Lisa Lauren
You look at me and think: This woman is clearly not Black. She is probably not that soulful. But if I told you that this woman played the piano with James Brown, yep, James Brown, the one and only high-octane performer who sang songs like “I Feel Good,”,“Get On Up,” and “Santa, Go Straight to the Ghetto,” you would probably have a hard time believing me. But it did happen
Around 11 am one Saturday afternoon circa 1987, I was in the lobby of the Hotel Nikko Chicago, playing my steady solo piano gig. James Brown wandered in with a few of his entourage milling about nearby. There I sat, playing some dreamy jazz standard, when I realized he was coming towards me. I often try to remember what was going through my mind during those seconds as he approached me. I’m sure it was an overwhelming feeling of surreal disbelief, a full body cringe anticipating what was to happen next.
Before I knew it, he was next to me at the piano saying, "Let's do a song together!" My brain scanned through my repertoire; there was nowhere to stop. I didn't have anything particularly funky or soulful at my fingertips, certainly nothing on the order of "Papa's Got A Brand New Bag."
Somehow my brain landed on "It Had to Be You" (which now seems utterly ridiculous), and moments later, James Brown and I were performing together. This man known for his raucous and flashy performances was sweetly singing a jazz standard a heartbeat away from me. My heart was racing the whole time, and my mind was knocking around the possibility that this might just be a dream, and when I woke up and described the dream to someone, they would chuckle and change the subject.
The funny thing was, there was almost no traffic in the lobby, so our little show was, under James Brown circumstances, very poorly attended. Amazingly, he wanted to continue. Was there any way I could have studied FUNK piano in my early years of training which would have prepared me for this moment? Having to decide quickly, I made another random selection: “I've Got You Under My Skin.”
Miraculously, after that tepid choice of a decidedly white society song, he wanted to do one more. Finally, a tune came to mind with a little more soul: “Georgia.” He ripped through the number, and I gave my lame-best attempt to come remotely close to his level. I don't think I got there, but it was still an unforgettable high. After our unrehearsed program was over, he gave me a big hug and I worried that his heavy makeup might get on my clothes.
Mr. Brown made his exit, and afterwards I played a few more tunes just to prove to anyone who happened to be around that I was a professional and could easily launch into a Rodgers and Hart number after having just played with the Minister of Super Heavy Funk. In my pinch-me-now, other-worldly state of mind, it didn’t occur to me until much later that this was most likely THE most low-key performance of James Brown’s career.
When it was time to take a break, I ran to the phone and called the first person I thought would appreciate my recent acclaim. "Mom, you'll never believe who I just played with!" I quietly shrieked into the hotel phone booth. "Who?" she said calmly, probably while playing solitaire. "The Godfather of Soul!"
Her reply (rather disappointing considering the magnitude of James' celebrity) was, "Don't make me guess." Well, my mom DID know who James Brown was, even if she didn't know his official title, and was eventually quite impressed - as any mom would be - with my story.
Since this scene had taken place before the days of cell phones, there was no way to document such an event, unless you happened to have a camera handy. So in a desperate attempt to memorialize the occasion I had asked him to sign my music. He scribbled, "Lisa, I love you. From James Brown. I'm happy when I meet my sweet Lorraine." Not sure where that last part came from - maybe I reminded him of someone named Lorraine. Or Nat King Cole. Or the drugs were wearing off. It didn't matter. I loved him, too.
