Pete Townshend was always too ambitious for rock ‘n’ roll. Not so much with the early hits he wrote for The Who, songs like “Can’t Explain” and “Substitute,” which were in essence point-and-click snapshots of the lives Townshend observed around him—songs that in turn gave the band’s youthful audience a collective voice and culture of its own. More so, rather, with the emergence of Tommy in 1969, when Townshend broadened his creative sweep into the realm of a rock opera, crafting songs with narrative themes and psychologically complex characters that when presented together achieved even more prescient significance. Evolving from a singles-oriented band to one which makes long-form albums was not a particularly innovative shift in and of itself, of course. By the same year as Tommy’s soundtrack release, the Rolling Stones had likewise moved on from casting such succinct aspersions of British society as “Mother’s Little Helper” and “Get Off My Cloud” to pursue grander (and darker) subject matter on such LPs as Beggars Banquet and Let It Bleed. What Townshend as the prime songwriting conduit in The Who was doing by this point, however, signified more than a mere intention to broaden a musical idea or even to render an album as some sort of cohesive piece of work. Townshend composed character sketches and thematic motifs, implemented plot devices and narrative constructions like a novelist or playwright, his lyrics laying the foundation that he and his bandmates—bassist John Entwistle, drummer Keith Moon, and vocalist Roger Daltrey—would then galvanize into song. Townshend could be obsessive about his art, but who could blame him? The expectations he unwittingly created—the benchmarks he and the band set in the studio, the mythologized behemoth The Who became on the concert stage—became a lot to live up to, with Townshend’s reputation as a songwriter dictating ever more genius with each new piece of music. In the throes of composing his most aspirational project yet, Lifehouse, Townshend grew increasingly overwhelmed and disillusioned, his intended magnum opus crumbling under his own madcap perfectionism. Scrapping all but the script, so to speak, the band’s producer Glyn Johns salvaged what he deemed the project’s strongest songs, culminating with the 1971 LP Who’s Next. An unmitigated classic, the album—which included a veritable haul of ageless warhorses like “Baba O’Riley,” “Behind Blue Eyes,” and “Won’t Get Fooled Again”—offered perhaps the most ironic affirmation of Townshend’s artistic prowess. Only two years later Townshend redeemed himself with Quadrophenia, yet the specter of the Lifehouse debacle loomed over his head for decades to come. In fact, he didn’t put Lifehouse to bed for good until 1999 with the sprawling, everything-and-the-kitchen-sink box set, Lifehouse Chronicles—which, conspicuously, was credited not to The Who but to Pete Townshend.
And therein lies the crux of Townshend’s songcraft. For all the democratization that often makes a band better than the sum of its individual parts, Townshend’s best ideas came out of working alone. Sure, his initial ideas were then retooled and rearranged and implemented by one of the most ferocious rock bands on the planet. But the most crucial atoms of those classic Who anthems originated out of Townshend’s imagination. Without the concerted collaboration of his band to shape his musical ideas, Townshend’s solo work (which he experimented with in the ‘70s before taking far more seriously in the ‘80s with albums like 1980’s Empty Glass and 1982’s All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes) seemed to be an endeavor wholly distinct from The Who. Which is why, when on January 29, 1986, Townshend and a big-band ensemble dubbed the Deep End rolled into Cannes for a performance for the popular German television series Rockpalast in support of his solo album from the year before, White City: A Novel, the overriding impression—as witnessed on the Blu-ray and CD Pete Townshend’s Deep End: Face The Face—is one of liberation. Boasting a five-piece brass cotillion and five backing vocalists, along with The Who’s stalwart keyboardist John “Rabbit” Bundrick and Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour on lead guitar, the fast-paced set is chock full of raw R&B energy, yielding solo highlights like “Slit Skirts” and “Second Hand Love” alongside a few Who favorites (“Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Pinball Wizard,” “Behind Blue Eyes”) for good measure. Oddly, Gilmour assumes more challenging and audience-thrilling passages on the axe than does Townshend, who seems to revel more in his role as entertainer—some rather awkward dance steps prove that point to a fault—than as a guitar god. But perhaps that was the fundamental object of the exercise. Townshend had already, even by this point 31 years ago, composed one of the most enduring and imposing catalogs in all of rock history—he would return to The Who in periods of both ambivalence and urgency in the three decades to come—and he knew full well that the benchmark he helped set could never be eclipsed, much less by his own effort. Townshend would never make a solo album without it garnering comparison to his most definitive work with The Who—take 1993’s Psychoderelict, for instance—but as a solo artist he has carved out a space wherein his genius can thrive with abandon.
