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Reading is fun
Albert and the Underwear Man
by nate
Dress Code
by nate
Alone
by Corinn
Dance for me
by nate
Left Digestion
by Exley Steward
tamara's superfreak, superfreak, superfreakin' day
by tamara
Halloween Parade
by nate
Crime and Punishment
by Eve
John Mohammad's opening statement
by mike
Who Wants To Annoy A Millionaire?
by Eddie
You must be from the East Coast
by Eve
Hypodermic Pixie Stick
by Eddie
Lego Car
by Eddie
Myths of Hawaii
by Eve
sunday night cab ride
by raquel
regarding thongs
by anonymous female contributor
pop-tarts
by ericS
Turkey Baster
by nate
Hold tight monkey
by adina
my last fight
by nate
drunken bugs
by nate
Cheers
by nate
Scott & Louis meet Mr. T
by scott
cinder block dragging dogs
by jason
this guy who looks like Charles Bronson
by adam broomfield
Found Poetry
by ericS




tamara's superfreak, superfreak, superfreakin' day
by tamara
Thursday, November 20, 2003

In what universe do you find yourself prompting Rick James, cheering him on when he actually gets his own lyrics right?

Yesterday I was working on a music shoot in Harlem featuring the one and only Rick James. Braided hair Rick James. Crack pipe Rick James. Superfreak Rick James.


Except for the whole “celebrity” thing, it was pretty unremarkable at first. The crew got to the studio early & set up a few hours in advance. I got there a little after to take some notes on the shoot. It's usually not a very stressful day.


Rick (James) arrives. He puts on his crazy ass clothes. He gets a ton of make-up. We keep hearing that he's about 5 minutes from being ready. Finally, really is ready to come out to the stage. He has his people send us out a last minute request: he needs cue cards right now.


For a sketch? No. For, SUPERFREAK. Rick James does not know the words to his hit song played at barmitzvahs, superbowls, discos, etc. People who don't even want to know the lyrics to this song know the lyrics. Old ladies know the lyrics. Kittens know the lyrics. Rick James does not.


The entire production comes to a halt. We're still not quite that he'll make it onstage, anyway. He's kinda out of it. But all of a sudden, he won't perform without the words in front of him.


A minute later, I am sitting on the groud, scrutinizing all 7 verses of Superfreak as only someone who has to write every last word in giant block letters would do. It becomes of the utmost importance not to confuse my "YOW!"'s with my "OW GIRL"'s (one goes in the middle of a stanza; one goes at the end). At the point I'm quickly writing, "SUPERFREAK, SUPERFREAK, SHE'S SUPERFREAKIN'" it all becomes too much. Really, how can you forget this? I think how proud my mom would be to know that I'm using my english degree to write out "SHE'S A VERY FREAKY GIRL."


I'm now standing 5 feet away from Rick James, holding my handiwork, flipping the cards to the beat. This is becoming more and more funny to me, but I can't laugh. He's standing right there. I think of the Beatles needing cards for "Hey Jude." But then there he is, with a lot smoke around him, lip-synching every single Superfreak I've written.


In what universe do you find yourself prompting Rick James, cheering him on when he actually gets his own lyrics right?


Ow girl!

see tamara here