SOUNDTRACK
# 2
“Music n' Movies, Music in Movies”
Like a bad movie sequel, SoundTrack #2 is even worse than #1 and took three
years to complete. It was hardly worth the
wait…
Respectfully and appreciatively
dedicated to:
Keif Henley and Peter Conheim at the Guild Cinema 3405 Central Ave. NE
Albuquerque, NM (505)255-1848 (the punks of cinematic appreciation!)
where I saw almost half of the movies dissected here and the long-defunct
Elgin Cinema (Eighth Avenue, Chelsea, NY, NY) where I spent many a teen-age
hour watching for days on end: Buster Keaton revivals; the all-night
Kurosawa /samurai festival (thanks, Colonel); filth! (Roger Vadim’s sex
kitten wife Jane Fonda in Barbarella, my first onscreen popshot In the Realm
of the Senses); adventure! (the original Zatoichi the Blind Swordsman
series) and everything else from John Ford to El Topo.
FEATURING
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Standing
in the Shadows of Motown (2002), Groove (2000), Run
Lola Run (1999), Kill Bill (2004), The Man With
The Golden Arm (1955), Wattstax (1973), The Mayor
of Sunset Strip (2004) Ortho Tri-Cyclen Lo commercial
(2004), Hard Day's Night (1964), The End of the
Century: The Story of The Ramones (2004), West
Side Story (1961), DOA (1981), Tributary (2000), Off
The Charts (2002), Royal Carribean Lines commercial (2004), American
Dreams (TV Series, 2004), Cocksucker Blues (1972), Josie
and the Pussycats (2001), The Saddest Music in the World
(2003), Capital One credit cards commercial (2005), Leadbelly
(1976), The
Life Aquatic (2004) submitted by Marvel
Girl, Hail! Hail! Rock and Roll! (1998) submitted
by Obenjyo
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Standing In the Shadows Of Motown
(2002)
Don’t forget the Motor City!
-- Dancing In the Street; Martha and the Vandellas; 1964
The world has finally caught up with the Funk Brothers, the studio musicians
behind a hundred and one Motown hits, The Sound of Young America in the
early 1960s, the songs before only credited to the Four Tops, the Miracles,
the Temptations, the Supremes…
As the label founder, he may have turned out to be a weasel (moving the
entire operation to L.A. without notifying the people he didn’t care to have
follow) but Berry Gordy was a genius in assembling his personnel. The Funk
Brothers were never a group per se but out of dozens of musicians there were
a few anchors: James Jamerson (bass), Joe Hunter & Earl Van Dyke (keys),
Pistol Allen, Bennie Benjamin & Uriel Jones (drums), Bongo Brown (percussion)
and Joe Messina & Bob Babbitt (guitar). These guys were as essential
to their company sound as Atlantic Records’ Muscle Shoals Wrecking Crew or
Stax’s Mar-Keys and Booker T & the MGs.
The Funks had to follow studio arrangements, of course but these were loose,
allowing them to incorporate their own ideas consistently. Unbeatable in
combination with the songwriting of Smokey Robinson, Norman Whitfield and
the incomparable Holland/Dozier/Holland; with the voices of David Ruffin,
Otis & Paul Williams & Melvin Franklin (the Tempts), the punchy soul
of Gladys Knight (the Pips), the purring control of Mary Wells, the dramatic
Levi Stubbs (the ‘Tops) and sweet-voiced Smokey himself (the Miracles).
Some black folk thought Motown (Hitsville USA) was too slick compared to
Stax (Soulsville USA) and the gritty cornbread soul of Otis Redding or Wilson
“the Wicked” Pickett-- and they were right; but never before had so many
from-the-ghetto groups topped the white-dominated pop charts all at the same
time.
Motown execs wisely demo’ed the songs through tinny transistor radio and
factory-install car speakers to hear them like the record-buying kids would
hear them. It paid off big time.
This movie is another matter. Part documentary, part reenactment (the lamest
parts of the movie by far) and part reunion concert, its uneven as hell.
