Presenting DISGRACELAND - Rick James: Superfreak Is an Understatement
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Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. A quick heads up for those who may be triggered by tales of sexual abuse and violence. This episode of Disgraceland depicts both. The stories about funk superstar Rick James are insane. He was heavily addicted to crack cocaine. He ran drugs for the Colombian cartel. He escaped from prison and was then released early for fear he would get away with it again.

He was in a band with Neil Young. Neil Young. Rick James may have been born into a life of crime, but he was determined to make his way in life through music. He intimidated George Clinton, inspired Prince, and more than likely saved Jim Morrison's life. Rick James was rock and roll zealot. He was also sex-crazed and dangerous. But Rick James put a hurt on the funk. He made great music. That music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music.

That was a preset loop from my Mellotron called Slow Waltz Guitar Low MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to End of the Road by Boyz II Men. And why would I play you that specific slice of Motown Philly cheese? Could I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America on November 5th, 1992. And that was the day that Rick James turned himself in for the kidnapping and torture of not one, but two different women. On this episode, heavy funk, crack cocaine, Motown Philly cheese, and Rick James. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgracelabs.

Professional recording studios are hive-like workspaces where serious-minded craftsmen and women turn the sounds and emotions swirling around in their heads into stone-cold hits. But the best studios are also clubhouses helmed by talented producers with expansive Rolodexes who surround themselves with established and up-and-coming rock stars, ace session players, groupies, and hangers-on.

not to mention drug dealers, to make sure there is an ample supply of weed, coke, uppers, downers, booze, and anything else needed to fuel a recording session. Historically, from the 70s to the present, most recording studios have operated under an unspoken anything-goes-so-long-as-the-work-gets-done-and-the-cops-don't-show-up mandate. This is, after all, the music business, not IBM and definitely not fucking WeWork.

Even the most serious sessions operate under a cloud of smoke, despite being intense affairs with Taskmaster producers obsessing over take after take. Most sessions, though, are the opposite. Loose affairs where music is made when the muse appears. But of course, some are flat-out parties where a producer sits at the console amidst a rager yet somehow manages to concentrate on the musician tracking in the booth.

There's a lot of socializing and a lot of hanging around waiting to record. And because of the well-connected studio owners and rock star clientele, you never know who you're going to run into in a studio. I, for one, was once kicked out of a studio by James Taylor for simply sitting next to him while he ate his burrito in the studio lounge.

My friend Bill Janovitz from the indie band Buffalo Tom has a great picture of his bandmate Chris Colburn sitting in the lounge at LA's Cherokee Studios watching the finale to the television show Cheers with none other than Rick James himself. And in his autobiography, Rick James tells the story of Steven Tyler of Aerosmith poking his head into an early session of Rick's, sharing a couple lines of coke, and telling Rick he could hear his star in the making.

There are a million stories like these, but no doubt the most insane one also involves Rick James, a motherfucker of a musician for sure. But this story doesn't illustrate Rick's stone-cold musicianship. It illustrates that Rick James was a stone-cold criminal.

Rick James, like a lot of musicians, was a bit of a studio rat. He liked the action. Even when he wasn't recording, he'd hang out at Cherokee Studios in Hollywood to kill time. His buddy Rod Stewart had practically made Cherokee his second home. Bowie recorded there, Petty, Steely Dan. In the early 90s, while Rick's career was at an all-time low, and while in the throes of a heavy addiction to crack...

Cherokee was also hosting Evan Dando of the Lemonheads, who at the time was breaking hearts all over Alternative Nation with his arresting good looks and chesty, emotional, raw vocals. Dando and Rick made for an odd couple. Rick with his highly stylized, oversexed punk funk, and Dando with his ditzy, pretty boy vibe and indifferent alt-rock.

Despite the different music they played and different images they portrayed, they shared one strong bond, a love of hard drugs.

So, in the spring of 1992, while Rick hung out in the lounge and watched TV, and while Dando worked on single edits for his about-to-be-released breakthrough album It's a Shame About Ray, and started setting up shop for his follow-up smash Come On Feel the Lemonheads, when not recording, the two got down to the business of getting high, Rick James style. And it was all good, until it wasn't.

