I just got around to watching the second edition (actually Part 1) of the two documentaries on the Lennon/McCartney songwriting partnership. (I wrote a lengthier post about the first one I saw, Part 2, almost a year ago, which you can read here.)
This installment,Composing the Beatles Songbook: Lennon and McCartney 1957 - 1965, covers the early years of the partnership, examining how the two musicians developed and began to assert their own styles and voices, while also continuing to work collaboratively on many occasions (at least during this period).
Insightful commentary and interviews with friends who were there at the time add considerable nuance to the typically over-simplified summary of the pair’s individual songwriting styles and influences. The film also debunks the myth that the band was initially John’s; a common assumption based on the fact that he was the founder and leader of The Quarrymen, the band which Paul joined before the group evolved into The Silver Beatles and then just The Beatles. It makes a compelling case that Paul quickly assumed co-leadership with John based on the duo’s superior composing skills and stage presence.
The documentary dissects Paul’s emergence as an exceptional pop songsmith (and sheds light on the roots of those sensibilities), while also providing one of the more thorough explorations of Dylan’s pronounced influence on John’s songwriting in 1964 and ’65. The detailed examinations of McCartney’s “Can’t Buy Me Love” and Lennon’s “Hard Day's Night” (Who knew they were both blues songs, in their own, early Brit-pop, kind of way?), as well as John’s confessionals, “Help” and “Norwegian Wood,” are particularly interesting.
While the music involved and the story of the dynamics between the duo is undoubtedly more compelling in the second DVD, spanning 1966 - 1970 (again, you can read more about that here), this view of the early years is surprisingly substantive and entertaining – even without any direct commentary from the composers themselves. The bottom line is that there was a lot there, even in those early days when they were simply Mop Tops (or, at least, so perceived).
If you like The Beatles, or just appreciate the art of songcraft, I highly recommend checking out both of these documentaries.
The Beatles’ first fully acoustic song, “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away,” from 1964’s soundtrack to the second Beatles’ movie Help, is one of several examples of the strong Dylan influence on John Lennon’s songwriting.
I just watched the new DVD release of the famed 1964 T.A.M.I. Show at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. You know, the concert that Sting referred to in the 1980 Police song “When the World Is Running Down, You Make the Best of What’s Still Around”:
Turn on my VCR, same one I’ve had for years / James Brown on the T.A.M.I. Show, same tape I’ve had for years …
Well, I hadn’t seen this particular performance before, but watching this old footage (newly restored for DVD) leaves little doubt about what an incendiary and trailblazing performer James Brown was in his prime. One thing is blatantly clear from this video: There would be no Michael Jackson without the Godfather of Soul … that’s for sure! The guy’s feet had a life of their own.
You have to love the showmanship. And posturing though it obviously was, it’s priceless when, having given it his all and verging on the edge of physical collapse, J.B. just can’t help but throw off the robe, push his handlers aside and return yet again to the mic to give us just a little bit more. Soul power, indeed. Awesome!
It’s hard to believe that this was only 1964, and that Elvis had caused such a stir only eight years before – for doing nothing like this!
Here are two brief YouTube excerpts, but check out the DVD to get the full impact of Brown’s high-octane performance, as well as other worthwhile ones by Chuck Berry, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, The Supremes, and a very young Rolling Stones, among others.
Not nearly complete, but close enough to get the idea.
Every once is a while I weigh in on one of the many music documentaries in circulation these days. There are a lot of them out there, and I have an increasingly crowded DVD closet bursting with them. It’s a far cry from when I was a teenager and the only way you could see concert films or documentaries on your favorite artists was to go to a rare midnight showing at a local cinema or catch Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert on TV.
This week, I was enriched by Respect Yourself: The Stax Records Story. It’s a fascinating tale of the little independent record company out of Memphis that defied all odds to become an unprecedented cross-cultural stew, resulting in the unique and powerful “Memphis soul” sound of the 1960s before eventually succumbing to tragedy, greed and racism in the early 1970s.
