"Good Ol' Freda" review

I recently took the time to watch Good Ol' Freda, the charming indie documentary released last year about The Beatles' faithful and beloved secretary, Freda Kelly. Several things stood out.

First, this is Beatles history that we really haven't encountered before, or not in meaningful detail anyway. Yes, a chapter of the Fabs' story that hasn't already been painstakingly probed in books, dramatized in movies and plays, and otherwise combed through and commodified. It's strange. A small miracle even. As you learn in the film, the explanation is that Freda is someone who has long valued privacy and loyalty over the limelight and the almighty dollar. She probably would've felt she had betrayed The Beatles' trust by cashing in early and often on her unique vantage point. And all these years later, Freda only agreed to do this project at the urging of her young grandson. Who could find fault there?

At the same time, there is an unmistakable streak of melancholy to Good Ol' Freda, underscoring that integrity can come with material costs. Freda hasn't penned a smash memoir. She hasn't spent her life busily on the hunt for the next media op. Right after The Beatles split, she simply gave away most of the merchandise and memorabilia she had accumulated over the years. As a result, this would-be minor celebrity has had to provide for herself in that most familiar, blase manner: as a 9-5er. A 9-5 secretary no less. True, this was to a certain degree by design. It doesn't seem (seem) much out of step with the path that Freda claims she wanted for herself. But, watching Good Ol' Freda, it's hard to elude the "what could've been" angle. Might she have been able to reap some measure of financial security through her former life while still maintaing her sense of integrity? Perhaps, perhaps not. Regardless, the broader point is that the film almost forces you to consider the question.

Last, and most rewarding, it's a treat to watch and listen to Freda as she - fondly but with a notably casual tone - revisits her past. Memories like seeing The Beatles nearly 200 times at the Cavern Club (she was a fan first) or developing a deep bond with Ringo's mother or forcing John down onto one knee as part of an apology he owed her. It's wild. From basically the start of the Fabs' run to the end, she was right there in the thick of things - not just an up-close witness to history but an active participant. She was a "family member" to the boys, a confidante, an object of respect and adoration. Yet, to Freda - this impossibly down-to-earth woman - it was just part of her life. She has to be the luckiest Beatles fan who ever lived.

Great non-Beatles song...

... with a random Beatles reference.

Nilsson...I just can't quit the guy. And for someone who operates a blog about The Beatles, this is fortuitous, as there's no shortage of shared history between the two acts. The list encompasses press conference plugs, surprise late-night phone calls, transatlantic visits, cover songs, tribute mash-ups, collaborations (both sonic and cinematic), epic booze-and-coke benders, best-man wedding duties, and so forth. I've already blogged about much of this, but here's one Nilsson-Fab intersection that I've yet to highlight: Harry's shout-out to The Beatles in "Don't Leave Me."

Off 1968's Aerial Ballet - a delightful hodgepodge dotted with classics - "Don't Leave Me" is full of the tricks, surprises, and wonders that have always set Nilsson apart. Foremost, take notice of how the song begins and where it is by the end. It's a full-on transformation: from subdued and plaintive to effervescent and whacky. In part, this is thanks to the range and elasticity of Nilsson's legendary voice. As with Roy Orbison, his vocal acrobatics often lead you on little adventures. There's also the unconventional use of just a single chorus, the closing half-minute stuffed with Nilsson's signature "nonsensical melodic mortar" (in the words of Grantland's Sean Fennessey), and - getting to the point of this post - the appropriation of "beep beep beep beep yeah" from "Drive My Car" that comes out of nowhere right in the middle of the track. Why is it there? Hardly matters. All I need to know is that it's Harry and The Beatles.

When Harry met John...

I can always go for more Harry Nilsson. His stirring, versatile, and oh-so natural voice. His oddball, sometimes sui generis style of songcraft. His storied antics. Etc. In my view, he's one of those rare artists whose lesser material still holds plenty of appeal simply because of the compelling personality behind the whole operation. It may not be a great song or a great album; but as long as it's a Harry Nilsson creation, that promises a different and often uniquely rewarding pop music experience. I just adore the guy, warts and all. Below I've collected a handful of recent articles that are about Harry or feature him in some way. All tie in with The Beatles to one degree or another.

- "Reports from Lennon's Lost Weekend: 'Don’t you know who I am?'"

I got a kick out of this line, which comes from a 1974 news story about John's "lost weekend": "Meanwhile that possible Beatle tour looks even more possible as reports filter about that all four of the Liverpool lads could use the ready cash flow such a tour would precipitate." Very possible indeed.

- "40 Years Ago: John Lennon, Harry Nilsson Tossed From Troubadour for Heckling"

Excerpt: "'I got drunk and shouted,' Lennon later remembered. 'It was my first night on Brandy Alexanders — that’s brandy and milk, folks. I was with Harry Nilsson, who didn’t get as much coverage as me, the bum. He encouraged me. I usually have someone there who says "Okay, Lennon. Shut up."'"

- "Unseen John Lennon letter complains about Keith Moon's rock'n'roll behaviour"

A short quote that basically tells it all: "Clearly John Lennon is blaming Keith (Moon) and Harry for urinating on the console...."

- "40 Years Ago: Ringo Starr and Harry Nilsson Release ‘Son of Dracula'"

Excerpt: "'We had this script, Drac takes the cure, marries the girl and goes off into the sunlight — and it was the only movie we wanted to make,' Starr later told Q. 'I called Harry because he was a blonde bombshell and we had his teeth fixed, which his mother was always thankful for.'"