The news came fast, first over the television, then by word of mouth from studio visitors. Los Angeles was on fire. It started in South Central, Normandy in 71st, just east of Inglewood. Some kid threw a rock at a cruiser. Then they pulled a long hair from his truck and bashed him in the head with a brick. And then the looting began.

South Central LA was pissed. Rodney King's assailants, the LAPD, had gotten off without so much as a blemish on any of the officers' records. The anger had been building for years, and on April 29, 1992, the pressure blew the motherfucking roof off the sucker. Riots, unlike anything America had seen since Watts back in 65. But this was different. LA in 92 had a lawlessness to it, a violence that was hyper-real.

Maybe it was that now the anger ran that much deeper. Maybe it was that now it was all televised 24/7 on cable news. Whatever the reason, the LA riots were very real and very scary and spreading with no end in sight. Day one turned to day two and the looting, beatings and fires spread from South Central, north to downtown and then back west to Hollywood Boulevard. And by now, Rick James, Evan Dando and the rest of the crew at Cherokee were in full lockdown.

They could see the violence spreading straight to their Hollywood location on the television. Luckily, they were armed. For whatever reason, most likely cocaine-fueled paranoia, the studio housed a small arsenal of weapons. Fully automatic AK-47s, semi-automatic Glocks, and of course, a police caliber .32 with a double-action revolver, as old school as the custom Trident A-range mixing console in Cherokee's control room.

Rick grabbed an AK and headed to the roof. The rest of the studio regulars mounted up and followed the super freak up the stairs. Dando grabbed a Glock and brought up the rear. When they got to the roof and looked east, they could see the smoke stretching out over the low-slung storefronts and spreading into the Fairfax neighborhood.

They dug in. The sun started to fall. The smoke continued to rise. Cops nowhere in sight. Sirens in the distance. Helicopters a mile or so north hovering above Hollywood Boulevard. And then the voices. Screams, yells, banshees in the street, broken glass, more smoke, and flames rising up in the near distance.

Fuck this, make some noise, shoot the moon, let the would-be looters know that Cherokee was armed not to be fucked with, and if they made it down to 751 Fairfax, they'd best move on down the line to 753 lest they want to catch some lead. The regulars fired to the sky with abandon, letting out drunken war cries. Evan Dando, by now, had his hands on an AK, making for quite the sight. The stoned, nouveau hippy-dippy alternative firing an automatic weapon with reckless abandon into the sky.

Only in Holland. The sound of helicopters in the distance. The sound of sirens. The yelling from the roof, from the street. It was pure fucking chaos. Dando could feel his heart racing. He lowered his weapon. Took a second. Where was Rick, he thought.

He turned around and looked to the northeast side of the roof and there, alone, crouched military style on one knee with his eye fixed down the scope of his AK-47, Rick James could be seen, not firing warning shots off into the air like everyone else, but instead firing shots off into the streets with the precision of a dispassionate assassin. ♪

Hey, Discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly after-party bonus episode, where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these after-party bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails, and DMs,

and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpod at gmail.com or at disgracelandpod on the socials, and join the conversation every Thursday in our after-party bonus episode.

Do you know about how Steve McQueen escaped murder at the hands of the Manson family? Or about Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson's snatch-and-grab gang and The Rock's nearly ten arrests? What about Danny Trejo running a drug protection racket while in lockup? The obsessive killing of Dorothy Stratton? The real-life murder that inspired David Lynch's Twin Peaks? The three conspiracies surrounding Marilyn Monroe's death?

These stories and more are told in the new podcast, Hollywoodland, where true crime and Tinseltown collide. Hollywoodland is hosted by me, Jake Brennan, creator of the award-winning music and true crime podcast, Disgraceland. Follow and listen to Hollywoodland wherever you get your podcasts. Rick James led a life of crime. Literally. It's hard to imagine now, given his status as an entertainer. But there is no doubt. Rick James, from his childhood to his grave, led a criminal life.

Rick James also, of course, led a musical life. His story is peppered by encounters with some of rock and roll's biggest personalities. Miles Davis and Etta James, along with a slew of other great entertainers from back in the day, were seen up close and personal while little Ricky James ran hipside his mom who ran numbers for the mob back in Buffalo nightclubs where she collected bets and debts.