If not for the subject matter, no one would have given the rave reviews its
garnered. The reenactments were throwaway moments in the story and served
no purpose, while the MLK Freedom March shots have been done to death; no
justice or new revelation was done to either here.
I couldn’t just stand up and dance in the middle of the theater but considered
it; even so, the reunion footage got my feet tapping although the singers
ranged from good to fair to dreadful.
At the top was (believe it or not) Joan Osborne. Marvin-wannabe Ben Harper
was horrid & wan and M’chelle Ngodosho should’ve been kicked out into
the street for fucking up --oh, excuse me -- interpreting the vocal phrasings
in such an off-the- mark way. It might work legitimately with other arrangements
but it didn’t work with the classic Motown. As a singer, funk-legend bassist
Bootsy Collins was notably un-good but so what--say yeah! its Bootsy!
Chaka Khan was just ok but too bad no one approached she’s-still-got-it
Patti LaBelle who would’ve nailed them all perfectly. Even worse, apparently
no one asked Martha Reeves who was in the damn movie and even expressed her
wish to rejoin the Brothers on stage sometime! Somebody’s head ought to
roll for that one.
Most importantly, though, here the Funks finally got the chance to show
off their jazz chops. They weren’t pop guys, they weren’t rock and rollers
but most of them were brought up on corn bread, beans, blues and boogie in
the south. This background was key to what they brought to Motown and what
made the music so distinct.
Two years later I found the saving grace for this doc in the DVD edition
and its solid gold: three jam sessions with the reunited Funks in the studio,
beautiful pieces of jazz n’ soul with no vocalists to get in the way played
by musicians who know where each other is gonna riff before they do it.
In execution, I’d vote this one of the worst documentaries ever made but
at least the Funk Brothers story has finally been told. Too bad the film
makers don’t understand the vernacular.
Groove
(2000)
Forget this one on your home screen but in the theater, it sucks you into
the techno groove and makes you wonder why you’re not out eating Ecstasy
and getting your thing on with a young & cute candy-raver.
Run Lola Run (1999)
The first movie to effectively use techno on a soundtrack, Run Lola Run
was also lauded as the picture that was going to revolutionize film-making,
ushering in an era of interactive flicks with multiple endings to choose from,
echoing the video-game experience.
Thank god it hasn’t come to pass.
Is that really what the art form needs, an audience of guys who spend their
free time in virtual worlds of killing sprees and grand theft auto? When
travesties like Terminal Velocity and American Pie pull in
the crowds do you honestly think anyone from those audiences could make an
intelligent or thoughtful choice of endings or plot threads? Everything would
either end in orgies or bloodbaths--most likely both simultaneously. Or their
equally insipid girlfriends would drop Viggo Mortensen into The Wedding
Planner. Its bad enough to have DVD releases restoring outtakes that
lead nowhere, drop the pace of the film dead in its tracks or show off the
indulgence of vanity “director’s cuts”.
Restoring films like Welles’ Touch Of Evil to their proper and coherent
form makes sense; even having a chance to see Michael Cimino’s indulgently
beautiful Heaven’s Gate is alright but no one needs to see Ashton
Kuchter in the long version of Just Married.
It is good that the “future of film” that Lola was supposed to inspire
hasn’t happened…yet. But it still stands as one of the few modern movies
where the score was integral and integrated beautifully.
Run Lola Run was also one of the last (if not the last) whose soundtrack
album was actually music from the film and not old and tired classic hits
tied in with the marketing department of the record label that the studio
also owns.
Kill Bill (2004)
Quentin Tarantino is a derivative hack who would best serve the film world
by quietly going back to where he came from: behind the counter in some
video store. This because he knows good cinema when he sees it; he just
can’t create it.
Waiting for the cameo appearance of Japanese girl garage band the 5.6.7.8.s
was the only thing that kept me from walking out of the piece of junk that
was Kill Bill.
The 5.6.7.8.s are also derivative but have class in a trashy way and unlike
Tarantino hold no pretension in what they do.