- Lastly, "Harry Nilsson’s 13 Works Of Genius On Film"

Catching up on Beatles news

A thousand apologies for the lengthy absence from this space. I'll try to resume semi-regular blogging starting now. Below is a news round-up from my time away.

- Paul will appear on The Colbert Report this Wednesday for an hour-long music special. Colbert: "I think this McCartney kid’s got something special and I’m gonna put him on the map!"

- In Memphis for a gig late last month, Macca visited Graceland for the first time and left a memento at Elvis' grave.

- From Rolling Stone's review of the Wings Over America re-issue: "There’s something daft and touching about how McCartney strives for band democracy: Whenever Denny Laine sings lead, you can almost hear the fans stampede for their bathroom weed break. Here's a better, more detailed appraisal. And here are some streaming tracks from the triple album. And video. Ah, the Seventies!

- The news that John felt some shame over his spell as a radical activist is not news at all. It's been well documented for years. The more interesting part of this story deals with John's desire near the end of his life to return to Liverpool. He "wanted to sail into the city on board luxury liner Queen Elizabeth 2 as his fans lined the shore."

- Photograph, a collection of pictures that Ringo took on tour and in the studio as a Beatle, is being released in e-book form on June 12th and in (laughably overpriced) physical form next December.

- June 1st was the 46th anniversary of the release of Sgt. Pepper's. In her infinite wisdom, The Gray Lady sneered at it.

- It's a staple of "How The Beatles Impacted History" journalism: Yes, The Beatles won the Cold War. I love this detail: "A widely held fantasy that Woodhead (an ex-British spy turned filmmaker who traveled throughout Soviet Russia) heard over and over was that the Beatles landed in the USSR to play an impromptu concert on the wing of their tour airplane on their way to Japan. The Soviet city would change in each telling but people sincerely believed that this undocumented performance happened."

- A guitar played by John and George was recently auctioned off for $408,000.

- Help! is coming to Blu-ray later this month.

Rock Family Trees - The Mersey Sound

To learn about the rapid rise and fall of Liverpool's Merseybeat scene, "the first truly authentic British contribution to pop history," watch the documentary below.

(If the video is removed, go here.)

Review of "Beatles Stories"

Last night I watched Beatles Stories (2011), a warm and good-hearted but ultimately rather dull documentary by songwriter and author Seth Swirsky. In the film, Swirsky travels all over to interview people - often famous people - about their encounters with the Fab Four. The guest list is impressively high-profile, ranging from music legends like Brian Wilson and Smokey Robinson to Hollywood celebrities like Jon Voight and Henry Winkler to notable figures from Beatles history like Klaus Voorman and Sir George Martin himself. Beatles Stories is certainly not lacking in star power, not to mention likable lesser-knowns. It's also true that many of the stories are charming and memorable. As a rabid fan of The Beatles, how could I not enjoy hearing about Ray Manzarek's stoned realization that the Fabs themselves were stoners, or the time when Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues kindly reminded George how to play "I'm Only Sleeping." It's all catnip for Beatles devotees.

Then why did I come away from Beatles Stories unfulfilled? I see two reasons. First, the organization of the film. The running time is under 90 minutes, but Swirksky still manages to squeeze in roughly 45 stories, which is overkill. One anecdote comes after another in rapid succession, making for a really uneven viewing experience. The start-stop-start-stop dynamic doesn't allow for the individual stories to build on one another or interact in any narrative sense. It's just a bunch of amusing snippets loosely held together, with no apparent rhyme or reason for the particular order they follow. I think Swirsky should've excised a sizable number of the stories and then added narration that pertained to Beatles history. This way, he may have been able to connect some of the strands and develop actual themes.

Second, the stories are for the most part enjoyable, but few of them are all that revealing. Few of them help us to arrive at a deeper understanding of The Beatles. There are some moments that pack insight and emotion - like when Art Garfunkel talks about meeting John in the '70s and discussing their respective ex-partnerships with guys named Paul, or when Denny Laine reflects on Paul's reaction to the news of John's death - but they're few and far between. The stories rarely amount to anything more than cute and amusing, like one guy eating beans-on-toast with Ringo or former Yankees outfielder Bernie Williams sharing a sweaty hug with Macca. Overall, the vibe is pleasantly trivial.

I feel like a jerk being critical of such a winningly-premised and enthusiastic film. I genuinely wanted to like Beatles Stories, but it just never clicked for me. Nevertheless, I still salute Seth Swirsky for his obvious love of The Beatles. Passion projects like this one often don't come to fruition. That Beatles Stories actually got made is alone a cause for good cheer.

Update: I should have mentioned this in the post. It caused something of a stir and left many Beatles fans nonplussed and rankled.

Trailer:

The kinetic genius of Billy Preston, the "Fifth Beatle"

I caught a snippet of the video below in the documentary Strange Fruit: The Beatles' Apple Records and was blown away. Just watch it - watch and learn and don't even attempt to imitate. Preston's moves defy reason; they're nothing short of otherworldly. The whole package - the voice, the dancing, the presence, the suit - is shot through with star power.

