James was getting ready to be released from prison. In 1968, the IRS said James owed them $2 million.įast-forward to 1991. James had lost two or three fortunes over his career to the usual suspects: poor management and, of course, the old favorite, the IRS. We talked about remaining as independent as possible. Years passed and I guess I opened for James Brown maybe ten or twelve times, and we became friends (not close friends, but friends). “Mane, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” He laughed some more. “Mane, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” He laughed. James Brown had not become James Brown yet, as in the Godfather of Soul, but music folks knew him far and wide as a dynamic performer-with some badass hair and a badass band. When I saw James, maybe a few days later, I said, “Mane, y’all put me in a trick Saturday night.” I didn’t threaten him, but I was trying to squeeze some sympathy and maybe some money out of him. My happiness was short-lived, for I found out that James had put three more rounds on my tab. So in trying to be a big shot that night, I told the bartender that I would buy a round of drinks for them. Sonny Thompson always knew I was seeking some kinda break-maybe even to get on King Records. “Bobby Rush, what do you put in your hair?” I said, “A little bit ah conk and a little bit ah love!” Everybody fell out laughing. After my set, James only had one question. The drinks were flowing and the conversation lively.

James showed up with two other cats from his Famous Flames band. “Please, Please, Please” was out on Federal Records-but it wasn’t that big signature song of his yet. “Bobby Rush, man, I been telling James (Brown) about you.

I wanted to impress Sonny ’cause he was kinda like the Chicago hookup to King and Federal Records based in Cincinnati. I was just hitting my stride with a show that was well paced with just the right number of blues, slow songs, and early R&B hits. In the fall, I invited Sonny Thompson over to my show. It was one of the better blues spots around. That bright sign stuck out like a church steeple. With showplace written at the bottom, it was impressive-looking for the neighborhood it was in. Walton’s Corner had a gigantic neon sign in the shape of a T, with “Walton’s” in the top of the T and “Corner” in the stem of the T. In 1957, I was making $7.50 a night at a joint called Walton’s Corner.

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