The Man With
the Golden Arm (1955)
Card games and curvy dames. Dirty dealing and a dope addict drummer tryin’
to kick, all to a jazz beat by Elmer Bernstein. Not a great movie but mid-50s
Hollywood’s idea of underbelly reality. Overacted by everyone including
the Oscar-Nominated (huh?) Frank Sinatra, the wooden but hubba-hubba looker
Kim Novak and fakin’-it cripple Eleanor Parker. Still I watch it anyway
just to see two-time loser Frankie Machine battle his need for a fix and
ambition for drum sticks. Although Billy Wilder’s 1945 The Lost Weekend
is the mother of all cold-turkey movies, this flick is more enjoyable than
it ought to be. Maybe because 1955 censors wouldn’t allow all the puking
and shitting-your-pants that goes along with kicking the habit.
Wattstax (1973)
This documentary is from a time when niggers were badass instead of today’s
chickenshit gangstaz. Its on-the-streets commentary and a concert to commemorate
the 1965 Watts riots (or Watts uprising, depending on which side you’re
on). Among many Stax/Volt artists it features Isaac “the Black Moses” Hayes;
the funky, funky Bar-Kays; the styling Dramatics; a searing performance
by the overlooked and under-rated sexy Johnnie Taylor; and the granddaddy
of ‘em all Mr Rufus Thomas and daughter Carla, all from when the Soul was
stacked as high as the ‘fro on a brother’s head.
Fuck Tupac. Can you say “dignity”? It’s all up in here. Even damn Richard
Pryor is looking good!
Besides being a landmark concert event, (a crowd of 90,000 black faces
in the LA Coliseum including all roadies, security and support personnel?
you bet it scared the crap out of the honky city fathers!), this is one
of the first and finest music documentaries, leaving every other contemporary
one -- Woodstock, Gimme Shelter, Ziggy Stardust -- deep in the motherfucking
dust.
The Mayor of Sunset Strip (2004)
Rodney “Rodney on the ROQ” Bingenheimer has hung with everyone from the
Monkees and Sonny & Cher, through Bowie and LA rock impresario /predator
Kim Fowley, all the way up to No Doubt and Coldplay. In other words, he’s
been on the music scene of everything (commercially) happenin’ since about
1965. The first to spin on air among others, the Ramones and Blondie (and
yes Coldplay and No Doubt), Rodney’s been on the scene with an uncanny knack
of “breaking” bands and knowing who’s gonna be important in music show biz,
like playing Oasis on cassette before anyone stateside ever heard the yobs.
And its all been for the love of the music. Rodney was once a mainstay
of KROQ (which now specializes in nu-metal proto-rave; sadly nobody gives
a shit anymore when Brian Wilson is the on-air guest) but the man’s been
demoted to be a once-a-week graveyard two-hour show, drives his mom’s old
Chevy Nova and lives in a modest (crappy) suburban house; he made no fortune
for loving and promoting the rock. True, at home, he’s surrounded by piles
of memorabilia like Beatles gold records and Elvis’ driver’s license that’s
worth mega-bucks but this stuff won’t hit the collector market until Rodney’s
stone cold in his grave.
This excellent film makes him out to be a sad & pathetic overlooked,
lonely little man --which he is--but c’mon: he’s been places done things
with people the average star-struck bastard can only dream about as well
as having more than his share of young supple nubiles. Monkee Davey Jones’
stand-in? The owner of Rodney’s English Disco where Bowie and Iggy hobnobbed?
The subject of more than one rocknroll song? Bingenheimer might be a geeky
music fan but in all, he isn’t doing so bad at all.
Ortho Tri-Cyclen
Lo commercial (2004)
This one impresses the hell out of me. Christian “rockers” Sixpence None
the Richer license their year 2000 hit There She Goes to a birth control
commercial? Outstanding!
A band that was actually adequate alt.rock ten years ago (check their 1995
release This Beautiful Mess), Sixpence made it big on the Christian Rock
circuit but can still think for themselves. It’s a turn of events that just
has to be giving Born-Again’s epileptic fits.
For that, I truly praise Jesus.