"Agent Double O Soul":

Today in Beatles history: "I hope we passed the audition"

It's among the most iconic moments in Beatles history: the rooftop concert. Around noon on January 30, 1969, The Beatles made their way - without advance public notice or police permission - to the top of the Apple building at 3 Savile Row and staged their final live performance. Bundled up due to the cold, blustery conditions, the band, along with keyboardist Billy Preston, debuted songs from the "Get Back"/"Let It Be" sessions, including "Get Back," "Don't Let Me Down" and "I've Got a Feeling." With a film crew on hand, the performance was to serve as the climax of the Let It Be documentary, which - when completed - showed The Beatles in disarray and hurtling toward a nasty divorce. So part of what makes the rooftop concert such a pleasure is that, if only briefly, the band swapped bitterness for fun - boyish, mischievous fun rooted in the thrill of live rock 'n' roll performance. They ad-libbed during songs, they cracked jokes between songs and they practically begged the police, who eventually shut down the gig because of crowds that had gathered, to arrest them. (What a finale that would have been.) Even better, they visibly enjoyed each other's company. I'm thinking of a moment during "Don't Let Me Down." Midway through the song, after John blanks on a line and really hams it up, he looks to Paul for guidance. Facing one another, the two deliver the next line accurately and then exchange smiles that seem to reflect the many years of shared history between them. Even near the end, even amidst severe infighting, the Fabs could still bring out the best in each other. And I would add that, after the joyless process of recording Let It Be, they owed themselves the rooftop concert. A bright spot in stormy times.

Part 1:

Part 2

"Roll up for the mystery tour"

I was lucky enough to catch a showing of Magical Mystery Tour on PBS the other day. It was my first time. Verdict? I'm confident in saying I enjoyed it more than the average viewer did in December of 1967 when the film premiered on BBC1. Unlike the British public, who was blindsided and then thrown into a state of bewilderment by The Beatles' unscripted gonzo surrealism, I knew what was coming. All told, I found the movie amusingly antic, funny (or maybe funny enough is more accurate) and, in terms of its use of The Beatles' music, delectable. Any project that incorporates ten-plus songs by the Fabs is off to a formidable start. The scenes with "I Am the Walrus" and "Your Mother Should Know" stand out in particular. Then throw in Ringo's always winning charm, an inscrutable character named Buster Bloodvessel, an unsettling dream sequence in which John, as a pencil-mustached waiter, shovels heaps of spaghetti onto a plate, and a general spirit of anything-is-possible, we're-having-a-blast anarchy, and what results is a very memorable film. Not a great film, not a work of art, just a memorable hour-long romp.

What's it about? The plot is both beside the point and important, as the movie is part-spectacle and part-sendup. It follows Ringo, his Aunt Jessie and a colorful collection of folks as they travel on a mystery tour bus to some curious destinations. For The Beatles, these trips, which were common in Britain at the time, symbolize their past - a past that was steeped in notions about proper behavior and tradition. This is what the film is lampooning. Thus, the operative line comes when Buster Bloodvessel says he hopes the tour participants will enjoy themselves "within the limits of British decency." Hardly. With its madcap comic aesthetic, Magical Mystery Tour represents a total subversion of "British decency." All the flights-of-fancy, non-sequiturs and tangents served notice that the old rules of the game didn't apply anymore. It was a different world. To be sure, The Beatles still had deep affection for their past, but their new identities were simply so far removed from it. They would have been strangers to their former selves. As one commentator noted on the Arena documentary about the film, the band's message seemed to be "That's who we were, and this is who we are."

Not long after critics and viewers delivered their harsh judgement of the film, Paul essentially apologized for it. In his words: "If we goofed, then we goofed. It was a challenge, and it didn't come off. We'll know better next time." Since then, Paul has changed his tune, saying the film's style was ahead of its time. Its legacy has also benefited from the support of Hollywood heavyweights like Martin Scorsese. But I think it's more interesting to consider what The Beatles' pre-release mindset was. What were their expectations going in? How did they think the public would react to this very different kind of project? It's possible they were puffed up on hubris and just assumed that anything they put out, however avant-garde or uncommercial, would be well received. Or maybe they didn't care. Maybe they made the film for their own amusement. Whatever the case, Magical Mystery Tour was The Beatles' first critical black eye. With Brian Epstein dead, touring a thing of the past and uncertainty in the air, it set the stage for a bumpy final stretch.

(If the video is removed, go here.)

"Magical Mystery Tour Revisited"

The Beatles' psychedelic nostalgia-trip pic of 1967 remains (indeed) a mystery to many people. Below is a documentary that sheds some light on the origins, production and legacy of what was almost certainly the band's oddest creative endeavor.

Watch Magical Mystery Tour Revisited on PBS. See more from Great Performances.

(If the video is removed or not working, go here.)

"The Greatest Rock Spectacle of the Decade"

When I last wrote about the Concert for Bangladesh, I had this to say:

One of the central pleasures of the concert (as shown on the 2005 DVD) is that, notwithstanding the handful of rock 'n' roll powerhouses and living legends that participated, it was the well-regarded but still second-fiddle keyboardist Billy Preston who completely stole the show. In my view, his soulful rendering of "That's the Way God Planned It" and the animated, loose-limbed boogieing that he punctuates the song with outshine the two ex-Beatles' handiwork, Eric Clapton's unrehearsed guitar-playing, and Bob Dylan's mini-set. Preston's stage presence is truly radiant and even has an unmissable spiritual flair. There's also a lot of simple charm in the spontaneous feel of his performance. In sum, it's the most memorable moment of a concert not lacking in talent-heavy highlights.