When George Strait announced in late 2012 that he would retire from the road at the culmination of his forthcoming concert tour in 2014, the final gig on the schedule suddenly became a very big deal. How big? Well, the concert (held on June 7, 2014 in Arlington, Texas) ultimately set a new North American indoor-concert attendance record — a distinction held by the Rolling Stones since 1981 — with nearly 105,000 fans packing into AT&T Stadium. Added to that was the gaggle of special guests (including Alan Jackson, Faith Hill, and Kenny Chesney) that showed up to salute and sing with Strait, with each artist helping out on a pair of songs each. Then, of course, there was King George himself, who over the past three and a half decades has garnered more Number One hit singles than any other artist in popular music, period. What could not have been fully anticipated was the sheer emotion of the event, something which the new Eagle Rock DVD/Blu-ray release of The Cowboy Rides Away: Live From AT&T Stadium, so often conveys. Strait is an increasingly rare figure in modern country music, a traditionalist whose appeal and no-frills, “just the songs, thanks” live appearances have endeared him to mainstream audiences of all ages. In watching him perform hit and after hit here — from “Check Yes Or No” to “Amarillo By Morning” to “Unwound” — it’s not difficult to see why, either. For what it’s worth, the performance that garners the biggest ovation from the crowd is not even one of the all-star duets but rather an understated rendition of “The Chair,” which Strait delivers on his own with the elegant command and conviction of a seasoned actor on the stage. Whether or not the concert captured here proves to be the last of his career, it’s a fitting tribute to the timelessness of George Strait’s singular vintage of country music.
The task at hand was enough to make even the most self-assured songwriter wither in excruciating insecurity: Set to music assorted lyrics and poetry by Bob Dylan from 1967 — a box of the music legend’s handwritten texts dating back to his infamous refuge with The Band in Saugerties, New York had at long last been unearthed — and record the songs for a new album. Lost Songs: The Basement Tapes Continued tells the story. Directed by Sam Jones, the documentary (which premiered late last year on Showtime and is now available on DVD and Blu-ray from Eagle Rock Entertainment) chronicles and contextualizes the making of the 2014 LP, Lost on the River: The New Basement Tapes, for which producer T-Bone Burnett recruited a select group of artists — Taylor Goldsmith (Dawes), Marcus Mumford (Mumford & Sons), Jim James (My Morning Jacket), Rhiannon Giddens, and Elvis Costello — to rise to the challenge.
The backstory of The Basement Tapes is adeptly underscored throughout, not least of all with new and incisive commentary from Bob Dylan himself, whose reflections overshadow the documentary’s narrative much like his songwriting overshadows the efforts these musicians are shown to make in composing music to his words. Indeed, what begins as a relatively informal songwriting workshop in due course evolves into an intense, often intimidating endeavor as everyone involved at some point finds their talents being tested beyond their comfort zones. The very idea of making an album that in any way shares some piece of history or perspective with one of rock ‘n’ roll’s most mythologized episodes had to have thrown them all for a mind-boggling loop on some level. Even Burnett, whose own storied career includes a stint as guitarist on Dylan’s 1975 Rolling Thunder Revue, acknowledges the surrealism at play. “The chance to collaborate with a 27-year-old Bob Dylan, now, with 50 years of hindsight,” he says with a modest, nervous grin, “was... interesting.” Whether the songs these artists brought to life compare to the insouciant, never-intended-for-release performances on The Basement Tapes is beside the point, really. The album has more than enough highlights — particularly from Giddens (“Lost on the River #20”) and James (“Down on the Bottom”) — to stand on its own. That, in the end, is what this film illustrates and affirms the most.
