The legendary bassist on what he learned from James Brown, the perils of faking the funk, and how Kamala Harris helped reunite him with George Clinton

It’s impossible to overstate Bootsy Collins’ influence. Since joining James Brown’s band 55 years ago this month, Collins has made sturdy, buoyant bass lines, which stretch out all over the place before returning to the one, the bedrock of funk. The recordings he cut with Brown, Parliament, Funkadelic, and his own group, the Rubber Band, have fueled decades of hip-hop samples, sparked a Nineties disco revival with Deee-Lite and Fatboy Slim, and resonated in the elastic rock of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage Against the Machine. Collins’ ingenious playing on Brown’s “Sex Machine,” Parliament’s “Flash Light,” and his own “I’d Rather Be With You” are crucial nucleotides in the double helix of pop, and it secured his place among the Greatest Bassists of All Time.

Although Collins pared back his touring schedule around 2017, he has continued releasing star-studded albums he has recorded in his “Bootcave.” Recent albums have found him collaborating with artists he has inspired, like Snoop Dogg and Chuck D, bass peers like Victor Wooten and Stanley Clarke, and his former bandmates like the late, great Bernie Worrell. His upcoming album, Album of the Year #1 Funkateer, due out April 11 — which he’s teased with the title track — even features an as-yet-unreleased collaboration with his P-Funk foil George Clinton. “It’s going to be the bomb,” Collins promises.

In a career-spanning conversation for Rolling Stone’s Last Word column, Collins, 73, reflects on more than half a century’s worth of funk making and how he became “Bootzilla.”

What’s the best part of success?
Experimenting. When you are out there with your instrument, being your instrument, and music comes to you freely, it’s like gifts and then you give them away. But getting two or three dollars helps, too.

What about the worst?
Once Frankenstein has built that monster, you can’t control it. You want to spend time with your family, but everything moves so fast when you start to succeed, and this monster just comes in and eats everybody up.

That, and the business. James Brown told me one time that it’s 75 percent business, 25 percent music, and I wasn’t trying to hear that, because I’m in love with the music so much. I was sad I had to do that, but at the same time, you have to do it. James said one time, “Man got to eat. If you don’t work, you don’t eat.”

James Brown used to fine musicians who messed up while playing. Was that the right thing to do?
I think for him, yeah. I couldn’t fine nobody. But he had such a big band. And us as musicians, we act a fool here and there and might miss a note. It’s rare, but it did happen. Fining made us want to practice more.

James felt the fines would make you work harder. He was using that reverse psychology on us, and we didn’t understand at the time. “Why was he saying we wasn’t happening? Why would he have to fine us?” And so I learned from that experience with him. When we got there, he just stopped fining us.

Also, he realized that taking money from us didn’t matter, ’cause we didn’t have nothing no way. We came in off the streets. We wasn’t used to getting paid. I thought I had to pay you. When we got with James Brown, that was like, “Oh, man, we really going to have some fun now. And he going to pay us, too?”

James used to ask people to call him “Mr. Brown.” Did you ever ask people to call you Mr. Collins?
Oh, heck no. To me, that was so dated. When people say, “Mr. Collins,” I’m like, “No. Bootsy.” I want to always maintain that “kid” frame of mind. I don’t ever want to grow up like that. I respect everybody, and if you don’t respect me, that’s cool, but to be going around making somebody call you “mister,” that’s pretty deep.

At the same time, I understood where he was coming from because he couldn’t trust nobody, with his background, the way he came up. So he called himself “Mr. Brown,” protecting his own interests. “Even if you don’t know me, you’re going to respect me, ’cause you’re going to have to call me mister.” So all of that was in his mind, and it was great for him.

Did you think that then?
It took some time for me to realize a lot of things that he was doing. I didn’t have a father in the house, so I didn’t know how to be a son. And he treated us like his sons. I wasn’t used to that, but I thank God that I got a chance to experience it because it learned me a lot of things.

You and your brother, Phelps “Catfish” Collins, were playing house parties in Cincinnati when James hired the two of you. How did the city shape you?
Growing up here, I got a chance to vibe with a lot of different communities. My mother worked two or three jobs, scrubbing floors, and she would take us to where she worked. Once we got out of school, we would have to watch her doing this work. And all the time she’s doing this work, me and my sister are acting a fool, but I saw what was happening. I said to myself early on, “If I ever get anything happening, we’re going to move out of the community and I’m going to get you a house. I’m going to get you a car.” So I was talking all that stuff, and I wasn’t even playing yet. I didn’t even know how to play. And she reminded me of that.