After watching the film again, I thought I should go into greater detail. It deserves better.

Because the Concert became a template for future pop charity events like Live Aid and Farm Aid, it can be easy to focus on the significance of its legacy and lose sight of how incredible it was simply as a rock 'n' roll concert(s)*. No single performance is as memorable as "That's the Way God Planned It," but there isn't a bad apple among the whole batch. Every song delivers.

George and his super-group opened the show with three songs from All Things Must Pass: "Wah-Wah," "My Sweet Lord" and "Awaiting on You All." That's three Walls of Sound played live at Madison Square Garden. A perfect fit, as it turned out. Freed from the confines of the studio, the songs don't suffer from that gauzy, boxed-in quality that Phil Spector lathered all over his productions. These are the IMAX versions, exploding with bold color and a sonic hugeness that works much better live than on record. "Wah-Wah" in particular is a revelation. Next was "That's the Way God Planned It," which was followed by Ringo's star turn, "It Don't Come Easy." Ringo being Ringo, it's a perky, crowd-pleasing performance. Then came two more cuts from George: "Beware of Darkness," which features Leon Russell as a guest vocalist, and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," which teams George with Eric Clapton on lead guitar. Because of his crippling heroin addiction at the time, Clapton wasn't expected to show. Only with the aid of methadone did he find himself able to function (and not all that well). Apart from the Clapton drama, the performance is noteworthy because it was the first time that "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" had ever been done live (the same was true for "Here Comes the Sun" and "Something," which came later). Next was Leon Russell's change-of-pace medley of "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and "Young Blood"; then George's delicate, stripped down rendition of "Here Comes the Sun"; and then the surprise of the night: Bob Dylan. Dylan hadn't been onstage in several years, and George had serious doubts he would make it. Though a nervous wreck, he did show, and the crowd received him rapturously. As depicted on the film, Dylan played "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall," "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry," "Blowin' in the Wind" and "Just Like a Woman." In that brief moment, the spirit of Sixties idealism was revived. Finally, once Dylan wrapped up, George returned to the mic and closed the show with "Something" and "Bangla Desh," which was the first charity single in pop music history. It was a day of many firsts.

Again, what a collection of songs. And, just as much, what a collection of musicians: George, Ringo, Clapton, Dylan, Ravi Shankar**, Billy Preston, Klaus Voorman, Leon Russell, Jim Keltner, Jesse Ed Davis, Badfinger, and more. That's an embarrassment of riches. George had cultivated many strong relationships over the years, and the Concert testified to how well-regarded he was. It was an event rooted in friendship.

Of course, a few of George's closest friends from the near past were conspicuously absent. In the early stages of planning, John expressed interest in playing, but he later backed out. George had stipulated that Yoko could not be involved, which apparently led to a dispute between her and John. After the Concert, the excuse John gave for his absence was that he had been on vacation in the Virgin Islands at the time. Paul, on the other hand, was a firm no from the start. He said that too much bad blood remained from the breakup. He couldn't stomach the thought of working alongside Allen Klein in any capacity.

In the end, it didn't matter. As with All Things Must Pass, the Concert for Bangladesh was George's moment to shine. To this day, it's still a major part of his legacy. The Concert started out as a noble cause but became a landmark event thanks to those superlative musicians and those classic songs.

* - The Concert actually consisted of two installments, but the film combined them into one.

** - I apologize for ignoring Shankar and the Indian music set. It holds little interest for me. I appreciate the craft but don't care for the creation.

Weekend reading

- "The best books on the Beatles"

Excerpt:

Such is the remarkable pace of a story that has been told by scores of writers, a story about four young musicians but no end of other things: the cities of Liverpool, Hamburg and London; class, and the shaking of English hierarchies; pop's transmutation into a global culture; and the western world's passage from a world still defined by the second world war and its aftermath, to the accelerated modernity we know today. Everything in the tale pulses with significance and drama. It seems barely believable, and in the best Beatles books, it still burns.

. . .

- "Fab furore: Is it time to re-evaluate the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour?"

Excerpt:

Moreover, its key element is an apparent drive to send up an England of decaying authority, bad food and anti-climactic entertainment: the country in which the Beatles had grown up, embodied by the hollering sergeant played by their actor friend Victor Spinetti; the dream sequence in which Lennon serves bucketfuls of vomit-like spaghetti; and the very idea of a mystery tour on a coach. Not for nothing, perhaps, did Harrison claim that the one group who later developed the Beatles' essential sensibility was Monty Python.

The Prefab Four

While the Beatles-Monty Python connection is still fresh in our minds, I want to briefly draw attention to the Rutles. The brainchild of Neil Innes and Python member Eric Idle, the Rutles were a Beatles parody band that started out on the British comedy show Rutland Weekend Television in the mid '70s. Some of their songs: "I Must Be In Love," "Get Up and Go," and "Cheese and Onions." In 1978, the Rutles starred in a TV mockumentary called All You Need Is Cash, which chronicled their career along lines that closely resembled the history of the Fab Four. It brought the group some recognition, even among The Beatles themselves. That's what I want to focus on at the moment. Via Wikipedia, here's how each of the Four reacted:

George Harrison was involved in the project from the beginning. Producer Gary Weis said "We were sitting around in Eric's kitchen one day, planning a sequence that really ripped into the mythology and George looked up and said, 'We were the Beatles, you know!' Then he shook his head and said 'Aw, never mind.' I think he was the only one of the Beatles who really could see the irony of it all."