Not only does the film remind us of some truly remarkable music of a bygone era, it also serves as a civics lesson. If there was ever any doubt about the power of music to build bridges and unite people, then the Stax story (at least the early part of it) makes the case. In the early ’60s, Memphis was one of the most racially divided cities in America. Blacks and whites couldn’t eat together, share a swimming pool or stay in the same hotels. Yet, in the midst of this, Stax Records grew, nourished by the astounding music that came out of here-to-fore unthinkable collaborations between black and white musicians, proving that not only could they make incredible music, but also run a successful business and happily socialize together.
Nowhere was this creative camaraderie more in evidence than in the phenomenally talented, half-black, half-white quartet Booker T. and the M.G.s, who served as the label’s house band backing all of the Stax artists as well as having several noteworthy hits of their own.
Besides the social significance of the Stax story, the documentary explores the rivalry between the upstart Stax and Detroit’s well-established Motown Records – both out to capture the emergent black-white crossover market. While Motown had the lock on the polished smooth sounds of Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Martha and the Vandellas, Marvin Gaye and the Supremes, Stax had the funkier, soulful groove of Otis Redding, the father-daughter team of Rufus and Carla Thomas, Booker T. and the M.G.’s, Sam and Dave, the Staples Singers and Isaac Hayes.
Started by Jim Steward and his sister Estelle Axton in 1959 as Satellite Records (before adapting the conjoined surnames as the company’s moniker in 1961), the fledgling label quickly tapped into the upbeat, “soul” of its surroundings and distinguished itself from the slower, traditional blues sounds of the previous decades – in effect updating the popular R&B genre for a younger, and wider, crossover audience.
For cultural reasons, as well as sonic ones, the Stax sound is clearly stamped with trademarks of the era, yet the pure, gospel-infused soulfulness of so much of the music gives it timeless appeal. I defy anyone to listen to instrumental Booker T. and the M.G. gems, such as “Green Onions,” “Time Is Tight” or “My Sweet Potato,” and not find them as resonant today as ever. And, that’s not even considering the impact of the group’s work backing Otis Redding on classics such as “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay.”
Despite the label’s impressive array of talent, it was Redding who most represented Stax, almost-single-handedly building its stature way beyond its humble origins.
Like most fans of 1960s’ music who didn’t actually live through the ’60s (well, I did but I wasn’t yet grooving to the sounds of Memphis soul!), I never fully appreciated the magnitude of Otis Redding’s fame and impact. Sure, I knew he wrote “Respect” and had a string of impressive hits, such as “Dock of the Bay,” “These Arms of Mine,” “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long,” “I Can’t Turn You Loose,” “Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song),” “Pain in My Heart” and “Shake.” I knew that he was a big influence on the early Stones (they covered several of his tunes and he returned the favor with an energetic cover of “Satisfaction”). And I was aware that he made a big crossover impact at 1967’s Monterey Pop Festival. But I wasn’t really aware of the star power to which he was ascending. With some notable help from Booker T. and the boys and, later, the Bar-Kays, Otis essentially made Stax records. Not only did he sell a lot of records, he wowed audiences from California to Boston and all across Europe, where he was ecstatically embraced headlining concerts featuring Stax artists.
But in riding Redding’s fame to business success, the label was dealt its first knock-down blow in December 1967 when Otis’ tour plane crashed in Wisconsin, extinguishing his incendiary career at only 26 years of age. The technical knockout came a few months later in April 1968 when the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., in Memphis to show support for the local sanitation workers’ strike, was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel, where the Stax folks often hung out. This deflated the sense of racial harmony that Stax had fostered. In some ways, it was the beginning of the end for the company, though that would take another half-decade to play out.
Over time, the Stax execs learned the hard way that the distribution deal they’d cut with Atlantic Records, giving the little label clout well beyond its means, ultimately proved to be an exploitative relationship (according to this film, at least) to Stax’s detriment.
The extent of Isaac Hayes’ early and evolving role at the label was a revelation to me. Like most people, I knew Hayes as the 1970’s soul-stirrer most famous for the Shaft movie theme. I didn’t know that he and writing partner David Porter had been a mini hit factory for Stax through the 1960s and that, in his own way, Isaac was nearly as important to the label’s sound and success as Booker T. and the M.G.s.
