Ridin’ that train, high on cocaine

I like rock movies. Love em in fact; A Hard Days Night, Don't Look Back, The Band's Last Waltz, Woodstock, Monterey Pop, Message to Love (IOW 1970), Ziggy Stardust and on and on.

I'm always looking for the next great one to add to my collection, a great DVD package to add to my list. But what I never get to do (aside from Ziggy Stardust, twice) is watch them at the cinema. So, yesterday, I did both. I added a new movie to my favourites and got to see it on the big screen!

The movie in question is Festival Express. Directed by Bob Smeaton (the Beatles Anthology) this documentary is a combination of old footage and new interviews from the participants. The synopsis is thus: In 1970 a group of musicians played 3 festivals in Canada, travelling to each on a train. In short, they got on the train in eastern Canada and partied, sang, played, drank and smoked their way across the provinces to Ontario, Saskatoon and the final gig in Calgary.

As ever with these rock movies of the late 60s/early 70s it's part historical timepiece and part thundering concert film. This one differs from Woodstock et al because it contains new interviews with the participants, some recalling events with more fondness than others. In particular I'm talking about the misery of promoter Ken Walker, not the most likeable of guys in any event. The recollections of the musicians involved were wholly more happy and the image you get is of one long party, musicians trapped on a train for a day or two at a time amusing themselves by jamming. Oh to be a fly on the wall on that journey.

There were some acts I was looking forward to seeing more than others. I haven't seen much live of the Grateful Dead and was expecting a turgid set of endless soloing but I'm happy to report that was not the case, I really enjoyed their performance and the spectre of Jerry hangs over the film, he seems to be in almost every frame; big smile on his face, an intimate portrait of a much loved man. He didn't have a bad word for anyone and brightened every frame he was in. Janis Joplin is, well, Janis. There’s no-one like her and I was almost literally blown across the room watching her; there really are no singers like her left. Her style, a slight screeching vocal, can be challenging to listen to (especially in Dolby Surround sound) but her songs and delivery are what it's all about. She held the crowd in the palm of her hand, the Canadian audiences sat enraptured.

I was looking forward the most to The Band. I'm a huge fan of theirs and have seen precious little footage of them aside from Scorsese's rock masterpiece The Last Waltz. They played at Woodstock but were left out of the original film and the directors’ cut. They were never a glamorous band, they looked old even when they were young and hid the pretty-boy looks of leaders Robbie Robertson and Rick Danko as best they could. In fact Danko has a hilarious scene on the train with Garcia and Janis, later in the movie when, totally wasted, he tries to lead everyone in song.

Anyway, they got 3 songs in the film and I was in heaven. Aside from Levon Helm, The Band were in fact Canadian so these gigs were their homecoming. I could sit and watch this band for hours, but this film left me satisfied and rushing out to call my parents who see it in Manchester in 2 weeks. They're going to love it...

What a rare experience, getting to see a rock movie on the big screen, learning something new about each band and discovering a transcendent performance by another artist, Buddy Guy, perhaps the movie's highlight. The slightly bizarre presence of gold lamé clad doo-wop dancing troupe Sha Na Na (they were at Woodstock too for some reason) doesn't detract a bit from the film, in fact it adds a bit of levity.

That train must have been a cool place to be on - no sleep, just good company and good music. If you can see this movie, take the chance. Most of the great past musical events to be committed to celluloid have been discovered; this one could be the last great festival movie to be found.

http://www.festivalexpress.com
...

David Bowie, Amsterdam Arena, Holland, 11-06-04

So he’s been in America for 7 months. I watched in envy as the tour rolled across the country, flattening all in its path. New setlist additions, new scarves, same old shoes. I couldn’t wait to get to the first gig back on European soil.

It turns out I’m severely out of gig practice because, 2 days later, I’m still aching from the sheer exuberance of the performance at the Amsterdam Arena. He’s as fresh as a daisy, but I’m getting too old for this. Arriving late I somehow got a great place about 5 rows from the front, no mean feat in a stadium filled with 25,000 fans. The setting was unusual, the stadium roof was on but it was still daylight. As soon as the cartoon kicked in a wave of happiness and contentment descended over me, like I was being transported back to all the gigs I did last year.