So Cincinnati for me was a spot where, every two months, we had to move because the rent was due, and Mama didn’t have the rent money. We kept our boxes always packed and ready to go. So I got a chance to go all the way around Cincinnati and make friends. I started playing guitar and the gangs started loving me because I drew all the chicks so they would come hang around me like I was some big deal. I don’t think I would’ve got treated like I do in Cincinnati anywhere else. I think because they know who and what I am, and that if I say it, that’s my bond.

How did playing with your brother inspire you as a bass player?
As a kid, I used to deliver papers because my brother delivered papers when he was young. He had his red wagon, so I wanted to be just like that. He played guitar and had a band. They would all come over and rehearse, and I would be standing in the window, ’cause he didn’t want to let me in. It was like, “Get out of here, boy. You bother me.” It’s like, “I’m just watching.” But all the band cats loved to see me hanging around. They were eight to 15 years older than me; I was nine, and they were 22.

Because my brother was so rejective of me, I was like, “Well, I’ll show him. When he goes to the paper route, I’m going to sneak his guitar and practice. And all of sudden, he going to find out I’m a ‘bad mother … shut your mouth.’” And that’s really what happened. I went on the gig with him. Our mother said, “If you want the gig, you got to take your little brother.” That was the night of my life. That did it.

Listening to James Brown’s live album, Love, Power, Peace: Live at the Olympia, Paris, 1971, Catfish plays some incredible lead guitar — especially on “Sex Machine.”
People never really got a chance to actually experience all the stuff he could do. I got tapes, I got recordings of stuff that people haven’t heard, and I want to try to get the Catfish album out. I got videos that will blow people’s mind.

After you worked with James Brown, you and Catfish joined George Clinton in Parliament and Funkadelic. Was that a culture shock?
George was more like a brother than a father. So we would get chicks, and we’d do what we do. I couldn’t do that with Mr. Brown. With George, I got a chance to experiment with the business, too. I got to explain to [the record labels] the sound I wanted, what I wanted to wear, my image. I got a chance to convince them that we crazy, but not that crazy. “Dude, this is just a look.” It’s like Superman: He does the Clark Kent thing, and when he’s ready to be Superman, he’s Superman.

What’s your advice for creating a good image?
For me, it just fell into place. When I was going to school, I would sit at the desk and draw stick men. “Why do I keep drawing this star man with the star glasses?” Once I got with George, I knew that I was going to have to come up with an image. So what I used to draw in school came back to me.

What was the purpose of the mirrored star sunglasses you wore?
[My fans] were goo-goo about me, which was cool and great, but I wanted them to realize that they’re stars, too. So without telling each person that, I just wore the glasses, and they kind of spoke for themselves.

Was it easy getting a star-shaped bass made for you?
We just found the actual drawing that I did a couple of weeks ago. What happened is I found the guy to make the “Space Bass” in 1974 in Warren, Michigan, and his name was Larry Pless, and he worked in an accordion shop. I had been going all the way up and down 48th Street in New York, and nobody would say yes to making it. Everybody had all of these things that wasn’t going to work: “The wood is not shaped right. It ain’t going to sound right.”

When I asked the guy who owned the accordion shop if he could build the bass, he said, “Well, why would you come into an accordion shop?” To me, it was just a music store, and you just never know what’s going to be happening. And sure enough, he said, “Oh, wait a minute, there’s a guitar player in the back room that works on the accordions, but he also makes guitars.” And I said, “Well, can I meet him?” He introduced me to him, and then it was on from there. 1975 is when he actually finished it.

What’s the secret to creating a great catchphrase like, “Wiiind me up,” when you were “Bootzilla”?
George seen me one time with the glasses on, the new glasses with the star in the middle and all the rhinestones. He said, “Oh, man, you look like a monster.” I said, “Bootzilla.” It wasn’t something I planned; things like that just happened. That’s what I love about the funk: Things just happen, and you have to grab them.

Does it bother you when people steal your look or borrow your swagger?
I thought it was cool, because it’s like that was a motivational thing for me to not stop it. If you grab what I got on today, then I got to go somewhere else.