Hard Day’s
Night (1964)
Musically and cinematically, Elvis Presley was immediately history when
this film hit the screen. Originally conceived as a throwaway by United Artists
who only wanted the movie so they could cash in on a soundtrack LP, it was
the picture’s and the Beatles’ good fortune that director Richard Lester
was picked for the project. The Fab Four didn’t give a toss about his oeuvre
but were impressed by his early association with Spike Milligan (an inspiration
to all of Monty Python) and which lent a goony flavor to Hard Day’s Night.
Written off as fluff by conservative anti-Beatle ranks and over-shadowed
by teen Beatlemania, most viewers at the time failed to notice the sharp
black and white compositions (UA didn’t want to spring for costly color on
a ”fad” flick) and inventive camerawork that made up for the money Lester
didn’t have to spend.
It still stands up today, capturing the giddiness of the period and forever
establishing each Beatle character: Ringo loveable and gullible, John wise
& witty etc. For the most part, the music was worked into the script
--the band rehearsing and playing the climactic show or a song’s theme echoing
the onscreen mood.
Too bad the 1965 follow-up Help! was allowed a bigger budget since
now that the Fab Four was big business, it also hobbled Lester who turned
in a piece of junk, more like what Beatle detractors thought Hard Day’s
Night would be. Even worse, Help! spawned the Pre-Fab Four--the Monkees--
to cash in on the “loveable lads in goofy adventures” thing. Oh well at
least it gave Texan Michael Nesmith (y’know, the Monkee with the hat?) a
chance to sneak in a few overlooked and under-rated country-flavor bubblegum
classics like The Kind of Girl I Could Love and You Just May Be the One.
The End of the Century: the Story
of the Ramones (2004)
OneTwoThreeFour! Not only the best Ramones doc ever made but a good film
as well: smart, sharp, crisp, well constructed and a decent amount of footage
of “da brudders” that you haven’t seen much, if at all. Sadly the most recent
interviews were done after Joey blitzkrieg bopped but, timely, before Johnny
and Dee Dee did likewise. Tommy gets a fair amount of play as well, the
most level-headed Ramone of all (one out of six isn’t so bad I guess). You’ll
cheer, you’ll boo and hiss, you may even cry but you’ll surely be smiling
as well as laughing along with--okay, let’s get real--laughing at poor ol’
Dee Dee.
West Side Story (1961)
This one may seem quaint by today’s standards but in 1961, the idea of
a Hollywood musical filmed on location in the streets of New York City sans
flashy costumes was like a slap across the face, a wake-up to the possibilities
of cinema that the majority of television-obsessed 1950s America had forgotten
all about. Director Robert Wise and choreographer Jerome Robbins turned
a hit melodramatic Broadway play into a uh melodramatic movie complete with
Leonard Bernstein’s jazzy score and Stephen Sondheim’s jarring-for-the-time
lyrics. Its all about the context at the time of its release and the industry
responded by honoring crew & cast with a sweep at the Oscars, including
the sassy and hot Rita Moreno.
It feels and reads very much like the stage but the musical numbers bring
it alive without a trace of camp or novelty.
Watch this one through the eyes of its time & place, try not to let
the sappy love song numbers bother you and you’ll soon be slipping down the
mean streets, snapping your fingers and whistling “When you’re a Jet”.
DOA (1981)
The disastrous Sex Pistols USA tour interspersed with clips of pub-punters
Sham 69, a still-worthy Generation X before Billy Idol believed his name,
the under-rated pre-Pere Ubu band the Dead Boys and the band that mystified
most punkers even then (saxophone?!) the great X-Ray Spex. Music as raw
and as fucked up as the footage of Sid nodding off while sod-girl Nancy
tries to revive him for an interview. This was the period when punk rock
truly deserved its name.
Watch this movie long enough and you’ll be gobbing at the screen.