As recording artists the Rolling Stones by 1975 were, depending on your perspective, either trudging through a provisional rut or growing accustomed to the status of a legacy act. Their magnum opus, Exile on Main Street, was ensconced three years in the past; their brazen resurgence (or anomalous triumph), Some Girls, lay three years ahead; and their weakest effort in the interim, It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll, was what they’d ostensibly mounted their much-hyped Tour of the Americas to promote. Of course by this point the Stones didn’t need to release a spectacular album to sell concert tickets. Not only was their reputation as live performers arguably unsurpassed in this era but, as evidenced on L.A. Forum (Live in 1975) — recorded during a five-night stand at the Forum, bootlegged for years thereafter, refurbished and most recently released as a DVD/2CD set by Eagle Rock — utterly justified.
With the ever gregarious lead guitarist Ronnie Wood now in tow after having replaced the often taciturn Mick Taylor, the band is especially rambunctious during the 24-song set, even by Stones standards — not unlike Wood’s old mates, The Faces, veritable connoisseurs of errant behavior both on and off the stage. Auxiliary musicians (including percussionist Ollie E. Brown, saxophonist Trevor Lawrence, and keyboardist Billy Preston) no doubt enrich the sound and each man has his moments, but ultimately it’s the Stones stalwarts (Ian Stewart, Bobby Keys) that prove indispensable.
Flamboyant to a fault, Mick Jagger unleashes a primal, savage growl throughout that gives even the ballsiest songs (“Rip This Joint,” “Star Star,” “Brown Sugar”) an added guttural thrust. On the rare ballad (most notably “Angie”) he summons a soul man’s urgent ache, his gruff vocal suggesting Otis Redding’s raw, Southern-bred inspiration. Yet it’s on a torrid, sixteen-minute romp through “Midnight Rambler” that Jagger is at his most intoxicating, at turns humping and writhing atop the stage floor, brandishing his glittered belt like a whip as if in a masochistic fit. It’s a steal-the-show moment in any other band’s show. But this is the Rolling Stones in their prime as live performers, and L.A. Forum (Live in 1975) thrills from start to finish.
The Rolling Stones were losing their edge. By the late ‘70s, amid the throes of punk's rebellious angst and disco's ribald decadence, the Stones—who had long personified both such distinctions—seemed atypically tame.
It had been a long six years since the band’s last really big deal, Exile on Main Street, and even that wasn’t considered the classic then that it generally is today. Critics had begun to dismiss the Stones as obsolete, a relic of a bygone age. If they failed to harness their collective talent, stave off their detractors, and deliver the goods with their next album, the world’s greatest rock ‘n’ roll band stood to get knocked off its proverbial cloud. Some Girls, released in June 1978, heralded the Stones’ brazen return to form and, moreover, to artistic relevance. Simmering with loose groove and swagger the album seethed with all the spunk and splendor of New York’s urban jungle.
By the time the Stones rolled into the Lone Star State the following month on a tour stop in Fort Worth, Some Girls was the number-one album in America. Their performance at the Will Rogers Memorial Centre, captured in the concert film, Some Girls - Live in Texas '78, reveals just how hard they were pushing to stay on top.
Watching them here, not so much playing as but working—the band performs seven of the new album’s ten tracks in one block, book-ended by a smattering of older hits and favorites—is riveting.
Mick Jagger prowls the stage with a feral, no-bounds libido—during “Tumbling Dice” he cops a feel of guitarist Ronnie Wood’s crotch—and striking, in-the-moment conviction. Fronting the band with impassioned, soulful urgency one moment (“Beast of Burden”) and savage ferocity the next (“Shattered,” “When The Whip Comes Down”), he rules the roost throughout this stunning performance
On her most recent studio LP to date, last year’s 100 Miles From Memphis, Sheryl Crow set out to honor classic R&B of the late ‘60s and ‘70s by composing and covering songs ostensibly in that stylistic vein. Despite a couple standout moments, however, the album just didn't live up to its potential, drawing on genre-specific clichés like horns and gospel-tinged backing vocals more than universal conviction.
Still, a rewarding live performance can transcend even the most lackluster material; and yet, for the most part, the one documented on Miles From Memphis: Live at the Pantages Theatre does not. The set begins encouragingly enough — Crow brings plenty of charisma to the stage, and her band here is outstanding — but it soon succumbs to the same stale motifs as on the album, which informs most of the show.
In fact, she spruces up older cuts in much the same dressing — “All I Wanna Do” morphs into Marvin Gaye’s “Got To Give It Up,” the curious transition leaving little to be desired; “Strong Enough” is usurped by an awkward reggae romp, with Crow at times affecting a faux-Jamaican accent — making this soul serenade seem like either a mismatched experiment of artist and genre or, worse, a contrived one.