You titled your new record, Album of the Year #1 Funkateer. How do you know when you’ve made the album of the year?
All the time I spent with P-Funk and James Brown, I always seen everybody else get awards and accolades and we never did. And so that made me be like, “Well, if y’all are not going to say it, then I’m going to say it.” It’s just like [Collins’ 1978 album] Player of the Year; that wasn’t no award show until I made it one. So it’s that time again rolling around like, “Oh, y’all don’t notice me, huh? All right, well check this out.” So I’m going to call my own album, Album of the Year. Funk is making something out of nothing.

You’ve always talked about “funk” like a religion. How important is the funk?
Funk is the word, and the word became flesh. If you don’t got no funk, then you don’t got no physical thing going on around here. We get two things: We get funk, and we get spirit. Man took whatever he find — made tools, made this, that, and the other — and made something out of what was nothing. But man wasn’t the first: Funk was the first thing. Funk is making something out of nothing.

On your 1977 song “The Pinocchio Theory,” you sang, “Don’t fake the funk.” Have you ever worried that you were faking the funk?
I promised myself before I even made the song that when it got down to a point where I felt like I had to fake the funk, I would have to step down. I can never fake the funk. So when it came down to deciding to come off the road, the very thought that came to me was, “You can’t keep carrying that bass like you’ve been doing onstage with those heavy clothes, day in and day out.” From 2006 to about 2017, I started to realize that I couldn’t keep that up no more. I can’t fake that.

I was going to have to figure out another way. My other way now is making “Albums of the Year.” So I do more production work now, and it makes me happy that I don’t have to go out there and fake the funk, ’cause a lot of people would.

You and George Clinton were famous in the Seventies for dropping acid. Why did you stop?
The last time I took acid was in 1981. I told myself I’d stop if I ever had a bad trip. Every time I tripped, it would be so good, so much better than the last time. The last time I took it, I had the worst trip. I can’t even remember what actually happened. People had to tell me what I was doing. We would go driving, taking acid, and I remember the lines on the street would come, looked like they would come in the car.

What’s the most indulgent purchase you’ve ever made?
It would probably be seven motorcycles — different ones, different styles, trail bikes, the “Bootcycle.” Other than making music, my go-to thing was riding bikes. I was riding up to gigs on the Bootcycle. That’s the one you see on the cover of [1976’s] Stretchin’ Out album. It wasn’t just a prop; it was actually a motorcycle. I used to ride it around in L.A. I had the black leather suit with studs and rhinestones on it. That was my freedom. That was my wind in the hair, in the face, no helmet. To have two or three chicks in the back, it was the best. I was so blitzed out [on drugs]. That was the best time, other than being onstage.

You stopped riding in 1983 when you had a motorcycle accident. How did that change your life?
The doctor told me I would never use my right arm again. He was saying, “You would never be able to play your bass again,” and I was like, “No.” He said, “All you got to do is rehab, rehab, and rehab.” I was so scared ’cause all I knew how to do was music, play bass and write to the music that I do. That’s all I knew. Nothing else ever worked for me. It took about a year before I realized I could use my arm again.

Cocaine was the cause of my motorcycle accident, ’cause that’s what I changed over to from LSD. It kept you fired up. George loved it. They used to call him “Chief Cokehead.” We used to go fishing in Miami out on the yachts, and he’d have his whole ounce of cocaine. I’d have my guitar I’d play, he’d be humming songs. Poles be in the water, we’d be fishing. And the next thing you know, “Oh, you got one, you got one.” Those were truly the fun days.

You keep a Mothership in your backyard. Why?
We got it in 2018 because we wanted to do these stage shows. For this one gig at this big outdoor place that had a lake in it, I came out of the spaceship, I walked down, got to the water, and they had a ramp that was underwater that when you walk on it looks like you walking on the water. And the people went crazy. So we got it in the backyard now. We’re going to probably use it for props in videos.

You spent much of the 1970s and early 1980s playing with Clinton in P-Funk. Now you’re collaborating with him again. What’s the secret to healing that friendship?
The business just tore us up, and I lost track of what was going on with him. But now things are feeling good, we’re easing ourselves back in. What happened was I seen Kamala [Harris] on TV saying, “I found a George Clinton doll. And I love Bootsy Collins.” For some reason, that touched me. Like, “He’s still your friend. No matter what happened, you got to be the one to take the high road.” So I called him up and said, “Let’s do this track together.” And he was all over it. So we’re going to carry on and see where we go, because when you’re dealing with the funk, you never know what the funk’s going to happen.