Tributary (2000)
Personally I think you have to be an idiot to enjoy tribute bands
(I never wanted to see the real Sabbath, Priest, Yes or Kiss in the fucking
first place) but even worse are the musicians with failed careers who justify
their existence in mistaking the fans’ misplaced worship for appreciation
of their own miserable talent. This is one of the rare times I’d rather
see a musician making Subway sandwiches for a living than getting paid for
prolonging this sort of drivel.
The real head-scratcher here is the Guided By Voices tribute band. For
god-sakes, guys, let Robert Pollard drink himself to death in peace!
Off the Charts
(2002)
When I was a child there were ads in the back of comic books promising
to Set Your Poems To Music! with the implication that stardom --or at least
royalty checks --were yours to be had and all for a low, low fee. Of course
dumb little kids aren’t expected to know any better --we were the fifth-graders
mailing in four quarters taped to a piece of cardboard for a pair of X-Ray
Spex and, no, we didn’t care about any of that “see your skeleton” jazz
but classmate Pauline Duddy’s sprouting tits. The Spex usually never arrived
anyway but when they did, they didn’t work. We got rooked!
Yup, we were taken in, just as countless adults who ought to know better
paid upwards of fifty bucks to have a 45 single cut of their godawful “poetry”
by a (ha-ha) vocalist and (ha-ha-ha) band who cranked out hundreds of these
things, sometimes dozens in a few hours.
There’s interviews with collectors of these wretched mementos (I’m glad
somebody’s keeping these for pop culture posterity but thank god it ain’t
me) as well as the musicians and promoters who aren’t so stupid as to pretend
they were actually doing anyone any favors. But flat-out pathetic are the
characters who had their “songs” recorded and are actually pleased with the
results. One or two of them are uh, shall we say, playing their 33’s at 16
RPM but most seem like ordinary folks, proving once again that ordinary folks
are the ones you really have to watch out for.
In any case, these clowns got what they deserved.
Me too I guess but damn I sure wish those spex had really worked.
Royal Caribbean Lines commercial
(2004)
Whatever Gen-X ad-exec thought to use the Iggy Pop/David Bowie written
Lust For Life on this commercial had to know what he was doing but a song
(edited of course) with lyrics about sleeping on the sidewalk and liquor
and drugs for a Disneyesque family fun on a cruise ship? Its simply a mind-fuck,
especially for the people who’ve never heard the entire song.
American Dreams (2004, tv series)
Dick Clark--the teenager that wouldn’t die--is behind this shallow-minded
series. The background for the one-dimensional events that befall a “typical”
American family is his show American Bandstand
Its an awful show but one guaranteed an audience of my fellow baby-boomers
who (due to constant rehashing in the media) believe that we were all personally
present at every generation-defining event: King, Kennedy and Kent State.
And all boomers too believe that they watched Bandstand weekly without
fail. Me, sure I watched it some but was much more enamored of Where
The Action Is, hosted by Paul Revere and the Raiders who created more
goofy excitement in their silly costumes than anemic and lackluster Dick
Clark could even if he were passing out hundred dollar bills.
If there was any justice in the world in those days, Clark would’ve been
the one assassinated instead of JFK.
where two high school girls, best friends, dance each
week, solving problems like integration, police brutality and Viet Nam while
gyrating to the latest hits. The weekly casting of the musicians is horrendous:
Leeann Rimes as Connie Francis, Duncan Sheik as Bobby Darrin, Hilary Duff
as the Shangri-La’s Mary Weiss and most insulting, Macy Gray as the First
Lady of Stax, Carla Thomas. Liz Phair as Jackie DeShannon was mildly acceptable.
The Life Aquatic (2004)
submitted by Marvel Girl
As somebody who believes the words “David Bowie” to be synonymous with
“wimpy crap” I found myself slightly disappointed that this masterpiece
of a movie consisted of a mostly Bowie-based soundtrack. The Portuguese
renderings of the songs, however, made them more beautiful. And the point
at which our protagonist takes back his dignity and power is highlighted
by a transition from Bowie to the Stooges- pure genius, raw power.
Hail! Hail! Rock
and Roll! (1998)
contributed by Obenjyo
I thought that when I was going to write for this I would be doing Magical
Mystery Tour, but as John Lennon says in the opening of Hail! Hail!