By the turn of the decade, Hayes had emerged as a star in his own right. The film frankly details the changing dynamic and growing internal discord this introduced at the label as, in the wake of King’s assassination, they embraced the Black Power movement, held the huge “WATTSTAX” concert in L.A., began to dabble in film production and comedy (most notably early Richard Pryor albums), nearly purchased the Memphis Tams A.B.A. basketball team, embarked on an ill-fated partnership with CBS Records and, eventually – amid allegations of greed, financial shenanigans and bank foreclosure – went bankrupt.
The Stax journey had been a decade-long shooting star with a brilliant rainbow tail.
One huge oversight in the film, however, is the almost complete lack of mention of Albert King. The big Flying-V-playing bluesman was a hitmaker for Stax and had played a key role in bringing soulful blues (sharp, biting blues guitar licks coupled with swinging horns) to the hippie masses. In so doing, he became a favorite on the late-’60s Fillmore concert circuit. The far-reaching influence of his playing is plainly evident in the guitar chops of Stevie Ray Vaughan and Cream-era Clapton. I have to wonder whether King’s estate simply refused to cooperate with the filmmakers.
Nevertheless, as Chuck D. notes in the film’s final, celebrity tribute-filled moments, the sign on the marquee of the record company reading “Soulsville U.S.A.” really said it all.
Further:
• In addition to the aforementioned DVD, the following Stax sampler CDs provide concise overviews of the label’s impressive catalog: Stax 50th Anniversary Celebration[Box Set] and The Stax Story [Box Set].
I just got around to reading James Poniewozik’s Time magazine column from a few weeks ago on Ken Burns’ new documentary on America’s National Parks (it’s a very worthwhile read if you haven’t seen it already). Poniewozik’s point is a well-taken one given the current “tea party” temperament regarding government intervention. However, as the columnist points out, the story of the National Parks’ creation and ongoing evolution provides a good juxtaposition to all the hand-wringing about Big Brother and fears of the coming social state that seem so rampant today.
Watching segments of Burns’ marathon ode to the efforts to preserve some of the country’s most stunning natural assets over the last few weeks, I repeatedly found myself struck by the fact that the whole story is one of fight after fight after fight – first to bring each park into existence and then to preserve its integrity once established. In hindsight, given people’s carelessness and the free market’s tendency to foster exploitation, it is truly amazing that we didn’t totally trash the whole continent ... but for a few visionary and determined individuals and the application of federal power to make some good things happen, we surely would have.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not generally pro big government, but Poniewozik is right in pointing out that there are times and places in history when government intervention is the right way to go and, occasionally, the needs of all – the greater good – outweigh those of the few. And sometimes, just sometimes, only big government is able to successfully ensure the interests of all in the face of strong local self-interest and perpetually self-centered business practices.
I wish the free market (i.e., those powerful businesses) could be trusted to do the right thing, but both history and current events make the naivete of that wish very clear. It simply doesn’t happen. In these times of renewed government intervention, it’s food for thought.
There is something of a modern iteration of Beatlemania happening these days, at least on the commercial front, thanks to the long-awaited release of the newly remastered CDs of the band’s entire catalog and the much-hyped Beatles edition of the Rock Band video game.
So with Beatles on my mind, I recently watched Composing the Beatles Songbook, a documentary on the songwriting of John Lennon and Paul McCartney during the 1966-1970 period. This film came out in 2008 to universal, if not high-profile, acclaim.
As a connoisseur of music documentaries, I’m fascinated by in-depth looks at some of the greatest music of our lifetime. Prior to watching this one, I thought I knew quite a bit about The Beatles, but I learned a great deal. It features some real revelations about the music the band produced during its most creative period – particularly on the landmark Revolver and Sgt. Pepper albums.
