It must have been a simpler time. Everyone seemed so naturally sexy, even wearing the most atrocious synthetics. Wireless communication devices were enormous and unreliable, and yet so very patiently tolerated. The sound of black power was alive and righteous, yet so funky, so sweet.
And even the truly world-class entertainers seemed less like self-inflated, inhuman poseurs, than they do now. That’s right, I am telling you that even when James Brown bounced around on an enormous outdoor stage in a form-fitting jumpsuit and sequined “GFOS” boxing belt, he seemed somehow more humble than some of the entertainers of today.
It was a time when the chance to play in Africa meant a lot to African-American performers. A time when attentive, broad-minded cinéma vérité prevailed in the creation of documentaries, and hope trumped cynicism in racial politics — although, with Muhammad Ali on the scene, and Don King there to promote him, pronouncements would be made.
The scene was Zaire ’74, the rollicking, politically magnanimous three-day festival of music conceived (albeit with a public-relations-savvy support from tyrant thug Mobutu Sese Seko) to be the opening act for Ali’s impending “Rumble in the Jungle” with George Foreman. The talent on hand included Brown, Celia Cruz and the Fania All-Stars, B.B. King, Miriam Makeba, The Spinners, and Bill Withers.