I never tire of Rebel Rebel, it really is the perfect gig opener. But then… Panic in Detroit! I’d never heard that live before, such a treat. He complained at us for singing All The Young Dudes, and said as our punishment we had to endure a song from the 80s! He took the piss out of the terrible arena acoustics "You’ll be hearing these songs twice tonight, maybe more!"

He was in great form, tons of jokes and filled with enjoyment at being back in Europe. After over 100 gigs I don’t know where he finds the energy. There was a cheeky dig at the Yanks he’d just left behind. "It’s so lovely to see a crowd filled with such pretty people. Everyone’s so pretty. And I should know, I just got back from America! I feel like a man finally finding water in the desert!"

It was such a wonderfully familiar feeling: seeing him enjoying the crowd, Susan bouncing at the front, Cat’s infectious grin, Gail’s soaring voice, Slick’s playing even more killer than it was last year… I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be and am now gutted my next gig isn’t until Monaco.

Watching the American reports with excitement at the new setlist additions I tried to avoid thinking about any new songs I might be getting, even refusing to say the names of the songs I wanted to hear the most. I can say it now because he played it: Station to Station. I have never wanted to hear a song more and my god the band nailed it. I had heard it once before; my first ever Bowie gig at Maine Road in 1990. I don’t remember that performance of it but I’ll never forget this one. This might sound flighty and over-exaggerated but I think I may have had some kind of religious experience during that song! I looked up (way up, the stage was much higher than usual) at him, the returning Thin White Duke throwing darts in lovers’ eyes and I wanted that complete and perfect moment never to end.

Diamond Dogs wasn’t half bad either. Quicksand completed the trilogy of songs I’d never heard before. All in all, a perfect return to Europe for him and a memorable night for me. Next stop Monte Carlo!