This upbringing also afforded Rick a view into how to make it out in the margin society, just like his mom, by any means necessary. As a 15-year-old, Rick got hooked on heroin and started pulling small-time robberies to finance his habit. At 16, he went AWOL from the Navy. How does a 16-year-old even end up in the Navy? Rick lied about his age and joined the Navy Reserve as a means to avoid being drafted into the Vietnam War.

It was a serious mistake. Military life didn't take. And so Rick took off, away without leave and over the border to Toronto to skip out on the Navy and out on the war completely.

Upon entering Toronto, three Canadian meatheads, big squares with crew cuts and shitty tattoos barreled toward him from around a corner. And they were drunk but still able to identify Rick for what he was. An American draft dodger, there to drink their beer and screw their women. Nuh-uh. And they were on him fast, raining down punches. Rick was used to holding his own with his fists, but three on one, it was too much.

Then, suddenly, the punches stopped, but there was still more commotion. Others had joined in the melee and were fighting off the meatheads. Rick was quick to his feet and they soon had the drunken squares on the run. Rick James dusted himself off and looked up to the two dudes who had just saved his ass. Weird looking skinny dudes that kind of looked like the greasers who'd beat on Rick back in Buffalo. Except these guys had some weirdo hippie farmer vibe going on too.

Didn't matter. They were alright with Rick. The two introduced themselves as Levon and Garth, told Rick they were musicians. They hated the squares and knew the beating was unjust. They informed Rick they played in a rockabilly band called the Hawks and asked him if he'd heard of their band leader Ronnie Hawkins. He hadn't, but Rick told them he too was a musician and was there in Toronto to get his music going. So they sent him off to a coffee shop to get stoned.

Toronto in the mid-60s was a wild place. To a young black man who loved R&B and rock and roll, Toronto was a dream. The culture was permissive. Drugs were everywhere. Pot, coke, acid, and so were the hippies.

And these weren't bandwagon-esque hippies. These were the real deal, tune in, drop out, dress however you want, sleep with whoever you want, and listen to whatever you want type of hippies. At a time when squares still ruled the roost. It was a time when it was legitimately subversive and not yet trendy to be a hippie. And this felt right to Rick. Especially coming out of the lips of Joni Mitchell, a young Canadian songstress who Rick met through a friend.

Joni was the shit. She got music, deeply. She dug on rock and roll, jazz, folk, and like everyone else in Toronto at the time, R&B. She turned Rick on to Moe's Allison, and they both sat up together night after night, dissecting Miles Davis' sketches of Spain. So when Rick needed a guitar player for his new band, The Minor Birds, and Joni recommended her friend Neil, Rick didn't have to think about it twice. If this Neal cat was alright with Joni, then Rick was in.

But first, Rick needed some new duds. So he pulled a job with a guy he'd met in the nightclubs. It was a little boutique that featured all the high-end hippie fashion items of the time. Denim, fringes, beads, and bangles, that sort of thing. And Rick's guy had a guy, so fencing the goods wouldn't be a problem. And it wasn't. They were in and out in no time, and Rick was flush again and able to focus on putting his band together. And of course, looking good in the process.

Neil Young could give a shit about looking good. Neil Young was too concerned with tearing the paper off of the horsehair walls inside of Toronto's nightclubs with his gut-wrenching, emotionally chaotic guitar playing. Joni was right. The dude knew his shit. And Joni Mitchell never lies. Neil dug on black R&B in Motown more than most of the black kids Rick tried playing with back in Buffalo. Neil was a student, a fucking assassin with that guitar.

So in 1966, with Neil Young now in Rick James' band, the Minor Birds headed to Detroit to score a deal with the most happening record label in the world at the time, Motown Records. And label president, Barry Gordy, didn't get to be Barry Gordy by not being able to identify immense talent. So of course, the Minor Birds were signed to Motown. They quickly recorded a single called It's My Time and endeavored to become the next big thing.

But next big things need more than talent to become next big things. They need all the little things to fall into place. And when your singer is a criminal, an AWOL from the Navy in the middle of a war, it's hard to conquer the charts.

