioned about the odd formality, he'd tell outsiders "it's a respect thing".

There was a lot about Mr. Brown that wasn't easy to understand. But, contrary to popular belief, he was sometimes open to explanation. As an employee, I had to carefully pick my spots and choose my words carefully so they couldn't come back to haunt me when our relationship flipped back to employer-employee. But if we were riding to an airport after a gig and the days business had been put away, sometimes I would revert to being a fan and casually pick his brain. One such night it was, "…so what's with the mister deal?"

"Alan" (he'd sometimes revert too, it was the Godfather in him), "Alan, until I was 20 years old all I was ever called was Jimmy. My name was never Jimmy. It was James. But nobody saw no James. They saw Jimmy. Now if they didn't see no James, you KNOW they didn't see no mister. See, if we all call each other mister, then it makes it much harder for anyone else to call us by any other name. When I took over my own business, I knew I had to have the respect of someone runnin' a business. They might still wanna call me Jimmy but if they wanted to book the James Brown Show, they were gonna have to deal with Mr. Brown."

He was right. We could be pulling into a venue for a gig and the cop at the backstage driveway would stop the car until he recognized the star behind the wheel. James….sorry, Mr. Brown….could have just pulled past him but invariably he'd stop, roll down the window and greet the cop as if he remembered him from previous shows in whatever town we happened to be in. Just as invariably the cop would smile, extend his hand and say, "welcome back MR. Brown".

1970 cracker cops…..and it was MR. Brown! You see I didn't understand the South either. I had lived in Virginia but it wasn't the South South. I had most of the typically liberal, even radical views of a Jewish Yankee. We didn't know how much the common men of the South had in common - regardless of color. They worked the same land; ate the same food; drank the same moonshine; prayed to the same God; even shared the same drawl.

One of my first promotion assignments was to fly to Mobile, Alabama, to set up an upcoming one-nighter. Though I didn't realize until I got off the plane and began counting the men in business khakis or workingmen's overalls, the way I was dressed might as well have included a neon sign that said "Yankee". I caught a cab to the Municipal Auditorium and a meeting with the venue director, a died-in-the-wool good ol' boy who eventually became a legend in the arena business named Buddy Clewis. Buddy had on a short sleeved white shirt with a rumpled collar and a thin bow tie. His reddish round little nose reminded me of W.C. Fields. Clewis looked like a bartender in a Western movie, all he needed were the garters on his sleeves. Behind his desk, a huge Confederate flag hung on his wall aside a framed photo of Buddy hugging Gov. George Wallace. Before I said a word, thoughts of all the civil rights workers who went missing in the swamps of Alabama and Mississippi rushed through my head. Clewis stood and extended his hand.

"Well, well, I do declare. Who'd ever thought ol' Mr. Brown woulda sent a Yankee white boy down here to see ol' Buddy", he drawled. By now I was probably shaking. But there was that mister thing.

"Mr. Leeds, let's you and I see how we can make some money with ol' Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown's been awful good to Mobile and ol' Buddy. If we lucky, he'll be good to you too."

Talk about confused! At that point I was ready to re-think the K.K.K. and picket any showing of IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT. Fact is, I soon learned one of James' first lessons of show promotion. When the show sold out, always throw a tip to the building director. They were usually city employees, on a modest salary but they had the authority to book the venue as they saw fit. Having them on board afforded the James Brown Show first crack at the most lucrative dates and a host of favors in local promotion. Business was business, and BUDDY Clewis was delighted to be in business with MR. Brown.

It didn't take long to realize how the "mister thing" also contributed to the pride I felt in being part of the Brown organization. We were also required to wear dark suits and ties whenever in a business environment – even the band! The band could be in the midst of a string of one-nighters, living on the bus for days on end but they'd be expected to disembark in a suit and tie. Hair had to be in place - a doo rag in public was never an option. Difficult as it must have been to present themselves properly after a long, cramped bus ride, their pride in their appearance was intoxicating. That band got off that bus, day in and day out, with a strut that was the envy of every musician in black music. I  love a photo saxophonist-band leader Pee Wee Ellis contributed to Fred Wesley's book, HIT ME, FRED. You see Pee Wee, Maceo Parker, Fred Wesley, Clyde Stubblefield and St. Clair Pinckney hanging out around a huge oil can in a lot next to a modest rural motel of some sort – the kind of backwoods place they'd get stuck staying in when the tour hit the "B" and "C" markets back in the day. It's a typical scene of Americana except for one thing. These proud young black musicians are dressed to kill. Imagine the reaction of the motel clerk when they arrived to check in. Imagine the reaction of the sister behind the counter when they invaded the local soul food joint for that rare shot at a real meal. Imagine the effect on the opening acts when the band preened through the hallways to the stage. Elitest? Damn right. Cult-like? Maybe. But it was family. And James Brown was proud of his family.

(See photo in "my pics")

Years later when I was working as tour manager for Prince as PURPLE RAIN blew up, James insisted that Prince's tour should follow his by a week or so. He said he'd help hype our tour by promoting it during his gigs. He offered the idea as a helpful favor. I chose not to point out that Prince was already selling out arenas and Brown was then stuck on the 1980's rock club circuit. But when MTV interviewed James and asked him how he felt about his protégés, Prince and Michael Jackson, outselling him  he told them Prince's success was largely due to the fact that, "he's got some of my old staff over there. Namely Alan Leeds". The interview didn't play very well with my bosses in the Prince camp but far be it from me to deprive a Godfather of his family pride.

In 1992 Mr. Brown and I shared a Grammy with Universal Records' executive Harry Weinger and writers Nelson George and Cliff White for the liner notes to the STAR TIME box set. I'm not sure I even knew there was a Grammy for liner notes until a friend called to tell me I was nominated. After we won, I asked JB to sign a copy of the  booklet. He wrote, "….Alan. Think Family……Thanks for helping with OUR Grammy". If my house ever catches fire, that booklet (not the Grammy) is the first thing I grab.

For someone so attached to mister, Brown was a man of many nicknames. Mr. Dynamite. The Hardest Working Man In Show Business. Soul Brother #1. Godfather Of Soul. My brother reminded me yesterday that our favorite nickname for him wasn't one the public shared. I think promotion rep Buddy Nolan coined it in 1967. We called him "Skates". All you have to do is watch him glide across the screen in the T.A.M.I. show to understand why. But I suppose Godfather is, after all, the most fitting. Godfather is beyond mister.

In the past forty eight hours I've reflected on just how different the world would have been were it not for James Brown. But for this purpose, I also had to recognize just how different I would have been were it not for James Brown. He taught me how to listen to and understand  the music I love. He taught me how to have hope when there is no hope. He taught me that if you believe in yourself, sooner or later someone else will believe in you too. He taught me about race. He taught me about this country and its many faces. He taught me that real life should be a dictionary without the word quit. He taught me about extended family. He knew a lot about my parents and how supportively and lovingly they raised me and Eric but still dedicated another album I contributed to with, "To my nephew in blood and adopted son".

The world mourns the loss of a Godfather. But I celebrate the memory of MY Godfather. 

ALAN LEEDS, 12/26/06