- Harrison said "the Rutles sort of liberated me from the Beatles in a way. It was the only thing I saw of those Beatles television shows they made. It was actually the best, funniest and most scathing. But at the same time, it was done with the most love." Harrison showed Innes and Idle the Beatles unreleased official documentary The Long and Winding Road, made by Neil Aspinall. (Aspinall's documentary would be resurrected as The Beatles Anthology.)

- Ringo Starr liked the happier scenes in the film, but felt the scenes that mimicked sadder times hit too close.

- John Lennon loved the film and refused to return the videotape and soundtrack he was given for approval. He told Innes, however, that ‘Get Up and Go’ was too close to The Beatles' "Get Back" and to be careful not to be sued by Paul McCartney. The song was omitted from the 1978 vinyl LP soundtrack. In an interview with 'BeatlesandBeyond' Radio Show presenter Pete Dicks, Innes remembered that Lennon said "you're going to have trouble with THAT one!" - "How right he was, the dear man."

- McCartney, who had just released his own album, London Town, always answered, “No comment.” According to Innes: “He had a dinner at some awards thing at the same table as Eric one night and Eric said it was a little frosty.” Idle claimed McCartney changed his mind because his wife Linda thought it was funny.

. . .

Their personalities to a tee, huh? At the very least, the responses capture how each of them viewed The Beatles after the breakup.

John: Cheeky and sardonic, he didn't "believe in Beatles."

Paul: Protective, even possessive of the band and, on some level, eternally wounded by its demise, he's the Beatle you'd expect to not find the humor in a parody.

George: Like John, the Salty Fab didn't regard The Beatles as a sacred cow.

Ringo: Lighthearted but sensitive, he enjoyed being a Beatle and rarely spoke ill of the band.

"The film so funny it was banned in Norway"

The Beatles were part of, not one, but two Jesus controversies. The first and more infamous arose in 1966 after John boldly ventured that the Fab Four were more popular than the Son of God. The statement provoked a bitter backlash in the U.S. and dogged John for many years. The second "Jesus controversy" unfolded well after The Beatles had broken up, and it only involved George (and even then, somewhat indirectly). It took the form of a movie that, since its release in 1979, has often been hailed as one of the greatest comedies in cinematic history: Monty Python's Life of Brian.

In 1978, George came to the rescue of Life of Brian. Just days before director Terry Jones was to begin filming, EMI Films pulled funding due to unease about the movie's content, which consists partly of religious satire. (Plot: the titular Brian is born next to Jesus and gets mistaken for him.) George caught wind of this and - being rich, generous, and a friend and fan of the Python troupe - formed a production company called Handmade Films to finance the project. At one point, George said that he simply "wanted to see the movie." So much so, in fact, that he mortgaged his house to secure the funds. Not only did he get to see Life of Brian, he also made a cameo appearance in it. He played Mr. Papadopoulos, "owner of the Mount."

When the rest of the world saw Life of Brian, accusations of blasphemy rained down on the Pythons. From Norway and Sweden to the U.K. and the U.S., it was debated, picketed and even banned - a warmup act of sorts for The Last Temptation of Christ in 1988. The Pythons had the final laugh, though. As often happens with such controversies, the extra attention drove up ticket sales, and today Life of Brian is widely considered a classic.

I mention all of this because a) I've been trying to write more about George lately; and b) I watched Life of Brian over the weekend. I had seen it before, but this time I was old enough to truly appreciate it. It's uproarious. From Brian's haggish mother to the hopping "ex-leper" to the People's Front of Judea to Pontius Pilate's rhotacism, the gags never misfire. Is the film offensive? From one perspective, of course. It's full of swearing and off-color humor. Is it blasphemous? I would say no. I think it nimbly tiptoes around such sins. The only scene that shows Christ is handled tastefully, and I can't recall actual Christian doctrine coming up even once. By explicitly referencing the Gospels but keeping the narrative askew of Christ, the Pythons tempt you into thinking that what's onscreen is blasphemous. Perhaps they even want you to take the bait, only to realize that it's just a comedy you're watching. In fact, the movie's most sustained and stinging line of satire is directed at protest movements. The subplot involving the People's Front of Judea (and the Judean People's Front, the Judean Popular People's Front and the Popular Front of Judea) is hilarious. As is the whole movie. Kudos to George for backing a winner.

The Quiet Beatle in full?

Almost a year after its release, I finally watched George Harrison: Living in the Material World, Martin Scorsese's acclaimed documentary about the "Quiet Beatle." Based on the length of the film (208 minutes) and several reviews I had read, my main expectation going in was that Scorsese would provide a thorough, exhaustive treatment of George's life. I recall one reviewer opining that GH: LITMW would stand as the final word on the perpetual odd-man-out of The Beatles' powerhouse triumvirate.