Thankfully a stripped-down, pensive version of “Redemption Day,” an underrated highlight of the Sheryl Crow album, along with the effervescent hit, “Soak Up The Sun,” help ensure that Miles From Memphis isn't all for naught.
In the DVD’s bonus footage — a featurette that includes a two-song soundcheck along with commentary from Crow on her band and her aspirations for this particular project — she talks about why R&B and soul music has long resonated with her, and how that appreciation ultimately inspired 100 Miles From Memphis and, consequently, this concert film. She admires legends like Curtis Mayfield and Sly & The Family Stone, she explains, because within even their funkiest, most accessible songs they voiced messages of social and political relevance. “The opportunity to go out and carry on that tradition,” Crow concludes, “for me, is not just humbling but it’s really exciting.” It’s also really presumptuous, and any such assimilation does little to help her credibility in what is an all-around missed opportunity.
David Byrne’s critically acclaimed 2008/2009 concert tour in support of his collaborative album with fellow iconoclast Brian Eno, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today, is the subject of a fascinating new documentary, Ride, Rise, Roar: A Live Concert Film.
One of popular music’s most progressive artists—beginning with his groundbreaking tenure in Talking Heads and continued through with an uncompromising, if less popular, solo career—Byrne has long explored the synergistic possibilities in mixing aural and visual mediums. As the near-90-minute feature details, for this project he incorporated elements of modern dance into the context of a rock concert.
Byrne's alliance with Eno dates back decades, and the songs played on this tour concentrated on their unique chemistry. And so it's of no surprise that Talking Heads albums Fear of Music and Remain in Light, in particular, yield some of the most exciting live moments here—“The Great Curve,” “Heaven,” and the primal rhythms of “I Zimbra,” to cite but a few—while new cuts like the reflective “My Big Nurse” and the show-stopping “I Feel My Stuff” bring their bond full circle with equal conviction. Overall, the film functions more as an exposition of Byrne's creative process than as a straightforward chronicle of this particular tour, thus steering clear of the carbon-copy format of most concert films. Instead, it transitions between divergent scenes—rehearsal footage of the band and dancers, commentary by those most pertinent to the stage production, and select live performances—that altogether make for a striking and, in a cumulative sense, the representative impression of what was an exhilarating concert experience.
In a career as extensive and artistically diverse as that of the Bee Gees, perhaps the one prevailing theme has been the group’s near-prodigious ability to compose songs that are both of their time and timeless. It's what makes classics like “To Love Somebody,”“Massachusetts,” and “How Deep Is Your Love” seem as vital and moving today as when they were originally released. And it's this distinction that underscoresIn Our Own Time, a new Eagle Rock documentary that commemorates fifty years of music by the Brothers Gibb. The retrospective is told by the artists themselves, including all-new commentary by Barry and Robin Gibb as well as select and pertinent clips of the late Maurice Gibb, who died in January 2003. Along with a slew of archival footage—from a performance of “Words” on The Ed Sullivan Show to a recording session of “Tragedy” for the group’s 1979 LP, Spirits Having Flown—the overall presentation is as enlightening as it is irresistibly entertaining. In chronicling the highs and lows of their history—including the all-too-brief life and career of their younger brother, Andy—the film traces the Gibb’s evolution as songwriters and composers. Indeed, when the Bee Gees endured the consequences of oversaturation in the aftermath of the Saturday Night Fever phenomenon, they possessed the wherewithal—and the talent—to switch gears and write for other artists. In so doing, they notched sizable hits with the likes of Diana Ross (“Chain Reaction”), Dionne Warwick (“Heartbreaker”), Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton (“Islands in the Stream”), and Barbra Streisand (“Guilty”), among others. As such, their career continued unabated; it just took a different shape for a while.
The immense achievements and stature of the Bee Gees merit more of a concentrated assessment—something along the lines of The Beatles Anthology or Amazing Journey: The Story of The Who—yet In Our Own Time nonetheless does a fine job of profiling one of the most legendary and beloved groups in pop music history.