Once the Motown advance came through, Rick's manager ratted him out to keep the bread to himself. And when Motown got wind, they dropped the minor birds. And worse than that, the FBI turned up the heat on Rick. They heard about the Motown deal and put the word out to every record label that Rick James was a fugitive and he was not to be signed. Rick was sunk. He did the only thing he could do. Put Ray Charles on the turntable, rolled the joint, took a big hit, and turned it up.

Then, he turned himself in. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Rick was dreaming. The past few years had been intense. He'd gone from hanging with his Motown heroes, Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder, to being locked up in the brig for desertion. And then he broke out of prison, a legit jailbreak. The excitement of that moment never left him. When the fever dream came, it was the prison break that jazzed him the most.

He could still taste the adrenaline, even now, a year later in his sleep. It got his dick hurt, and it was so powerful. Not that Rick James needed help getting his dick hurt. Before and after prison, he'd been on a tear through the new era of free love. And free love was one thing, freedom was another. Rick may have escaped the brig, but he wasn't free.

His boys back in Toronto got their shit together without Rick. Neil was in a band with that Steven Stills cat, Buffalo Springfield, and they were legit rock stars. And Joni had her thing. Garth and Levon backed Bob fucking Dylan and started the band. And here was Rick James dodging G-men and dealing coke to get by.

In his dream, though, he was free. Free on stage, anyway. Whipping through Stevie's fingertips with Hendrix next to him on stage and Miles looking unapprovingly from the audience. It made no sense, but then again, it made total sense. Rick was a fucking star and he knew it.

He knew he had the same talent running through him that Jimmy, Stevie, and Miles had. But the truth ratcheted up the anxiety. The truth was that he wasn't a musician like Jimmy, Stevie, or Miles. He was a fucking criminal. Common, ordinary, and definitely not free. The G-men were on his tail. Hellhounds, white devils. The heat got to be too hot, and this is where the dream usually went from fever pitch to hyperreal. Rick's heart raced as his brain called back to when he turned himself in that second time.

Not for going AWOL, but for breaking out of the brig. And he was received by the other prisoners as a conquering hero, but the guards had a different opinion. Fuck this guy. The beatings were merciless, and the brass must have known Rick was going to bounce a third time and embarrass them further, so they ended up settling with his attorney and processing him out of his court-martial on a technicality. Something about enlisting as a minor.

And this is usually when Rick would awake. Buoyed by freedom, his dick rock hard, his eyes squinting through the late morning California sunshine, and his head weighed down in the morass of last night's party. Rick got up off the couch, careful not to step on the half-naked body sleeping on the floor. Empty wine bottles and overflowing ashtrays were everywhere. The air stank of grass and Rick had to piss. Bad.

He couldn't remember where the nearest bathroom was. This place was huge. Steven Stills had too much house. Whatever. Stills was a rock star. He could afford it. Plus, Stills threw great parties and was cool enough to let Rick crash while getting his shit together. Rick duck-walked through the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone. There. The first floor bathroom. Thank God. Rick came to a pathway between the kitchen and the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks.

The blood was everywhere and flowing fast. The hippie was still conscious despite the blood torrenting from his forearms. He was mumbling. Wait, was he mumbling or doing something else? The motherfucker was chanting and bleeding profusely from his self-inflicted wounds. Rick freaked out, started screaming and ran straight for Stills' bedroom. Stills was already on his feet, fastening the belt of his robe and shaking his head. Shit, he's done it again, hasn't he? He's cutting himself, right?

"Stills, some stone dude is bleeding out in your hallway." Stills hurried toward his kitchen. Rick followed. The blood had now formed a sizable puddle on the floor around the hippie. Stills pulled the belt of his robe, grabbed a dishrag hanging from the oven, and quickly fashioned two makeshift tourniquets around the cross-legged hippie's arms to stop the deluge of blood. And through it all, the hippie kept slowly rocking his shoulders and chanting. Stills gave him a couple hard slaps on the cheek to snap him out of it. "Jim! Jim! Wake up! Jim!"

The bleeding stopped and the hippie slowly opened his eyes. And they were beautiful, if not distant. They found their way to Rick, who was looking on in shock. The hippie opened his mouth. Hey, brother. It's a beautiful morning, isn't it? Rick had no idea what the fuck was going on. Steven Stills took a step back, let out a sigh of relief and said, Rick James, meet Jim Morrison.