If you were to try to give rock 'n' roll another name you
might call it Chuck Berry. Right. In the 1950's a whole generation worshipped
his music and when you see him perform today, past and present all come
together. The message is hail! hail! rock 'n' roll, right on! So I
changed my mind after seeing this one. Lennon says it all and this tape
proves it. And I feel it needed to be, while everyone has been jacking off
to the Hives, the White Stripes, Nirvana, the Clash, the Pistols, Sabbath,
the Stones, Dylan, or even the Beatles, it is unfortunate that Chuck Berry
is left out.
This documentary was made in '88, the cover box and the intro commercial
for the film and soundtrack made me dread wasting two hours of my life.
I really hate when people try to translate other decades into their own
time, via film, t.v., music or art. It almost always comes out wrong. Also
in the film Berry is 60, so general wisdom suggests that he is going to
be old and tired. Passable at best. Well it's quite the opposite. All the
music is performed live and Berry is still, remarkably, a bad ass. The man
is limber and still has great moves. He plays great, sharp and articulate.
Even when he screws up his power carries him. I would even say his personality
is regal in comparison to his reputation. Which Berry will not allow his
"past" into the film, which tries to creep in. A strange character as Keith
Richards points out that the more you know about him the less you know.
Guest interviews include Roy Orbison, Everly Bros., Jerry Lee Lewis, Eric
Clapton, Lennon, Willie Dixon, and Berry's family. Interesting conversations
between Berry, Little Richard, and Bo Diddley. And a great story by, of
all people, Bruce Springsteen. Also Johnny Johnson who was Berry's original
piano man, is also interviewed and apparently it is suggested that he and
Berry have not played together for 20 years until '88. Somehow Keith
Richards arranged this, the film, and the show finale which is an all star
performance.
Although I prefer the more intimate performances at the beginning of the
film, it's a good tribute. No updating Berry for the 80's and the guest
performers are respectful. No showboating. Berry is the star and the King
of rock 'n' roll. If you haven't seen this film it will change how you look
at Chuck Berry.
Cocksucker Blues (1972)
Pretty crappy as film and barely even home-movie quality --or maybe it
was the print of this hard-to-find, multiple-generation-duped flick? But
its worthy of a screening nonetheless, being mostly the Rolling Stones fucking
around behind and off-stage on tour at a crucial moment in their never-ending
career : post-Gimme Shelter (one of their finest hours if you ask me) but
just after Exile On Main Street (their last hurrah, also if you ask me).
As expected, there’s plenty of sex and drugs in addition to the rock and
the roll (and not just a little nodding out). While there’s footage of people
shooting & snorting dope, film-maker Robert Frank was smart enough to
edit out any actual footage of the Stones themselves breaking the law. Don’t
forget, just a few years previous Scotland Yard’s Detective Sergeant Norman
Pilcher (immortalized as “Semolina Pilcher” in John Lennon’s I Am the Walrus)
was making a name for himself by drug-busting various Beatles and Stones
as well as Donovan and Marianne Faithful.
There’s a few scenes of groupies and various hangers-on getting fucked
up -- and just plain fucked: its more than a little disturbing to watch
a girl on a private jet not quite willingly stripped and screwed by some
guy while the “lads” play bongos and cheer him on. brrrr!
This movie is all that rock n’ roll decadence you’ve heard so much about
all these years. But its also the just plain boring moments between what
is likely Mick and Keith’s ultimate high: onstage in front of thousands of
people going crazy for the traveling Jagger-Richards self-indulgence show.
Josie and the Pussycats (2001)
It seemed like a good idea, to make a life-action (va-va-voom!) version
of Archie Comics’ spin-off Josie and the Pussycats.
The first mistake though was updating the pre-fab bubblegum soul of the
original cartoon series -- of course this was to be expected.
But updating the Pussycats to an alt.rock sound in 2001 was more than a
few years too late (even though someone had the sense to get Kaye Hanley of
short-lived alterntive rock phenoms Letters To Cleo as the songwriter/vocals
for Josie).