It was strange, then, that upon finishing the doc, my first thoughts were all about how much it gave short shrift to or left out altogether. For instance, in Scorsese's hands, George's career as a solo musician is boiled down to All Things Must Pass, the Concert for Bangladesh and the Traveling Wilburys. These are the highlights, yes, but focusing on them to the exclusion of his many other solo releases leads to a dramatically incomplete picture of George as a recording artist. In other spots, GH: LITMW approaches whitewash territory (even if it doesn't quite get to that level). Scorsese couldn't possibly sidestep the messy love triangle that developed between George, his then-wife Pattie Boyd and Eric Clapton - and he doesn't - but he paints George as an almost passive player in the drama, which he wasn't. Elsewhere, George's widely panned 1974 U.S. tour comes up, as do the unkind reviews, but the section ends with someone swooping in to its defense. Though there are exceptions (like when Olivia Harrison broaches, with an obviously heavy heart, George's infidelity), the general tenor of the film seems to be: allude to the negatives when unavoidable and emphasize the positives as much as possible, because something close to the uncensored version might be too dicey.

If, on the other hand, there simply wasn't enough space to present George's story in more complicated detail (which is being charitable), Scorsese didn't help himself out by opting against a conventional structure for the film. His lightly impressionistic aesthetic, which eschews voice-over narration, the use of dates and strict chronology, is sloppy, tedious and inefficient. The narrative often feels like it's merely drifting along, sometimes covering the same ground twice and at other times not moving at all. A general vagueness prevails. I think the story would've benefited greatly from a more formal technique.

Though it has a fair amount to offer (i.e., various interviews, George's letters, rare footage, etc.), I have to count George Harrison: Living in the Material World as a missed opportunity. With so much at his disposal, Scorsese should've aimed higher.

"Roll up for the mystery tour"

Big news announced yesterday: Magical Mystery Tour, The Beatles' long out-of-print film from 1967, has been restored and will be available on DVD and Blu-ray in early October. A little backstory... MMT came in the wake of both The Beatles' decision to stop touring and the tragedy of Brian Epstein's death. It was an unfocused period for the band. With Paul as the driving force, the Fabs themselves directed the film, a druggy, surrealist, madcap vision of a weekend bus trip around the English countryside. Production was sloppy and haphazard, as there was no script and the Four had little idea what they were doing. Upon release, MMT took a beating from the British press. It was a rare creative black-eye for The Beatles (though the soundtrack did deliver the goods). Since then, opinion has shifted a bit, and it seems the various Beatles estates have determined that the film is finally ready for another look. It's one missing piece of the puzzle that we won't have to complain about any longer. Now bring on the Let It Be doc!

Go here for the Magical Mystery Tour trailer.

Weekend happenings

This past Saturday, I saw the Walkmen in concert at "the house that Prince built." Superb show. The Walkmen are among my favorite American bands, and they happen to have an interesting tie-in with The Beatles. In 2006, they put out a song-for-song re-creation of Harry Nilsson's 1974 album Pussy Cats, which was produced by John during his debaucherous but fertile "Lost Weekend." Ringo, a close friend of Nilsson's, contributed as well; he was one of the featured drummers. Furthermore, as stated on Wikipedia, "On the first night of recording, March 28 (1974), Paul McCartney popped into the studio unexpectedly. Bootleg recordings from this session were later released as the album A Toot and a Snore in ’74." All told, the original Pussy Cats is smeared with The Beatles' fingerprints. In fact, John co-wrote my favorite song on the album, "Mucho Mungo," which I described here as a "shimmering coral treat." If you go here, you'll find two versions of the song: one by Nilsson and one by John. Below is the Walkmen's faithful cover.

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Then on Sunday, I watched The Last Waltz, Martin Scorsese's renowned rock doc about The Band and their farewell concert, which took place on Thanksgiving Day, 1976. Included in the large number of special guests who performed at the show was Ringo. He played drums on Bob Dylan's "I Shall Be Released" (see below) and took part in a jam session that, frankly, didn't suit his style at all. Ringo wasn't the improvisational, soloing type. He was more of a minimalist who thrived in the controlled environment of a studio.

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"Death came to the party"

In this post from late March, I made a passing reference to the "Manson murders." A few weeks later, I touched on The Beatles' breakup. Then last week, I watched Gimme Shelter, the legendary documentary about the Rolling Stones' U.S. tour of 1969 - the tour that concluded infamously amidst chaos and death at the Altamont Speedway Free Festival in northern California on December 6th. There's a common strand among these three events: the end of the 1960s as a period of youthful idealism and romanticized "sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll" liberation. Of the three, Altamont is most closely linked to the demise of that cultural moment, thanks in part to Gimme Shelter.

I hadn't seen the film prior to last week's viewing, but - like most students of rock 'n' roll history - I was familiar with the details. Presented as a series of quasi-flashbacks, Gimme Shelter follows the Rolling Stones as they traveled west across the U.S., starting with a performance at Madison Square Garden and from there always moving gradually, inescapably to the horror of Altamont. A sense of coming doom is the film's hallmark. It's there when the band plays in New York City; it's there when they review concert footage; it's there in the lazy, quotidian down time of the tour; and it's there, quite conspicuously, as harried negotiations take place to make "Woodstock West" a reality. (The concern voiced by various parties about logistics and safety can't help but seem prophetic.) From what I can gather, the motivation for Altamont was twofold: 1) the Stones had been criticized for high ticket prices and wanted to make amends; and 2) 1969 was the year of the free music festival: both Hyde Park and Woodstock had taken place that summer. In the film, Mick Jagger boasts that Altamont would fit the ethos of the festival movement, which was serving as "an example for the rest of America as to how one can behave in large gatherings." The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions.

