Fuck... James Brown died of pneumonia a few hours ago.
Mary Rockwell (my son Evan's mom), Michael Stipe (!) and I saw JB and the Flames at a surprisingly ill-attended show at Atlanta's Fox Theatre in 1980.
(Back in the Boat Of days, obviously.)
James was a good six years past his prime by that point, and his performance - heavy on syrupy ballads, half-hearted rap pastiches and desultory medleys of signature hits - was nearly unendurable. We stuck it out just the same, mostly out of respect for his genuinely immense legacy.
I watched Future Shock every fucking week on TBS. Nuff said.
If you've never seen his 1965 appearance on the old Ed Sullivan show, Holy God... Every hip-hop artist on Earth (and galaxies beyond) can kiss his ass.