A half-dozen or so legitimate authorities (music critics, friends of the band and musical associates) offer expert analysis and thoughtful interpretations of The Beatles music. This is no hackneyed “unauthorized critical review” with C-grade sources – a genre that has proliferated in recent years. Nor is it exactly one of the highly reputable “The Making of … [Insert Classic Album Name Here]” films in which producers, engineers and artists revisit the master tapes of epic works and reminisce about how they were made. Both entertaining and credible, Composing the Beatles Songbook offers a nice balance between mainstream appeal and enough musical detail to sate musical obsessives like me. It covers the evolution of the Lennon/McCartney songwriting partnership over a number of years, not just on one classic release. Of course, with The Beatles’ albums during this period, they’re all classic releases. But they’re also quite different from one another, which makes the story behind the songs all the more interesting.
This film puts each release in the context of the times, circumstance and sensibilities of the artists. In so doing, it does a wonderful job of giving McCartney his due. In most histories of The Beatles, John typically gets all the credit as the edgier, boundary-pushing “artiste,” while Paul is depicted as a talented, but schmaltzy, pop tunesmith. This film, however, portrays McCartney as the enthusiastic, driven, profusely creative and widely varied composer that he was, and casts Lennon as the witty and brilliant, but increasingly distracted/disinterested, artist that he was.
The film starts with a few brief references to 1965’s Rubber Soul, in many ways the last completely collaborative Beatles album, and then digs deeply into the subsequent albums, dissecting key songs from each. Rubber Soul and 1966’s Revolver are portrayed as evidence of Bob Dylan’s influence on The Beatles, particularly on Lennon’s lyrics. After hearing Dylan, John realized that artists could now write about anything.
By the time of Revolver, my favorite Beatles LP, the band had become rich and powerful enough to do whatever they wanted artistically and get away with it. So they did. Meanwhile, Lennon had begun taking LSD, and his altered sense of consciousness crept into his compositions. McCartney, on the other hand, had yet to dabble in the drug (he would get to that later), but he had become fully immersed in the bohemian life of Swinging London, especially avant-garde music.
In examining Revolver, the cast of experts explores the methods and messages behind Paul’s emotive storytelling on “For No One” and “Eleanor Rigby,” with its resonant strings and English literariness, as well as John’s “I’m Only Sleeping” and his genre-pushing “Tomorrow Never Knows,” on which Paul is the one actually responsible for the “trippy” tape loops and sound effects.
One of the most interesting segments in the film is the examination of the band’s 1967 double A side single “Strawberry Fields Forever”/“Penny Lane” – the bridge between the Revolver and Sgt. Pepper albums. We learn that the two songs represent different takes on the changing world and youth viewed in acid-vision (McCartney had now turned on, too) – with John’s “Strawberry Fields” haltingly “stumbling to some kind of truth” about self and Paul’s “Penny Lane” presenting a surrealistic view of the Liverpool of his youth in which “even ordinary things are glittering with possibility.” The music geek in me was fascinated by the explanation that the two different perspectives (current and reflective) in McCartney’s jaunty pop song are tied to the tune’s change in key from B to A. That Paul knew what he was doing!
The band’s next album, the much-analyzed Sgt. Pepper, is depicted as essentially McCartney’s album. While Sgt. Pepper does mark the beginning of Lennon’s retreat from the band, he certainly still had some major contributions to make. Even in his “throwaway” Sgt. Pepper songs – the “found lyricism” of “Good Morning, Good Morning” (inspired by a cereal box) and “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite” (derived from an antique circus poster) – the assembled experts illuminate John’s “last creative genius.”
They also note that while LSD may have inspired Lennon to look inward, that was not the case with Paul. For example, on “When I’m Sixty-Four” (with its old music hall reference points), McCartney’s focus is on history amidst a world of change. The film even manages to offer new insights on the epic “A Day in the Life,” considered by many to be the band’s ultimate achievement and the two songwriters’ last true co-write. The experts discuss how this “great fusion” married Lennon’s newsy observations with Paul’s unique ability to fill the interstitial spaces in big concepts. The result: a greater, astonishing whole.
