There used to be only one man who could get away with writing songs about absolutely nothing. He could sing "Gimme some popcorn/I don't want no trash ... It's got to be a mother for me" without batting an eye. Of course, listening to the song required a suspension of normal critical standards, as well as a well-developed sense of the absurd. Not everybody appreciated the humor. A Philadelphia DJ refused to play "Mother Popcorn" because it had "nothing to say." A lot of people thought it had everything to say. A week later, the song was blaring from record-store loudspeakers up and down Market Street—an unleashed torrent of nonstop, sweaty nonsense. And on and on they came, all right there on an immediate level: "Hot pants ... smokin' ... she's got to use what she got to get what she wants." James Brown was the epitome of funk.

William "Bootsy" Collins was 16 when James Brown corralled him to play in his band. It was 1969 and James Brown hits for the year included not only "Mother Popcorn" but "Ain't It Funky (Now)" and "Let a Man Come In and Do the Popcorn" (parts I and II). Bootsy stayed with the James Brown band for two years and learned his lessons well. Now, with James Brown in seemingly irrevocable decline, Bootsy and his Rubber Band are just about the silliest thing happening.

Bootsy's Rubber Band has about as much intellectual content as a Saturday morning cartoon show, which really doesn't separate it from most other funk and grind bands (or power-rock groups). What makes Bootsy stand out is a low-grade, comic-book sense of humor that producer George Clinton is able to fuse with some of the most lyrical post-James Brown funk this side of Parliament/Funkadelic. In fact, it's impossible to mention Bootsy Collins without bringing up Parliament/Funkadelic, the band Bootsy has helped shape since his departure from James Brown.

It's rumored that Collins helped develop many of Brown's hits during his tenure—without receiving credit. As a member of Parliament/Funkadelic, Bootsy's name is featured prominently, along with George Clinton's, on many of the group's most memorable songs. Two of the songs he helped write set the stage for Bootsy's Rubber Band. "Be My Beach," from Funkadelic's Let's Take It to the Stage, had the typical wacky lyric and, perhaps more importantly, "Chocolate City," which has its roots in old fashioned, bottom-heavy James Brown funk. But this concoction has textures, changes and instrumental interplay that Brown (or even Sly Stone) never dreamed of. By song's end, Bernie Worrell and an unnamed alto player (Maceo Parker?) are locked in a spasmodic, outside duet that would be a credit to any number of celebrated free jazz players. The conception is stunning.

Describing Bootsy's Rubber Band isn't so easy. Both Bootsy albums have been produced jointly by Collins and George Clinton. Like Clinton's work with Parliament/Funkadelic, both records are a mixture of pop-music genius and tedious excess.

Bootsy, Baby, the current album, opens with a burst of applause and a vicious funk groove, while a hyperkinetic emcee rouses the cheering throng with the chant "Bootsy ... Bootsy ... Bootsy." Collins' entrance is heralded by sustained applause and the excited jabbering of young fans who ask, "Casper [Bootsy's alter ego], why we can't see you?" Bootsy's answer: "I'm indiscreet, 'cause I lost my sheet and I does not know where to find it."

Imagine this Amos-and-Andyism spoken in a mock-Hendrix voice that sounds as if it were laced with a few milligrams of Thorazine and you get an idea of what's going on. The song ends with Bootsy rendering a droning bass solo of "Auld Lang Syne" while singing "All of it/Why not take all of it." And that's only the first song on side one. Other songs include "The Pinocchio Theory" ("Don't fake the funk or your nose will grow") and a ballad with the hook line: "If I can get your lovin'/What's a telephone bill?"

Stretchin' Out is the more cohesive (if that's the word) of the two. Sometimes the songs on Bootsy, Baby meander aimlessly and endlessly ("Munchies for Your Love" crawls in at 9:39), and other times the humor is merely banal. Parliament's Clones of Dr. Funkenstein is the best of recent P-Funk, but that has been out for several months. So I'd be less than honest if I didn't say that Bootsy, Baby is my favorite record of the new year. And if somebody asks you what Bootsy's about, just stutter and say, "Well, it's kind of physical love like ... if you know what I mean." (RS 236)

JOE MCEWEN