Q: I just want to confirm that you’re the original George Clinton. I heard you’re trying to be cloned.
A: Oh, it’s me. But cloning—we got generations of that shit. The pyramids? They was for cloning. That’s why embalming lasts so long. Get the DNA and pull ’em back. So somebody been cloned already, but not me. Not yet.

Q: Not yet?
A: I’ve got my DNA stashed in the bank. And I got 14 kids. So there’s plenty of volunteers to take my DNA. It’s funky but they take it.

Q: How did you get funky DNA?
A: I was born in the funk. My mom started to birth me in the outhouse. She heard nature’s call, and it was nature calling about me. There I was, hanging on by the string. I didn’t come from the mother ship, I came from the mother’s shit.

Q: I heard your mom once worked at the Pentagon. Did she ever take you inside?
A: Nah. That was around 1945. The most I can remember about D.C. is the planes coming in the sky. They had just dropped the A-bomb on Japan and were waiting for the retaliation, I guess. The whole sky was covered with rows and rows of planes, and it was a blackout. All the lights had to be out at seven o’clock. They’d give you a fine for having your lights on.

Q: Both you and Bootsy Collins have seen UFOs, right?
A: I seen my first one on the way to Toronto from Detroit, where we were recording Mothership Connection. We’d just come across the border, so, you know, we wasn’t high. But that’s a whole long story.

Q: I see where that album title came from. How about Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow?
A: That’s our manifesto: Free it. We freed it. We took acid all night, went in the studio. Just groove after groove, a whole album. Jimi Hendrix, Cream, and all them had been doing it, so we had to catch up fast. In one night.

Q: You started out with doo-wop and, at 67, you’re doing it again on your new album.
A: I was at the Apollo Theater all the time, skipping school, and I worked in a barbershop. That’s how I started with doo-wop. Now I’ve come full circle. I did all kinds of music. I used to work on Broadway and Tin Pan Alley. Later, I made atonal shit work—sound like melodies. If I knew any better I wouldn’t do that.

Q: You went away for a while, though.
A: I was making music. I just didn’t have a record. The record companies wouldn’t help me. I’d ride a tractor, shoot trees and pretend they were record executives.

Q: I heard Ted Nugent got you into guns.
A: We jammed together all the time, him, us and Iggy. In Detroit. Ted changed a lot after that. But I have a load of guns and I have to hunt. Just keep me away from the deer—I have a Bambi complex.