And worst of all (or maybe this is a sad comment about me) the comic books
Pussycats are way hotter than Rachel Leigh Cook, Tara Reid or Rosario Dawson.
The Saddest Music in the World (2003)
Art design somewhere between Weine’s The Cabinet of Dr Caligari
and Lang’s Metropolis, like Kenneth Anger remaking Eisenstein’s Potemkin
on the same film stock used for Griffith’s Way Down East and pushing
the f-stop as far as it will go in either direction, this is not-quite a
musical. A global variety of musicians compete for a $25,000 grand prize
in Depression-era Winnipeg to make the saddest music in the world. Full to
the brim of a beer stein with racial stereotypes, lust, betrayal, lager bathing
and the wonderful Isabella Rossellini supported by a great performance by
Mark McKinney. Words fail. The music mystifies. The images skew.
Capital One credit cards commercial
(2005)
Not only is it an insult to the great Isley Brothers to use their 1962
Nobody But Me for a lowly credit card ad but an insult as well to the chart-topping
1967 cover by party-rockers the Human Beinz. Even moreso since the promo
spot features dickhead twerp David Spade.
Leadbelly (1976)
About three-quarters of way through this life story of the noted folksinger
Hudie Ledbetter (always misclassified as a bluesman), I realized it was
no ordinary skim-the-surface rags-to-riches story (or in Leadbelly’s case,
rags-to-better-rags).
Director Gordon Parks is more interested in details and mood. For example,
when Leadbelly escapes the chain gang, the chase lasts for a good twenty
minutes. Any other Hollywood biopic would have done with it in five, just
another stop along the way to the obligatory fame and acclaim. Parks dispenses
with Leadbelly’s own actual happy ending, finally recognized as a international
treasure, awarded his own 1940s radio show and influencing the likes of
Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger who in turn helped usher in the 1960s folk
revival (by the grace of God, Leadbelly died in 1948 long before he could
witness the gutless and anemic Kingston Trio became the USA’s most popular
folksingers).
Hard living, hard-fighting, hard-drinking, hard-fucking, Hudie Ledbetter
was not a saintly man, having been convicted of (and serving time for) killings,
stabbings and carrying weapons no less than four times.
Parks concentrates on Leadbelly leaving his Louisiana home at age 16 into
his third prison term in his late forties.
Nothing fancy as cinema, it remains mostly quick-paced in spite of the
two full hour running time. The performances however were a trifle disturbing.
Maybe its just residual of my white liberal upbringing but the entire cast
seemed guilty of tomming, cooning and plenty of Buckwheat-isms, ala the
eyepopping 1930-40s black actors Stepin Fetchit and Mantan Moreland.
Homie the Clown (tv’s In Living Color) had more dignity than this film’s
characterization of lesser known but equally great blues legend Blind Lemon
Jefferson (who posthumously lent his name to a San Francisco rock group
first known as Blind Jefferson Airplane).
And speaking of blues legends, an early scene showed Ledbetter in a barroom
playing with a kid blowing harp. In the final credits my astute ears were
rewarded (thank you very much) by the confirmation that the actual riffs
were indeed played by Sonny Terry, the Jimi Hendrix of the blues harmonica,
ten years before his death at age 75.
Since all of Ledbetter’s catalogue was recorded on 78 rpm shellac, a studio
musician was used instead of real Leadbelly since the quality wouldn’t have
matched a modern theatre sound system. But as one who was buying Leadbelly
records when I was 14, I couldn’t help being disappointed in not hearing
the originals (1980’s Coal Miner’s Daughter is the only musical biopic
where the soundtrack voice --Sissy Spacek-- matched and at times outdid
the subject’s -Loretta Lynn ).
Faults or not, this film is rarely seen and deserves wider revivals.
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SoundTrack (by
Captain America PO BX 4865 Albq NM 87196 captainamerica1941@hotmail.com)
is
a member of the WigWamBam Family of hack publications and may be found anywhere
I choose to leave it whenever I damn well feel like writing an issue.
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