WRITE AND ROLL:
Seeking To Inspire, Aspire and Not Necessarily Become Almost Famous

by Tim Frommer

I'm predisposed against liking movies. My friends all tell me it has something to do with my inability to suspend disbelief. I think it's because that most filmmakers make cinema for the lowest common denominator that need hints as wide as Nebraska and endings as predictable as the rain in Spain (which stays mainly in the plain. Or so I'm told.). Nevertheless, I recently found myself in the surround-smell of artificial butter flavoring at a screening of Cameron Crowe's latest, Almost Famous. How could I pass this up? Ostensibly, a movie about a rock journalist (?!) albeit it a teenage one, on the road in the early '70s chronicling the up-and-coming, destined-for-classic-rock-radio Stillwater, for none other than the then-hip Rolling Stone. I guess after Jerry Maguire and his other successes, Crowe would be given the budget to write a staggering work of such shameless self-aggrandizement.

And, I almost liked it. It was a sweet little movie not so loosely based on Crowe's own exploits as a teenage RS cover boy -- as the author, that is. Almost Famous focuses equally on the band (a more typical Hollywood protagonist), the groupies (ditto) and William Miller, the Crowe character played with not-quite-enough wide-eyed wonder by Patrick Fugit. Come on, the kid's compass is focused on the magnetic north of sex, drugs and rock-n-roll and his biggest transgression is missing his high school graduation. In case Crowe has painted himself a little more angelic than possible, he similarly made the groupies, er "Band-Aids," out to be genuine fans of the band and not the anatomical device behind the guitar. At least, the true Band-Aids were really fans of the music. Hey, the movie told me so.

Had I given it a bit more forethought, I shouldn't have really expected the movie to be about journalism, much less that curious subspecies, music criticism. And I certainly didn't expect the acid-barbed Lester Bangs, played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, to come off as a lovable loser. Lester himself must be spinning in his grave, if a recent biography of the pre-Hunter Thompson gonzo-critic is any guide. [Editor: See DAA review.] Even portrayed as a teddy bear though, Bangs speaks with cryptic proclamations about the downfall of, presumably, every other music journo. He takes a flyer on the young Miller, offering him a cool thirty-five dollars for a story on Black Sabbath to appear in Creem, with the caveat to "make it honest. Unmerciful." As a last warning he insists on not cozying up to the band: "Friendship is the booze that they feed you."

And that's where the trouble seems to lie. Or, the perceived trouble. While film critics ply their trade in darkened theatres, rock critics get free cds, back stage passes for all access. Among Fugit's best moments in Almost Famous were when he was captured just beyond the amps gazing at his (guitar) hero, Russell Hammond, played by Billy Crudup. Off stage, he carried around his tape recorder like Linus did his blanket offering the possibility that he could keep his being a fan just distinct enough from being a critic. When the band lets him loose to write whatever he wants, they then try to kill the story -- the real behind-the-music dirt -- by lying to Rolling Stone's fact-checker. Then Russell recants and the Stillwater story makes the cover after all. Too bad Bangs doesn't get one last phone call with the kid to let the audience know how much of the truth saw ink and paper.

Just what is it with rock criticism anyway? Is it merely Frank Zappa's biscuit line about it being interviews with people who can't speak conducted by people who can't write for people who can't read. Rock criticism is as vital as your favorite band, and finally its earliest progenitors are starting to get their fair acknowledgements. In addition to the Bangs biography, there is a collection of Richard Meltzer's writings that has been newly released [Editor: see DAA review] and a retrospective tome of the collected writings of Nick Tosches, biographer of Dean Martin and hagiographer of the impact country music had on rock. In addition to these, scholarly anthologies have been released recently by the university presses of Columbia and NYU, the latter in conjunction with the DIA Center for the Arts.

Has there been a more powerful impact made by an artistic genre than rock in the past three decades? Music has spawned fashion, subcultures, Napster, a plethora of new bands, and, yes, countless zines (including the one you're holding - haha). What's the line about Velvet Underground: no one bought the album when it came out, but everyone who saw them in concert started a band? Music's very popularity may be its criticism's downfall in terms of serious recognition, or so posits Anthony DeCurtis, longtime contributor to Rolling Stone among other publications, in his foreword to Reading Rock and Roll: Authenticity, Appropriation, Aesthetics, the NYU/DIA release.

It is the high regard paid to film criticism that enhanced and ennobled film to be recognized as art. Yes, there is plenty of schlock released under the guise of film criticism, but now a discipline like film theory is included in liberal arts curricula. Filmmakers beget video store clerks beget Tarantino who has become an adjective. Recall, Truffaut started writing criticism first at Cahiers du Cinéma before working on his seminal debut, the 400 Blows.

Why not the same for music criticism? Not for repute, or almost fame. Instead to push the readers, the public, their peers and maybe even their subjects to do their best work. DeCurtis notes the genre's potential: "Rock criticism should take inspiration from its subject, but at the same time be completely distinct from it. It should aspire to a similar level of artistic achievement. It should be sensual, physical and smart. And ultimately, it should be able to stand on its own terms without requiring the stature or notoriety of its subject to justify itself."


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