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers had already achieved some success with their first two albums, but it was with their third, Damn The Torpedoes, that they really hit it big. Containing such radio staples as “Refugee,” “Even The Losers,” “Don't Do Me Like That,” and “Here Comes My Girl,” the 1979 LP in many ways remains the band’s defining work.
As the subject of the latest installment of Eagle Rock’s Classic Albums series, Damn The Torpedoes is examined in depth by the musicians and studio technicians who created it as well as by other discerning commentators.
A typical Classic Albums episode provides a fair amount of back-story to set the album in question into the context of its era and its creators’ career. However, perhaps because the 2007 Peter Bogdanovich documentary, Runnin’ Down a Dream, already covered such ground in detail, what’s presented here concentrates more on the actual making of Damn The Torpedoes rather than the circumstances surrounding it. In doing so, Petty recalls plenty of perceptive anecdotes and kernels of wisdom—“I was always good,” he jokes at one point—but the most enlightening insights come from keyboardist Benmont Tench and guitarist Mike Campbell, both of whom are avid students of their musical influences and cognizant of how those influences manifested on Damn The Torpedoes.
In one particularly enlightening scene, Campbell demonstrates how he worked from an Albert King riff to craft the basic chord structure of “Refugee,” which (though he doesn’t say so) draws a distinct parallel to Petty and the Heartbreakers’ latest album, the blues-influenced Mojo. What’s most apparent in a general sense, though, is that the band’s ability to deconstruct their own songs isn't in any way compromised by the fact that they wrote them.
The bonus material (which runs almost as long as the near-60-minute main feature) continues in much the same vein and is every bit as interesting and informative. Altogether, it makes for one of the best, most informative editions of the Classic Albums series.
To coincide with the recent reissue of the Rolling Stones’ seminal work, Exile On Main Street, filmmaker Stephen Kijak collected a considerable amount of archival footage to present Stones In Exile, which summarizes the making of the album, its reception by critics and fans upon release in 1972, and its enduring legacy today. Through cinematography that often blends still photography from the time and present-day, voice-over narration by the band and other principal figures, the film uniquely invites viewers back to Keith Richards’ 19th century mansion, Villa Nellcôte, where much of the album was conceived.
It was also where much decadence and depravity ensued and, over time, overwhelmed just about everyone involved. This is an authorized film, though—Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and Charlie Watts serve as executive producers—so while some salacious behavior is acknowledged (drug use, mainly), details of the more incriminating, hedonistic kind are selectively overlooked. Nevertheless, the film does well in rendering an impressionistic portrait of the circumstances and chaos that saw the Stones at their most turbulent and, arguably, their most artistically profound.
Of the supplementary material that accompanies the main feature, the best is “Extended Interviews,” in which select band members (Richards especially, but also former Stones guitarist Mick Taylor and retired bassist Bill Wyman) offer up recollections that either didn't make it into the film proper or were cut short. Also, the “Exile Fans” segment injects a bit of welcome perspective and context—the most insightful coming from director Martin Scorsese and record producer Don Was—from outside the immediate Stones circle.
All together, while the film is more entertaining than revelatory, one does come away from it wondering (if you didn't already) how the band managed to make any music at all, especially under such trying circumstances, never mind the caliber of which graces Exile On Main Street.
What was likely regarded as a run-of-the-mill, made-for-TV music program in its original 1985 airing, now — almost twenty-five years later — inspires richer appreciation. Filmed at the Austin Opry House, The Willie Nelson Special features the Red Headed Stranger hosting a somewhat informal though thoroughly enjoyable one-hour performance.
Before what looks to be an inebriated dinner-theatre crowd, Willie exhibits his wide musical taste and versatility, dipping into his own irascible brand of outlaw country, bluegrass, standards, and pop with equal conviction. From the ramshackle shot of “Whiskey River” to the pensive lament in “Without A Song” to a poignant rendition of “Always On My Mind,” the latter complemented by his sister, Bobbie Nelson, on piano, Willie's genuineness comes through all that he plays here.
Photos and footage of his hometown in Abbot, Texas — complete with requisite commentary by childhood friends and neighbors who fondly reminisce about little Willie — interspersed with a few songs, but they add little to the overall presentation.
What does make The Willie Nelson Special, well, special, is the presence and the passion of Ray Charles.