When the day of the concert finally arrives, there's still more cruel build-up to endure. The Stones didn't go on until well past dusk, giving ample time for tensions to brew between roughly 300,000 excitable, drugged-out fans and the Hell's Angels, who were hired as stage security - fatefully. Armed with pool cues and allegedly paid in beer (though this is much disputed), the Angels weren't looking to play nice. Before the Stones even stepped foot onstage, the scene turned edgy and violent. The Angels mocked the crowd - "We're partying like you" - and tussles abounded. Most notably, Marty Balin of Jefferson Airplane got knocked unconscious by one of the Angels. This prompted the Grateful Dead to bail on their performance. The Stones, on the other hand, had no choice but to play: though a gathering nightmare, Altamont was their brainchild. We all know what happened next: Several songs into their set, which had featured the sinister tones of "Sympathy for the Devil" and "Under My Thumb," an 18-year-old man named Meredith Hunter was stabbed to death by an Angel after he brandished a gun and fired off a shot. Seeing that a fight had broken out, Mick tried to calm matters down, but he wasn't aware of the gravity of the situation. He wasn't aware that Altamont had just been visited by murder. The Stones kept playing, confused and frustrated but not yet shaken to their core.

That moment seems to come near the end of the film as Mick watches video of the crime. He, as well as the viewer, sees Meredith Hunter charge the stage after being pushed back, with his gun clearly visible against a woman's crocheted top. We then see a knife-wielding Angel spring into action; one of the subsequent shots is a freeze frame of the knife held high, primed for a plunge. Finally, we see the knife viciously reach its target, not once but twice. Throughout, the shots are slowed down, rewound, stilled, and then played again. Mick's response: "It was so horrible," followed by the blankest of stares. It's also how the viewer is meant to feel. To watch an actual murder take place even on film is a powerful and sobering experience. I'll admit that, upon reflection, I found it unseemly how riveted I was by those images. Though the murder occurred under fascinating circumstances, death was still the final, gruesome result.

There are many other sequences that I won't soon forget. One of the most striking is when the Angels ride into Altamont, parting the crowd, engines blaring. In the words of Stanley Booth, it was like the arrival of "an invading army" - they heralded discord. Another portentous moment comes early on the day of the concert when Mick is making his way to the band's trailer and gets smacked by a fan. It's an eerie premonition of violence, befitting the occasion far more than the peace signs flashed in the crowd, which take on the feel of empty, feckless gestures. After the deed is done, emotions inevitably run high. There's a stirring shot of a young woman in tears, crying out, "I don't want him to die." Meredith Hunter did die at Altamont that day, along with three other people: two were victims of a hit-and-run accident and one drowned in an irrigation canal. Wikipedia adds: "Scores were injured, numerous cars were stolen and then abandoned, and there was extensive property damage." The final sequence of the film shows a stream of people leaving this calamitous scene. They were leaving the '60s.

What are we to make of Altamont? Who deserves blame for the chaos? Gimme Shelter implicates a handful of people while never fully assigning guilt. But it's hard not to read a great deal into a shot that comes right before the concert-goers are shown in exit. Mick and one of the directors finish going over the footage of Hunter's murder. As Mick gets up from his seat and starts to walk out, the camera focuses on his face. The shot freezes. He's not wearing much of an expression, but - unlike his blank stare from just moments prior - he doesn't look weary and burdened. Instead, there's a distant intensity to his gaze. Maybe it's a sneer. Maybe there's even a touch of evil present. It's a spellbinding shot, but its function isn't readily apparent. Co-directors Howard and David Maysles didn't need to include it, unless their intent was to urge viewers to consider Mick's role - his moral culpability - in the disaster of Altamont. After all, it would have been simplistic and inaccurate if they’d simply pinned all of the blame on the Angels. There are too many qualifiers down that path. (i.e., Yes, the Angels were rough with the crowd; and yes, it was one of their men who took the life of another. But they were in a difficult spot dealing with kids who were tripping on acid and amphetamines; and when the murder was committed, it was in response to Hunter’s show of violence. Moreover, they didn’t just show up unannounced; they were asked to be there.) Rather, I think the Maysles brothers were hinting at broader, more abstract themes, like the notion of rock 'n' roll as violent artistic expression. Maybe they didn't view the youth counter-culture of the '60s as a movement that was ever innocent. It did in fact celebrate excess, and mischief was part of its DNA. Maybe the Maysles brothers held its luminaries in contempt for what they had created but couldn't hope to contain.

Mick was obviously a consequential figure of the time. His style as a songwriter and performer was rooted in bravado, arrogance, even egomania. He enjoyed taunting his fans, filling their minds with dark, potent imagery, and then whipping them into a frenzy. Onstage he was like a populist tyrant, indulging his own whims while also satisfying those of the crowd. But peace couldn't be maintained indefinitely, and it's likely that the Maysles brothers saw the scene at Altamont as a microcosm of rock 'n' roll culture: it was thrilling but combustible. The drugs, the booze, the sex, the wild emotion - a tipping point was inevitable. Once there, the priests and prophets of the movement - the Mick Jaggers, etc. - wouldn't be able to tame the madness. They wouldn't be able to defuse the hysteria they had helped foment.** At Altamont, Mick was indeed helpless. In the face of upheaval, his calls to order carried no weight; in the face of death, his stage act came off as pathetically frivolous. With a murder taking place right in front of him, all of his panache and swagger was exposed as meaningless. In that meaninglessness perhaps lay some guilt. It's not for nothing that there are shots of fans shaking their heads at Mick, a newly fallen leader.

