Happy 45th Anniversary to Parliament’s eighth studio album Gloryhallastoopid (or Pin the Tale on the Funky), originally released November 20, 1979.
Here on this platform, I’ve written a few times that most artists and groups don’t get to orchestrate a grand exit. More often than not, things start to fall apart. Formidable musical machines can go from chicken soup to chicken shit in the blink of an eye, leaving all involved bitter and disillusioned.
If you hear George Clinton tell it, or more accurately, read him write it in his autobiography, by the late 1970s he knew time was running short for his band Parliament. As the orchestrator and visionary behind the Parliament-Funkadelic collective, Clinton had created some of the decade’s best music. But he was also acutely aware that nothing lasts forever.
Parliament had a massively, creatively fertile starting run while on Casablanca Records. The group had been on a hot streak since its rebirth in 1974, really kicking things into high gear a year later with Mothership Connection (1975). Their success continued throughout the back half of the decade, with the music getting funkier and the concepts getting more ambitious.
Meanwhile, Funkadelic had its own soft rebirth when it moved from Westbound to Warner Bros. and was in the midst of its zenith of commercial success, culminating in the release of One Nation Under a Groove (1978) and its sturdy follow-up, Uncle Jam Wants You (1979). The latter featured the group’s most successful single, “(Not Just) Knee Deep.” Clinton seemed on his way to realizing his dream of creating his own Motown.
However, there were signs of trouble. Core members of the collective had begun to depart, citing Clinton’s mismanagement of the group’s finances. The group was able to constantly replenish its ranks, but the strain was starting to show. The music was still solid, but as Clinton detailed in his memoir Brothas Be Like, Yo George, Ain’t That Funkin’ Kinda Hard On You?, he began to believe it was time to quit while he was ahead.
“I started to feel the tide receding,” Clinton wrote. “It was how the system worked: The record business operated on a principle of planned obsolescence. The same was true in other businesses. A suit is cool until it’s not. A pair of shoes is cool until it’s not. That’s how Western Capitalism always worked. Customers get trained to think that thing they possess doesn’t meet their needs anymore … The only remedy is a new possession. In the record world, for a little while, that means a new album from your favorite band, but soon enough it means a new band.”
Hence, Clinton and crew began to develop Gloryhallastoopid (or Pin the Tale on the Funky), their eighth album, released 45 years ago. It’s Parliament’s second space-themed album, after the aforementioned Mothership Connection. “We were returning to the beginning of time, trying to figure out how existence (and funk) started in the first place,” Clinton wrote. It was their “Carl Sagan record,” only with a lot more ass-related puns.
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“We were glad and a little surprised to still be around,” Clinton continued. “How could we still be a dominant force in funk music? At the same time, we knew it couldn’t last forever, and we wanted to be in control of the wind-down the same way we had been in charge of the windup. Pinning the tale, or the tail, was a way of beginning to end the story.”
The late Shock G of Digital Underground further broke down the philosophy in the documentary Tales of Dr. Funkenstein. “Even George himself realized that you only get 3 or 4 years of commercial appeal/pop appeal,” he explained. “He asked Overton Lloyd, ‘Make me a jackass. Make me a donkey, because we just had three or four years of popularity and they’re about to get rid of us now. They’re about to say we’re insane.’ I once heard George say, ‘You’re a genius when you’re popping. But when you’re not popping, you’re just another crazy artist.’”
Gloryhallastoopid is weird and loose, but it’s not particularly “insane.” Or at least not any more off-kilter than Parliament’s previous albums. It is overstated that the project signified the beginning of the group’s decline. The album might not be Parliament’s brightest jewel, but it’s still an incredibly enjoyable undertaking. The mythology conveyed in the music isn’t quite as strong overall, but it features quite a few amazing recordings. The band’s ability to craft classic funk tracks does not falter, as they continue to hit the right sweet spots.
As a sped-up voice on Gloryhallastoopid’s “Prologue” explains, the group speaks to the power of “a creative nuisance, with a recognition of stupidity as a positive force.” Sure, Parliament gets pretty ridiculous throughout the project, but it’s in a way that’s designed to uplift their audience.