The documentary breezes through the Magical Mystery Tour album and the Yellow Submarine soundtrack to arrive at the 1968 recording sessions for The White Album, which were marred by mounting tensions within the band (they were growing up, out and away from the original band concept, according to John). The resulting album was more a collection of individually composed songs (some of which were still remarkable) than the band collaborations of yore. There’s interesting analyses of Paul’s “Hey Jude,” revealed to be more than just a song about John’s young son Julian, and “Helter Skelter” McCartney’s railing against his image as the light pop songsmith of the band (which I knew), as well as his reaction to The Who’s contemporary “I Can See for Miles” single (which I didn’t know).
Yet, despite their drifting apart, the musicians still put in the effort to work as a band on occasion, as evidenced by their slogging through 97 takes of John’s “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.” And while Lennon’s “Revolution No. 9” was clearly the result of Yoko Ono’s avant-garde influence, it is pointed out that McCartney had composed a similar noise experiment two years earlier (remember the “Tomorrow Never Knows” period?).
In early 1969, Paul led the ill-fated “Get Back” sessions in an effort to reclaim the band’s roots as a live band (hence the famous London rooftop appearance), but by then it was obvious that John was no longer in team spirit. Then, finally, there’s Abbey Road, during which the other three Beatles essentially just tolerated Lennon’s distracted self-absorption. Nevertheless, John brought two strong songs [“Come Together” and “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”] to the effort, while Paul and producer George Martin crafted the famous suite that makes up the second side of the album.
Unfortunately, there is little reference throughout the film to George or Ringo beyond a brief nod to the influence of band members (versus hired sidemen) on the recording process. Harrison’s notable, if few, compositions fall outside the scope of the film, though there is recognition that by the time of Abbey Road he had assumed as much compositional weight as Lennon in the band, notably contributing “Something” and “Here Comes the Sun” to The Beatles’ final studio effort (it was recorded after, though released before Let It Be).
What does appear to be more of an oversight is the utter absence of George Martin in the film, either as a subject of the discussion or as one of the experts. As the producer and widely recognized fifth Beatle, his role in the renowned compositions of this fertile period undoubtedly merit more mention, if not full examination. (After all, who do you think scored all those orchestral segments on Revolver and Sgt. Pepper?)
I’m not sure if you can get Composing the Beatles Songbook: Lennon and McCartney 1966-1970 on NetFlix etc., I got mine from Amazon. But either way, if you are interested in The Beatles, or even just an examination of song writing, it’s worth checking out this inspired documentary.
Note: There is a companion DVD to this release that covers the band’s earlier years (1957-1965). I have not seen that. It seems less intriguing since, despite their phenomenal popularity, the band was not quite as trailblazing compositionally during those years. Nevertheless, the quality of the second volume suggests that the first one may be worth checking out, too.
Last night I took my teenage daughter to see the much anticipated and greatly hyped documentary film It Might Get Loud.
As even casual fans of music probably know, it’s the story of the guitar told through the voices and experiences of three rock icons: Jimmy Page (of Led Zeppelin), The Edge (of U2) and Jack White (of The White Stripes, The Raconteurs, The Dead Weather … and, wait, has he come up with any other bands in the last 10 minutes?). Besides having distinctive styles and being marquee “guitar heroes” in their own right, these men are roughly 15 years apart in age – from the 65-year-old Page to the 30-something White. Thus, they represent three generations of rock music.
Like dad, like daughter … both of us are fans of all three musicians.
As director Davis Guggenheim says in the movie promos, it’s “wall to wall music” and “great stories” with these “rock stars actually telling you how they did their stuff.” While certainly appealing to guitar geeks, it never gets too technical or musically esoteric. If you like rock music at all, you’ll find it entertaining.
The film is built around a guitar “summit” at an L.A. soundstage, where the three guitarists are brought together (for the first time ever) to chat about their influences and techniques and do a little impromptu playing. They share some of their famous licks and do a bit of jamming. Each musician’s back story gets ample focus in interwoven individual segments that explore their musical evolutions and revisit some notable locales from their early years. The genuine enthusiasm each man exhibits when discussing his influences is contagious.