Fucking Hollywood. You couldn't take a piss without running into somebody. So Rick James used his Hollywood connections to get his music career off the ground. But it was slow going. One fall start after another. And Rick, frustrated with the momentum his friends had found in the music business and that had eluded him, said, fuck it. A man's got to eat. And if the music business wasn't going to provide, then Rick was going to make it happen by any means necessary. Just like his mama had done with the mob back in Buffalo.

Cocaine was fast becoming the drug of choice as the 60s turned into the 70s. And of course, Rick knew a guy. And that guy knew a guy. And before Rick knew it, he was in Colombia, squirreling away 15 grams of cartel cocaine into his luggage. The flight to Canada, where Rick had planned on unloading the coke, was first class. But upon landing, things went south. Who was this sharp-dressed black American with a stick pin and expensive luggage?

Rick was braced by airport security and thoroughly searched, but not thoroughly enough. He made it through with the blow undetected, but was rattled enough to give up drug dealing and give the music business one more shot.

And finally, his timing was right on. Rick's vision of creating an aggressive, sexy new form of music that combined the best of R&B and rock and roll suddenly had a chance in a decade where disco, punk rock, and theatrical funk and heavy metal were all in vogue. Rick, for the first time in his life, disciplined himself.

He pulled together some serious musicians from back home in Buffalo, away from the party scene in Hollywood, dubbed them the Stone City Band, and set about to make his mark on music history, just like Jimmy, Miles, and Stevie before him. And that's exactly what he did.

Rick James' first few 70s records, Come and Get It, Bustin' Out of L7, and 1981's Street Songs, are in a word, un-fucking-believably good. Is that a word? It doesn't matter. Rick James put a new kind of hurt on the funk. It was George Clinton without the bad acid trip. It was Sly Stone without the manic insanity. It was Kiss's heavy metal, but with musicians who could

play. It was Marvin Gaye but with a sense of humor. It was James Brown without the preachy social consciousness. It was disco without the cheese. It was disco rock dudes could get into. It was a party. It was all of these things. It was huge.

You and I, Mary Jane, come and get it. Give it to me, baby. Super freak. Put those songs on now, even now, and try not to move. Try not to crack that second bottle of wine. Try not to get laid. Those songs are infectious, undeniable hits. And when Rick James unleashed them on the world, the world loved them. And Rick loved the world right back. It was his time. He'd be damned if he wasn't going to enjoy himself.

Rick was suddenly involved and in high demand. He personally brought his heroes The Temptations back from the dead with Standing on the Top, a song he'd penned and produced for them as a favor for Barry Gordy. And Rick had taken his friend, actor Eddie Murphy, all the way to number two on the charts with Party All the Time, another track he'd written and produced.

With success, the party grew more wild. Sex, always a thing that was available to Rick James whenever he wanted it, soon became sex with two women at a time, then three women, and then the orgy started with regularity.

Rick moved through a succession of high-profile relationships with beautiful women. Linda Blair from The Exorcist, the Dukes of Hazzard's Katherine Bach, Marvin Gaye's wife, Jan Hunter, Johnny Carson's girlfriend, Kelly Patterson, and eventually a young Elizabeth Shue.

All the while, his drug use got more serious. His cocaine use ratcheted up about 10 notches in the 1980s, just like it did for the rest of the entertainment business. But Rick, criminal-minded as ever, took it to another level and began freebasing, or as he put it, sucking the devil's dick.

And by the early 90s, Rick James had fallen into the funk.

Rick was high all the time, heavily addicted to crack and depressed over the state of his career, which was at a new low despite receiving a songwriting credit and winning a Grammy for MC Hammer's You Can't Touch This, a monster hit that relied on a sample of Rick's super freak.

It was his first Grammy. The original version scored a nomination in 1982 for Best Male Rock Vocal Performance, but lost out to Jessie's Girl. Fuck Rick Springsteen or whoever. Didn't matter. Rick couldn't spend his new money fast enough. He was spinning off of the face of the earth. The only thing keeping him grounded, he thought, was the sex. And that's what was going through his mind in 1991 when the prostitute walked into his crack den.

