“Hey mister, guess what?” I feel a small hand pulling my coat sleeve and look down to see a young black kid about seven staring up at me. It’s October 28, 1976, and I’m in the New Orleans Civic Auditorium, a hall packed with riggers, gaffers, soundmen and musicians. An incredible event Is about to unfold.

“Mister, you know what’s going to happen here tomorrow night? The Mothership is going to land right on that stage, and Dr. Funkenstein himself is going to be here,” he continues, unaware that Dr. Funkenstein himself, George Clinton, is standing less than six feet away. The kid continues rapping to me as the silver Mothership is hoisted to a perch above the stage. George walks by, looking very incognito.

“Hey, I want you to meet somebody, this is Dr. Funkenstein.” “Yeah, right,” the kid says in a voice fall of doubt. “That ain’t no Dr. Funkenstein. Where’s his white coat and wig?”