The title track sounds like the soundtrack to an extended party that the listener has stumbled upon. Clinton, assuming the role of Starchild, holds court and details how the crew is here to bug you in a positive way. Clinton also introduces a new character, J. Wellington Wigout, an anthropomorphic dog who fancies himself as the “long-playing lover.” Wigout mostly speaks in backward masked language; a “translation” (involving spinning a copy of the record backwards) reveals that he mostly barks his own name. The music holds all the gaga together. In particular, Bernie Worrell shines, executing elaborate work on the piano.
As is true of many Parliament-Funkadelic releases, the group’s lengthiest endeavors can become their most interesting recordings. The over seven-minute “Big Bang Theory” fits into this category. The almost entirely instrumental track is, in Clinton’s words, “a dense weave of brass, guitar, and synthesizers.” There are multiple breakdowns and bridges, as ghostly vocals shift to squealing keys and expertly constructed horn arrangements.
However, when a Parliament song overstays its welcome, things can get tiresome. “Party People” clocks in at over 10 minutes and treads water for much of its runtime. Clinton wrote that it’s designed as “a James Brown update,” but instead sounds like an interminable disco track that the collective frequently mocked during this era. At least six minutes of it could have been excised. “The Freeze,” which lasts a hair more than nine minutes, does better at justifying its length. It’s carried by various horn solos and a seemingly endless parade of percussion.
Despite a bump or two, there are stretches on Gloryhallastoopid that feature material as good as anything that the group released. The album lacks the straightforward ballad that was standard on most Parliament releases, but “Color Me Funky” comes the closest. The song drips with soul and features the album’s best vocal performances. Clinton croons how the passage of time has not hindered their commitment to funky music, and that the fame they’ve achieved has not affected their resolve.
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“Theme From the Black Hole” ranks among the upper tier of Parliament’s songs. The group lays on the ass-related material particularly thick here (proclamations of “A tail is nothing but a long booty!” and shouts of “Bottoms up!” abound), but things coalesce around the massive grooves, executed through dexterous keyboard wizardry. The track showcases the range of Parliament’s vocalists, who contrast dizzying highs and deep bass-tones throughout the song.
“Theme From the Black Hole” also features the return of Sir Nose D’voidoffunk, Parliament’s funk-less arch-nemesis. Though he was vanquished on Motor Booty Affair (1978), he manifests himself during the song’s last third in all his funk-less glory. Starchild confronts the villain one last time and… loses? Sir Nose transforms the hero into a donkey, mercilessly taunting him in the aftermath. The cartoon in the album’s liner notes depicts Starchild winning the day and again defeating Sir Nose, but Clinton seemed content to end the track on a down note.
The album closes by informally looping back to the beginning with “May We Bang You?” It’s another upbeat romp, with Parliament using the power of their music to bring about the creation of the universe. Over waves of synths, Clinton and crew deliver obvious sexual references, promising “a musical explosion … that blows your mind.” The cosmic setting lends to the feeling that this Parliament party has been going on for time immortal and will merrily continue for eons to come.
Even though the album wasn’t the end for Parliament, it wasn’t that far off. “Within a year, Gloryhallastoopid turned true,” Clinton wrote, “the tale got pinned.”
The driving force came to be the imminent reorganization/collapse of Casablanca Records, leading it to be sold to Polygram Records. Polygram bristled at how much money label owner Neal Bogart was spending and started to shut things down. As this was developing, Clinton had a major falling out with Warner Bros. over the cover art of The Spanking of the Electric War Babies (1980). Parliament squeezed out one more project, Trombipulation (1980), before essentially going into hibernation as a concept for nearly 30 years.
Even if Clinton knew the end was nigh while recording Gloryhallastoopid, it doesn’t sound like a swan song. Forty-five years later, it’s a testament to the group’s commitment to making the whole funk, expanding minds, and shaking asses. Those goals are always timeless, and Clinton achieved them while still preparing for the grand finale.
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