Rebel Rebel
Cactus
Sister Midnight
New Killer Star
Panic In Detroit
Reality
Fame
All The Young Dudes
China Girl
The Loneliest Guy
The Man Who Sold The World
Heathen (The Rays)
Hallo Spaceboy
Under Pressure
Ashes To Ashes
Quicksand
Hang On To Yourself
Station To Station
I'm Afraid Of Americans
"Heroes"
(encore)
White Light, White Heat
Diamond Dogs
Suffragette City
Ziggy Stardust
...
Stardust – 2 stars [i]Prologue[/i] Between lockdowns, on a rare day in the office, I watched the trailer for the Bowie biopic, Stardust, drop on Twitter. Reaction was… uh… mixed. And that was just the trailer. A few reviews already existed, as it had been shown at American film festivals in the spring, so I read them: all the young dudes carried the news, and the news was not good. I knew then that I didn’t want to see it: I wanted to review it. In a display of entirely unearned confidence, I jumped up from my desk and followed the floor sticker arrows around to the desk of Phil de Semlyen, my colleague, the Global Head of Film at Time Out. I said, “Lovely Phil, how do you fancy letting me review the Bowie movie? Okay, I’ve never reviewed a film ever for any publication but I can do it, I think. And someone who knows the subject should do it anyway, so go on, let me! How hard can it be?” He said, “Sure, no problem. If I can do it anyone can!” Such a nice man. Well, then. Slight panic. I did some research, made notes about technical things, then watched it on the Raindance website. Surely, [i]surely[/i], it was going to be better than early reviews said? Or, best-case scenario, those reviewers weren’t Bowie people and didn’t get it, and it would be filled with Easter eggs for the nerds. Why not? I’m an optimist by nature. Then I pressed play. It became clear quite quickly that Stardust was, in fact, going to be even worse than the reviewers said. After about 15 minutes, hysteria set in; I couldn’t stop laughing at how bad the dialogue was. Then another 15 minutes passed, the laughing ceased and I started to get annoyed, because it wasn’t even bad in a good way. It was just terrible and humourless. And long. 109 minutes of my short life on this spinning rock I am never getting back. But even if a film is profoundly bad, a review must be fair to the hundreds of people who worked hard on it. There is usually something to recommend it, to stop it from being a one-star. Stardust is not poorly made; the cinematography and other technical aspects are well rendered. But they alone can’t make for an enjoyable watch. Also, what I didn’t entirely take in during that interminable viewing was the baffling decision to cast actors decades older than the people they’re playing. Obviously I knew that Flynn was a dozen years too old (when filming took place, last year). But Jena Malone (35 playing 22) looks young. I hadn’t given a thought to how old Ron Oberman must have been back then: he was 28, Marc Maron was 56. There was one scene with Bowie’s manager, in which the character was so primly English I thought it was Ken Pitt (49 in 1971). It was not. That was supposed to be the charismatic, cigar-chewing Tony DeFries, who was 28 in 1971: the actor, Julian Richings, who looks like Pitt and looks nothing at all like DeFries, was 64. That was so unclear I thought it was a totally different person! And on it went with the Spiders: Ronson’s actor was 42; Mick was 25. The guy playing Woody was 38; the drummer was 21. (Trev Bolder doesn’t even get an IMDB listing) Why on earth would casting directors take out the young, vigorous heart of a biopic and fill each role with actors all far too old? I had only noticed Flynn at the time – the rest made so little impression that their various levels of decrepitude must have passed me by. I don’t believe the filmmakers didn’t know how old these real people were: they chose not to care. That’s the level of detail and commitment to reality we’re talking about here. Anyway, my review was well-received. People told me it made them not want to see the film. The version below is 95% the same as the original. I have reinstated a couple of bits I felt were important and dropped back in a few extra details for colour. I’ve also added links to provide backstory, which isn’t the style of TO’s Film section but no harm in adding here. I’m very proud that I was allowed to write this review and grateful that I am Time Out’s person of record who gets to stand up to show and tell people what I know and think. This film won’t affect Bowie’s legacy or anyone’s feelings towards him. The gifted people who understand, who love him, who have something to say that’s carefully well-researched and cited, will continue to produce work about him that is credible and worth reading, watching and listening to. _____________________________________________________________ Rock biopics that don’t have rights to the artist’s songs can work, as seen in England Is Mine (Morrissey) and Nowhere Boy (John Lennon) – but both were set in their subjects’ late teens. In Stardust, we meet 24-year-old David Bowie (played by 36-year-old Johnny Flynn) in 1971. He’s on his first US trip, promoting his Led Zeppelin-esque third album The Man Who Sold The World, presented here as a hard sell because he wore a dress on its cover (though Americans wouldn’t have known this, as the US cover was an odd cowboy cartoon). You need to believe this young man becomes one of the greatest rock stars of all time. You won’t. The disastrous Bohemian Rhapsody was, by a (moustache) hair, saved by the music; no such luck here. Bowie’s estate, it turns out wisely, denied use of his songs. Then a one-hit-wonder with Space Oddity, Bowie tries to behave like a star before he is one, but is written as a boring, pathetic, hippy rube who misses every opportunity his publicist (Marc Maron, always watchable) finds. How about a modicum of research? David Bowie was ruthless, camera-ready, bright and funny, with megawatt charisma and unshakeable self-belief. Here he’s an unengaging wet failure, tortured by fear of succumbing to ‘madness in the family’. The severe mental-health problems of his half-brother Terry, seen in flashbacks, are treated crassly. While his wife Angie (Jena Malone) is a hectoring presence that doesn’t credit the significant contribution she made. Flynn, who does a decent job singing songs that Bowie covered by Jacques Brel and The Yardbirds, works hard with a weak script. And Stardust does try to call some truthful Bowie bingo numbers: a song by one of his early heroes, ’60s singer Anthony Newley, plays on the radio; there’s a nice touch showing a recreation of his screen test at Warhol’s Factory; we briefly experience the bizarre tale of Bowie spending an evening talking to Lou Reed only to find out later he’d met his replacement, Doug Yule (according to Bowie’s version of events he never knew but Yule says he explained Reed had left the Velvets months before); and he wears that dress for a hopeless [i]Rolling Stone[/i] interview – though the film erases his bisexuality, which is poor stuff. But this biopic can’t sell the idea of his progression as a songwriter because it can’t show us that he wrote Life on Mars and Changes around this time. Ultimately, Stardust doesn’t work on any level. Not having his original music means it can’t truly let go, which makes this Bowie nothing close to the magnetic performer he was, despite a reasonable finale (with a Ziggy hairpiece that’s the wrong colour and inaccurate make-up). Because the songs aren’t here, his music is forced into becoming entirely unimportant, which is criminal. This film adds nothing interesting to his story. You’d be a great deal better off seeking out Todd Haynes’s gorgeously camp, self-aware, fairytale Bowie biopic Velvet Goldmine – it’s much more fun than this.