Shake that funky booty -- that big, black, funky booty. And that's exactly how it went down when George Clinton and his extraterrestrial brothers and sisters converged to drop acid-fried visions of rock and R&B on a small group of rump shakers.

The get-down-booty-scratchin' funk rolled into the swank new House of Blues without hesitation. Known for his four and some odd hour concerts (literally and figuratively), the hipsters and Deadheads alike prepared for the mother-show by dropping acid and pulling one-hitters in the crowd, as the Clinton entourage filtered on to the stage.

With talk of the return of bassist Bootsy Collins floating around the windy city, the mere earthlings danced a jig for 50 minutes before the head afronaut finally descended on stage. And when Clinton finally did touch down, he brought with him that break-my-foot-off-in-your-ass style funk-punk.

The P-Funk broke down "Atomic Dog" to its most primordial form when Clinton's first mate, Gary Shider, pulled up his trademark diaper and let the crowd have it. Over the past few years, Clinton shows have been flooded with special guests and famous friends who have extended a helping hand and a shaking booty to round out the freak show, but not this time out.

Clinton was forced to energize "Aqua Boogie" and a lengthy version of "Chocolate City" with the help of his shipmates and a few nameless stragglers that wandered in and out of the picture. With the exception of a 5-year-old kid with a huge rubber nose strapped to his mug, most of the stage goers were hippies of old trips gone by.

Indeed, old farts and snot-riddled teens got downright ugly, and regardless of what memories were wafting in the House, the funk conductor pressed on, sharing an occasional howl and his minimal vocal presence, passing the mic from stray to stray.

As the much welcomed karaoke session faded in and out, the usual group of unknowns came and went in a steady flow across the mothership's runway. George Clinton, not usually known for stopping the groove to air his dirty bed-sheet capes, did take a few seconds to enlighten the crowd. "There's more profit in saying that we're stopping it," he said, "than selling it." But then it was immediately back to business.

The funk never petered-out and the dancing crowd had the inflamed bunions to prove it. Bootsy never did show, but it really didn't matter. The P-Funk could have played with themselves for four hours and it wouldn't have made a difference. Fans were there to get nasty and the grand Martian was there to lead the parade of freaks into any galaxy they were willing to go to. With a subtle "Peace" it was over, and the sweaty mass danced its ass