Above a measured arrangement, Ray holds the reins at his piano for a valiant duet with Willie on their classic, “Seven Spanish Angels,” which was a contemporary hit at the time. In turn, Willie leads the way through “Georgia On My Mind,” reprising his cover from Stardust only a few years prior. Of course, with the man whose version is Georgia's official state song sitting next to him, Willie (wisely) lets Ray have a go at it as well.
After trading verses on “I Can’t Stop Loving You” — and, more to the point, once he hears Ray's voice follow his own — Willie shakes his head in awe. “You’re pretty good at that,” he teases him afterward, understating the obvious.
The camaraderie that Willie Nelson shares here with Ray Charles is, in various yet fundamentally similar ways, mirrored in how he relates and performs with his band, which in turn enhances the overall performance. And so, while the audio on the DVD (5.1 Dolby Surround and DTS Digital Surround) is pristine and the video has been well preserved, it's the music that ultimately makes The Willie Nelson Special as good as it is.
Unlike a lot of superstars, Elton John recognizes the contradictions between his admittedly insular, extravagant lifestyle and the comparatively average ones most others lead. So when in 1995 he allowed his partner, David Furnish, to record his day-to-day activities for a documentary, he likely knew that such unrestricted access would cast him in a vulnerable — and perhaps unflattering — light. That the depiction would be so compelling, however, he may not have altogether foreseen.
Originally released in 1997 and now officially available on DVD, Tantrums & Tiaras holds up quite well in rendering the conflicting realities of one of music’s enduring legends. In addition to the feature film, this new edition includes several previously deleted clips, up-to-date commentary by Elton John and David Furnish, as well as relative supplemental footage.
Filmed around the time when Elton John released his album, Made In England, the film finds the musician in flurry of promotional appearances, interviews, publicity shoots, and live performances. All of this — barring a few memorable instances, like his tirade on the set of the “Believe” video — he handles with equal amounts composure and confidence.
It’s what occupies his time between these endeavors — more practical concerns, like the tacit obligations of his relationship to Furnish — that invariably cause John some measure of frustration and, by extension, yield the film’s most affecting content. Seeking a balance between one’s career and one’s personal life is no easy task for many individuals and, as he readily acknowledges here, such is a perpetual challenge for Elton John as well.
A particularly telling scene occurs — captured while the couple is on holiday in the South of France — when the contradictions of John’s life unwittingly converge. Furnish suggests some outdoor recreations that he would enjoy sharing with his partner, that the two could enjoy together. With a pained yet unwavering expression, John rejects each one out of hand — either because his celebrity would draw unwanted attention or from sheer disinterest — before ultimately conceding to “consider” taking a walk with Furnish on a remote part of the beach. It becomes evident (to viewers, but heartbreakingly so to Furnish as well) that, at least at this point, Elton John feels far more comfortable in his role as a famous musician than in that of an intimate relationship.
Rather than inflating the DVD with irrelevant filler, the bonus material included here further serves the function and overall quality of the film. Candor humorously extends to camp, as in one clip when John flashes just enough skin during a photo session to make Madonna blush; in another, he preens before a mirror, dressed in drag, all but oblivious to a lasciviously clad Kylie Minogue playfully wiggling her tuckus in the same room.
Among such revelry, though, lay one profoundly bittersweet segment. In a video taped the same year as the documentary, the late Gianni Versace reflects on his close friendship with Elton John. It’s jolting to watch — as the iconic fashion designer, looking vibrant, speaks with eloquent regard toward his pal — against the context of his assassination less than two years later.
Clichéd though it may sound, it doesn’t make it any less accurate: For Elton John, it all does come back to the music and at the heart of Tantrums & Tiaras lay his exceptional talent. The film wisely yields little in the way of sensationalizing his career — his success is sensational on its own — but instead offers a refreshingly unfiltered and intriguing glimpse of the opposing forces that define his life.
Between 1978 and 2006, Leonard Cohen produced a body of music that rivals among the finest in his entire canon. Also in this era, he saw his popularity grow exponentially as his albums resonated with critics and audiences on a major scale. No longer a fringe artist with a cult following, Cohen evolved into a full-fledged (if not most-unlikely) pop star.