It was hard to see her. Rick had blackened out the room by covering the windows with tinfoil, and a dense fog of weed, crack, and cigarette smoke hung just below the ceiling. Rick's girlfriend, Tanya, brought her in. Ah, Rick thought, a gift. She'll never let your spirits down, and once you get her off the street,

She's alright. And they get down to a quick fucking and sucking right there in the middle of Rick James' own circle of madness. Rick, his girlfriend, the prostitute would fuck, smoke crack, fuck, smoke crack, fuck some more, and then smoke some more crack. And when the prostitute would get out of line, Rick would smack her around and get her back on the pipe, and then back on her back. And if that failed, Rick would hold her down, take the hot end of the crack pipe, and give her skin a little singe to let her know who's boss.

And this went on for two weeks until the pros split. And when she made it back to her pimp without any money for her two-week sabbatical to Funkytown, the pimp beat her mercilessly. And without anywhere to go, she returned to Rick's with fresh bruises. Tanya took her to the hospital in Rick's Jaguar. The ER workers, after dressing her wounds, called the cops and told them what was up. Later that night, 30 of LA's finest busted down the door at Rick's and arrested him and Tanya for assault.

They had it wrong, Rick told them. It didn't matter. His bail was set for a million dollars. And he was locked up for a week. He could do that time standing on his head. He was used to it, and it wasn't all that bad. The time in lockup allowed him to clean up off the crack. But it didn't last.

His trial was coming up. Despite being out on bail, Rick was tense. He and Tanya hit Argyle and Yuka down in Hollywood to score. Rick bought eight rocks for eight bucks. Shit. No wonder people lost their mind on crack. It was practically free compared to cocaine. Just then, before Rick could get the crack into his pocket, two plainclothes cops with guns out, pointing straight at Rick and Tanya behind the windshield of their Jag, started coming for them.

Rick freaked out, popped all eight rocks into his mouth and swallowed hard. The cops tore the car apart and in the end found nothing. But Rick James was off to the races. A feeling of liberation swept over him. Fuck the police. My girl wants to party all the time and there's reason to celebrate. Tanya was pregnant with Rick's baby. Let's get high one more time. The two rented a suite at the St. James on Sunset and waited on their dealer friend to show up. More crack was always needed.

The dealer arrived. Rick had no idea who he was but let him in anyway, half convinced that he was the devil himself. Rick was gonna suck his dick but when he passed Rick the pipe, a halo appeared over his head. Shit, this wasn't the devil. The sweet man was an angel. But then, the horn started growing from over his head. Rick was super freaked out. Something happened. The dealer split and Rick and Tanya set about destroying their luxurious suite.

tossing the sofa cushions, upending the tables, throwing wine glasses against the wall, pulling the stuffing out of the pillows, frisbeeing room service plates to the ceiling and kicking the television over. It was a much-needed release to the pressure of the impending trial. Once they were done, they sat on the floor, had sex, and got high. This cycle went on for days. Sex, crack, violence, repeat. And then she showed up.

Lady M, a music business colleague of Rick's who towed the line between a supportive friend and world-class nag. Lady M had a message for Rick. Get your shit together. Now. Right now. Or you're done. Ain't no record label gonna put your music out if all you do is smoke crack, beat on women in trash hotel rooms. Oh yeah, Rick thought?

then unleashed on Lady M. He beat her senseless. And when he was done, he looked down at her, crumpled on the floor, bleeding, crying, shivering, her eyes black. He did the only thing he knew how to comfort her, offered her crack for her pain. She accepted and hit the pipe. And from then on, it was like the beating never happened. Crack cocaine is a hell of a drug. After a couple days, Lady M split and not soon after decided, fuck Rick James, bitch, and went to the police.

Rick awoke soon after to the news blasting back at him from the television that he was being sought by police for the kidnapping and torture of a West Hollywood woman while being out on bail for kidnapping and torture charges for another woman. Rick thought of running, but he was too old for that shit. He knew what to do. He'd done it before when he was AWOL from the Navy, and after that when he'd escaped from the brig. A good criminal knows when he's caught, just like a good musician knows when it's time to step off the stage. ♪

Rick James, the musician. Rick James, the draft dodger. Rick James, the coke dealer. Rick James, the crackhead. Rick James, the weak-minded, physically abusive creep who tortured women for the kicks. Rick James, the criminal who turned himself in. Such a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland.

Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com.

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