ABlog the Author
BOOKS EVENTS BIOGRAPHY OTHER WRITING & FAVORITE LINKS WRITE TO BILL
I plan to weigh in every other day or so with what I hope are yak-worthy thoughts, musings and reconditioned events from my alleged past, my assumed present and my delusional future. If you want to comment, I will respond almost as quickly as those spam guys who claim you can make $500/day in your underwear.
Dec 07
Dec 04
Dec 02
Nov 30
One of the things about having this blog that I never fully appreciate is the opportunity to weigh in on things is the comfort and safety of a small and ideally sympathetic audience. So, here is me on the Peter Jackson “Get Back” 7 hour, 50 minute Beatles fly-on-the-wall documentary….
Compelling? Unquestionably. Important? Absolutely. Essential? Sure. Groundbreaking? Probably. That said, in the key test for me, the long long documentary that turns out to not be long enough, it falls way short.
In my documentary viewing lifetime, there are only three such works that were “not long enough.” 1) OJ: Made in America (2016) clocked in at a brisk 7 hours, 47 minutes , 2) Elvis: The Searcher (2018) , 3 hours, 35 minutes, 3) No Direction Home (2005) Scorsese’s examination of 1961-66 Bob Dylan, seven minutes shy of “The Searcher.”
Let me just say, I take full responsibility for it falling short. Like I have to tell you, I’m one of those Beatles fans whose interest plummets toward the end of Side A of “Revolver.” So, while I have knowledge of and experience with “Let it Be,” four albums later, it is not of me. Which means I did not enter this endeavor eager to relive those songs, let alone the dissolution of the first passion of my life. Before baseball, before comedy, before writing, I loved the Beatles.
I never saw the movie “Let it Be” because too many people told me not to see it. I probably would have been better prepared for the passive aggressive squabbling in Episode 1, especially between Paul and George, and the overall tension in Twickenham Studios. As the great Janet Maslin said, it was like watching your parents fight. Yes, of course. Except me parents did not air it out in front of us when we were growing up. What it reminded me of were those moments, albeit mercifully rare, that I’ve experienced in rehearsals with my band. Jesus, did it make me uncomfortable. I had to keep reminding myself 1) They were all under 30 at the time, 2) Their manager had committed suicide (or, for the semantically-inclined, overdosed) less than a year and a half earlier, 3) Even though it felt that way, this was NOT happening to me. I guess that makes the film an effective piece of art, but man, it is no way to watch a movie.
This continues until halfway through Episode 2, when Billy Preston shows up and everyone starts to behave. I loved the jamming. I loved all the old songs they played just to get loose. I wish I loved the new songs, but the journey to attain them was fascinating. Until, you know, it wasn’t. Or until I started keeping track of how much attention the non-Paul material was getting.
But I adored the things I related to, like the fact that anytime the drummer leaves the studio, even to just take a piss, somebody is going to hop behind the kit. And God bless Ringo, who one writer called “the glueyest of glues.”
How I wish I could stop making it about me, but by Episode 3, I just wanted to get to the gig, as I do every gig day. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s fucking go! And yet, unlike a Truants gig, my anxiety is based on not knowing how it’ll turn out. Other than Ringo having to readjust his kit, which was hammered down incorrectly, the rooftop concert was strangely unemotional for me. That’s not entirely true. I was touched by the 99 percent loving comments of those on the street. Zero fan talk. Just sweet pride in their boys who made it, and offer up a gift now they can hear for free on its way to the heavens.
Let’s leave it there.
Nov 26
Nov 23
Nov 22
Nov 19
Nov 16