To say I have a soft spot for rock and roll is something of an understatement. I find the form so stupidly transcendant I often wonder at the scale of my adoration. That being said, I'm not terribly well versed in concert films/documentaries, I mostly get lost in "the album" and ignore the visual documentation though the reasons for this are a bit more complex than one might think.Obviously I've seen The Last Waltz and Stop Making Sense, and I've seen Don't Look Back and Dig! and The Devil & Daniel Johnston (the latter three being certainly more documentary than concert) but when it comes to concert films, that is, films in which live performances of songs or sets are recorded, well . . . these days the whole affair is just so tepid and anti-septic and, dare I say it, boring that I've sort of checked out for the most part. I think the problem mostly has to do with the lack of actual film-makers (and by this I mean artists) making films about music and the abundance of bands who allow artless but techinally sound cameramen to make their concert films --- scratch that, because these aren't films, they are just video-recordings of shows --- which are generally straight-to-DVD and feature mostly unabridged sets shot in a perfectly accessible manner with quality sound (and now in HD!) but lack totally any and all sense of soul.
That's why when I see something like Monterey Pop, directed by D.A. Pennebaker (who also did the Dylan-doc Don't Look Back), my mind is so thoroughly blown; my eyes entranced for the entire proceedings. And I was high, too, but that's beside the point. Because Monterey Pop is a film. It's not just a recording of a band (or, in this case, a bunch of bands) playing. It captures more than just music, it captures everything about what makes music great in an inventive and emotionally evocative way: the colours are vibrant and swirling; the cameras cascade from inventive shot to inventive shot; the bands explode off the stage, brought to life before our very eyes. No one performing here is simply going through the motions, each band gives a spirited performace, some even going to far as to be maniacal (both Pete Townshend and Jimi Hendrix brutally destroy their guitars, the only difference being that Hendrix sets his on fire first). In truth, none of the bands on here are favorites of mine (well, except Hendrix, and I do enjoy The Who and Otis Redding quite a bit) but the way the film is paced, the way it so clearly demonstrates the love for its subjects (and the powers which they possess) pulls me past all that, invites me in, holds me. Not to mention that the very long and absolutely stunning closing performance by sitar master (and Norah Jones seeder) Ravi Shankar made me hop over to eBay the very next morning to purchase some of his used LPs. Talk about learning something new.
It's also worth noting that this deluxe boxset features an extra disc with complete sets by Hendrix and Redding, the former set being nearly three times as long as the latter. Oh, and it also includes over two hours (!) of outtake performances. All that combined I can't see why any fan of rock and roll (or, specifically, I guess, classic rock, though that title is troublesome) would not want to see this. As for me, I feel an intense desire to go back and explore this mostly dead style of music film-making, which is convenient since Criterion (who do a great job with this package) is releasing Gimme Shelter, a Rolling Stones performance-documentary about the tragic Altamont killings, this upcoming Tuesday.
Now if only I could get P.T. Anderson to make an epic Radiohead concert film then all would be right in the world.
Enjoy.
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