The juxtaposition of the three guitar slingers is a big part of what makes the film so interesting. While Page’s heyday was in the late ’60s and the ’70s, The Edge’s punk/new wave-inspired U2 of the late ’70s/early ’80s represented a reaction against the self-indulgent dinosaur rock of super groups like Zeppelin. Subsequently, the Edge carved out his niche based not on virtuoso playing, but on creative use of electronic effects. Then came Jack White in the late 1990s with his pronouncedly anti-technical approach to music, channeling Son House through raw electric instruments in the stripped down sound of the White Stripes. (One might recall that the first four Stripes albums were characteristically retro-sounding recordings made in all analog studios at a time when the rest of the music industry had gone full bore digital.)
Clearly, Page and White share more common ground in their mutual blues influences, leaving the Edge the odd man out at times. Despite his playing with B.B. King on “When Love Comes to Town” on U2’s 1988 Rattle and Hum album/movie, the Edge’s style really doesn’t have any blues roots. Nevertheless, this imbalance doesn’t undermine the shared respect and budding camaraderie evident among the musicians.
This is a richly detailed documentary. So even though I had seen many of the various promo clips floating around the internet before last night, I still found plenty of fresh footage to discover in the film itself. Without fear of completely spoiling it, here are a few of my favorite parts:
• Page playing air guitar (how ironic is that?!) while listening to Link Wray’s “The Rumble.”
• Snippets of two new pieces of music from Page.
• Much has been said in early reviews of the film about the moment when the Edge and White watch in awe as Page plays the iconic “Whole Lotta Love” riff. The delighted look on both of their faces is, indeed, priceless.
• The jam on Zep’s “In My Time of Dying” – with all three playing slide guitar (true to form – the individuality comes through again as each man wears the slide on a different finger).
• The Edge’s self-deprecating humor evidenced on several occasions during his individual segments.
• Page’s bemusement over the chord structure of “I Will Follow” as the Edge teaches it to the other two: “Are you sure about that?” he asks the composer.
• The three stars’ acoustic rendition of The Band’s “The Weight” during the film’s trail out sequence.
All these are things to look forward to – along with much more – if you haven’t seen it yet. Personally, I can’t wait to see it again when it’s released on DVD, probably sometime before Christmas.
I highly recommend this documentary if you [a] play guitar (it’s a must see), [b] like even one of these three musicians and his band, [c] are interested in how guitar-based music (i.e., most rock and roll) is constructed, or [d] you’re just a big fan of music in general.
I watched the new Neil Young BBC Video/American Masters documentary, Don’t Be Denied, on PBS the other night. I was quite impressed. It’s a concise (55 min.), accurate and informative overview of Neil’s lengthy and prolific career. Revelatory reminiscences and explanations from Neil himself are nicely interspersed with archival footage and compelling commentary from collaborators such as Crosby, Stills and Nash, Nils Lofgren and James Taylor among others.
The film does not cover every one of Neil’s 52 albums, but it touches upon most of the key releases and transition points (of which there have been many) in his four-plus decades as an artist. I do think it could’ve gone into a bit more detail on Neil’s repeated dabblings in country music throughout his career (and the related two-decade long involvement with Farm Aid) as well as his emergence as the influential “godfather of grunge” in the early 1990s. But that certainly would have necessitated more air time.
I have all of Neil’s official albums and videos, plus lots of live recordings. I’ve seen him in concert a few times and have read a lot of articles and a few books about his career and work. So, suffice to say, I know a fair amount about him – his personal quirks and his artistic qualities. Yet, there were still new things revealed to me in this documentary. Standout examples being Lofgren’s comments about the dark and controversial Tonight’s the Night album (1975) and the revelation that the song “Revolution Blues” on Neil’s On the Beach album (1974) was about Charles Manson – and that Neil actually knew Manson.
I assume the airing of this documentary was timed to coincide with the recent release of Neil’s long-awaited mega-anthology, Archives Vol. 1 (1963-1972) – which perhaps I’ll write about at some other time – but since PBS tends to repeat its broadcasts several times throughout the month (and again during peak fundraising season), there will probably be further chances to catch this American Masters episode. If you like Neil’s music, or are just kind of curious, check it out. It’s worthwhile.
Ruminations on music, media and misc. other matters by an editor and writer, music lover, reader, history buff, guitar player and marginally (OK, completely) obsessive archivist.
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