It was hard to keep from copy editing James’ autobiography as I read along. Although after a while, the awkward repetition of sentences and entire paragraphs began to seem like part of the experience. It was easy to imagine him telling a story and adding the same crazy bit several times in a row.
Me: “Um, Rick, you just said that.”
The imaginary Rick James that lives in my head: “Cocaine’s a hell of a drug.”
The most interesting part of the book for me was the Zelig-like way James was involved with so many of the people and bands that came to embody the late-’60s rock scene. Who knew?
Rest in peace, super freak.