In the end, many were at fault to one degree or another: the drugged-out hippies, the drunk and violent Angels, the people who hired them, the festival planners, and Mick, along with the rest of the Stones***. I'm sure the argument has been made that the Maysles brothers somehow retroactively share in the guilt as well. After all, they profited from Altamont, which isn't without moral complications. And yes, it could be said that the viewer doesn't fully escape blame either. Why do we watch Gimme Shelter? It's not for the music - it's for the murder.

* - The title quote comes from Stanley Booth.

** - Some form of this interpretation is likely endorsed by Sonny Barger, a founding member of the Oakland chapter of the Hell's Angels who was present at Altamont. In his book Hell's Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell's Angels Motorcycle Club, he writes of the Stones: "They had accomplished what they'd set out to do. The crowd was plenty pissed off and the craziness began."

*** - Long live the incomparable Keith Richards!

"The world's only operatic rockabilly singer"

"I used to listen to a group called The Beatles; do you remember them? The very first record I ever had by them was called 'Please Please Me,' and that was written for Roy Orbison. If you slow that song right down, you can hear Roy Orbison in it. And that's the story."

So says Elvis Costello during the closing credits of A Black and White Night, the gorgeously shot 1988 concert special that spotlights the incomparable, groundbreaking talent that was Roy Orbison. It's among my favorite concert movies, and I watched it last night for probably the ninth or tenth time. As Costello suggests, The Beatles were huge admirers of Orbison and operated under his influence early in their career (go here for more). In the 1980s, George and Orbison even collaborated as members of the Traveling Wilburys.

Capturing a master singer-songwriter at work, A Black and White Night underscores just how influential Orbison was. He is joined by Costello, Bruce Springsteen, Tom Waits, Jackson Browne, T Bone Burnett, k.d. lang, Bonnie Raitt, James Burton, Jennifer Warnes, and other devotees to perform his indelible songs. The supporting cast is an astounding collection of stars - many legends in their own right - and yet they all happily play second-fiddle (or lower) to that melancholy man with the black sunglasses and heavenly three-octave voice.

The joy shown onstage by these folks says it all. There's the shit-eating grin on Tom Waits' face at the rousing conclusion of "Mean Woman Blues;" there's the eager, daughterly affection conveyed by Raitt, lang, and Warnes as they supply backup vocals; and most memorably, there's the recurring sight of Bruce Springsteen - brawny, brash Bruce Springsteen - reduced to a puddle of boyish glee. In the presence of one of his heroes, Springsteen wears a reverence and elation on his face that couldn't be more genuine. As he trades guitar solos with Burton and Orbison during "Ooby Dooby," he occasionally looks up at them with the expression of a young boy excitedly seeking approval from his father. You've never seen the Boss quite like this.

It's all for Roy, and if you don't understand why, watch A Black and White Night and let Orbison's mesmerizing, immortal voice work its magic; it will transport you. Though most of the songs - like "Only the Lonely, "Dream Baby," "Oh, Pretty Woman," and more - are deserving classics, I'll highlight "In Dreams," because it's a pop gem as unorthodox as it is beautiful. Like other songs by Orbison, it has no verse-bridge-chorus structure to speak of. It just flows, wondrously following the desires and whims of Orbison's sad, dreamy vocal. As Jennifer Warnes observes at the end of the concert, it's "timeless stuff."

*The quote in the title comes from J.D. Souther.

Michael Lindsay-Hogg on The Beatles, "Let It Be"

While the subject of The Beatles' breakup is fresh in our minds, it makes sense to have a look at two excerpts from Michael Lindsay-Hogg's recently published memoir, Luck and Circumstance. As the director of the Let It Be documentary, Lindsay-Hogg had an insider's view of The Beatles in turmoil. Like only a few others, he was able to breath the air of some of their worst days. In the passages below, he comments on the fractious band dynamic that unfolded before him.

From excerpt #1:

And there was no idea that any of us could agree on, to do with the TV special. Ringo wanted to do it at the Cavern, the little club in Liverpool where Brian Epstein had first seen them. John and Yoko didn't really care where we did it but did seem up for some sort of adventure, or maybe they just wanted to get out of the cold barn at Twickenham. George didn't seem to want to do it at all. Paul was the one who kept pushing for us to make a plan. His character is resolute, and I think in his heart Paul felt if he couldn't get them to agree as a group to do something as a group that they might fall apart, and, because of his nature, that was the last thing he wanted.

From excerpt #2:

His (George) position was a difficult one. He didn't want them to perform in public again; it had all gotten too crazy. I saw one of their final public appearances at a theater in London. The screaming was so loud, the balcony shaking, that they couldn't hear themselves play and had abandoned the show after a song or two. George just wanted to make an album and felt his position within the group wasn't as valued as his talent should demand. He'd been the youngest, fifteen, when Paul was sixteen and John seventeen, and, the story was, he'd carry the guitar cases as the other two strode ahead, discussing their great plans. And also, probably, he wasn't happy with the traditional album shake- out, artistically or financially. If there were twelve tracks, say, nine would probably be Len/Mac, another with Ringo, and two by George. And George knew he was soon to stake his claim to be his own man, a unique musician, passionate, tender, and ironic.