You needed to be 18
to get into the Rainbow Ballroom,
but they let Norm and me in anyway.
Things were different
in this tough Colorado steel town.
We sat near the stage, ordered three-two beer—
the only two white faces
among many tables of black ones.
Contraband liquor flowed,
empty bottles rolled on the floor.
When the band eased into Please, Please, Please,
we were lost in heaven. But then the singer
started choking, collapsed to the stage.
What the hell?
People screamed.
The Famous Flames played on,
while someone
figured out what to do.
Four tall men in black suits
and skinny black ties entered,
lifted James Brown to their shoulders,
marched from the room.
The Famous Flames were solid.
Eventually, the funereal four
returned with a lifeless James Brown,
gently propped him onto the stage,
curled a microphone into his hand.
Feebly, he rose, rasped into the mic,
Oh, baby, please…
don’t go.
We went insane.
We cried and shouted
in a roar that I still
feel in my
chest.
Oh, baby, please please please please please…
don’t go.