Leonard Cohen Under Review 1978 — 2006 examines this era of the legend’s music, paying particular attention to the context within which it was created and why much of it remains so highly regarded. Like other documentaries in the Under Review series, assorted music journalists (like Robert Christgau and Anthony DeCurtis) as well as other subject-relative specialists (like Cohen’s official biographer, Ira Nadel) lend their perceptions and insights. If any songwriter invites such meticulous assessment, it’s Cohen, but thankfully these commentators don’t succumb to tedious, condescending analysis. While it highlights each studio album from Recent Songs to Dear Heather, the film uses Death of a Ladies Man, Cohen’s ill-fated 1977 collaboration with Phil Spector, as its thematic spark. Described as nothing short of a “debacle,” the project is evidenced to show that Cohen could only be at his best when he didn’t compromise his creative intent or accommodate anything but his own muse.
The documentary’s most astute contention, though, is that Cohen’s latter day ascent in popularity could, in part, be attributed to the recognition afforded him by a series of tribute albums featuring more mainstream performers covering his works. In particular, the 1987 Jennifer Warnes LP, Famous Blue Raincoat, as well as the various artist compilations, I’m Your Fan and Tower of Song: The Songs of Leonard Cohen, exposed Cohen’s songwriting prowess to a mass audience. And after appreciating these interpretive versions from an arguably more palatable perspective, much of that mass audience then sought out their source.
That visibility, so goes the assertion, thus enabled Cohen, upon the 1988 release of I’m Your Man, to reach and ultimately appeal to an unprecedented number of listeners. Unanimously acknowledged in the documentary as a masterpiece, the album catalyzed Cohen’s music career while subsequent efforts—most notably, The Future, with its prophesied, apocalyptic motif—substantiated his newfound distinction. As well, his voice having taken on a deep and sobering tone around this time, Cohen invested gravitas into his songs that rendered him an affecting vocalist in his own right. A clear and convincing case is made in Leonard Cohen Under Review 1978 — 2006 as to how and why the music Cohen produced in this era so crucially factors into his overall renown. There are, of course, a multitude of reasons why, at age 74, Leonard Cohen still draws sell-out audiences in venues the world over. Nevertheless, this documentary addresses a few of them quite well.
The first time Tom Petty came home with some cash he’d earned from playing in a band, his mother thought he’d stolen it from somewhere.
At the time, the likelihood of a teenager in Gainesville, Florida making money by playing music seemed exceedingly remote and unrealistic. Yet, The Beatles’ iconic performance on the Ed Sullivan Show had galvanized Petty’s adolescent enthusiasm for music into a practical ambition, one that would feed a steadfast pursuit of a career in rock and roll. The story of that pursuit is chronicled in a fantastic new film, Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers: Runnin' Down A Dream.
Directed by Peter Bogdanovich, this four-hour documentary traces Petty’s life in full circle, from his youth in Gainesville to his momentous 2006 homecoming concert in commemoration of his thirtieth anniversary in music.
Tom Petty tells his own story here, along with Heartbreakers past and present. Vintage footage, including home movies and rare television show clips, supplements the narration with valuable context and substance. As well, commentary by the likes of Stevie Nicks, Jeff Lynne, Eddie Vedder, and Jackson Browne offer a unique perspective of Petty, from friends and colleagues who admittedly are as much fans as the people who come to his concerts.
Petty’s absolute sense of purpose, a trait evident since childhood, serves as the recurrent theme of this film. The way he explains it, he pursued his rock and roll dream as if there were never any alternatives or potential hindrances. The fact that he persuaded others to go along with his audacious plan seems all the more astonishing. For instance, when he first asked guitarist Mike Campbell to travel with him to Los Angeles in hope of scoring a record deal, Campbell conceded that he’d already planned to enroll at the University of Florida. “You don’t want to do that,” Petty dismissively said. When Campbell then commented that if he didn’t go to college, he’d likely have to join the Army because of the Vietnam draft, Petty sardonically shot back, “Oh, we’ll get around the Army.” That combination of brazen confidence, sheer determination, and naïve optimism underscores nearly every aspect of Petty’s career, which this film illustrates completely.
Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers: Runnin' Down A Dream remarkably chronicles a prolific career that’s yielded dozens of instantly recognizable songs and countless good times for all who’ve cared to listen. It’s an indispensable documentary on one of America’s most successful rock and roll bands, whose leader never backed down in aspiring to his ambition.
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