7.10.2005
Dig this
I know I'm a few months behind the big-city hipsters on this one, but I watched the DVD of Dig! this weekend. It was a captivating film that I fully intended to watch in a couple of bursts amid other tasks but which kept me glued to the TV from beginning to end. That said, I can't imagine non-indie rock fans finding much to like here, because those involved are so insufferably self-centered without reason that it was an unpleasant film that kept me hooked only for the behind-the-scenes look into a world I usually see from the outside that it provided.
The story is that of two bands, the Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Dandy Warhols. Each is fronted by a self-important songwriter -- BJM's Anton Newcombe, who talks of making music so good it will spark a revolution, and the Dandy's Courtney Taylor, who says in the film that when he sneezes, hits come out (he must be allergic to nothing if that's the case) -- and each is on the cusp of, well, something. For BJM it is a long, strange journey toward continued mainstream irrelevance and blindered fanboy fawning, and for the Dandys its mild commercial success. They start in roughly the same place and are friendly, but as one follows the money and the other does everything to sabotage ever finding success, it becomes by default a commentary on the terribly flawed music industry. The problem is, as Richard Harrington so succinctly puts it in his review of the film in the Washington Post, the bands "simply don't matter as much as (the filmmaker) thinks they do." Further, Harrington says, the film "never makes a convincing argument for Newcombe's musical genius." Some of the music in the film sounds great, while much of it seems like the out-of-tune ramblings of the stoner guy in every college town who is this close to putting together a kick ass band. It would be one thing if Newcombe weren't so prolific, but it's hard to imagine being sufficiently rewarded with good songs when one is faced with the prospect of taking a dip into the dozen or so CDs in his back catalog.
At least he makes it easy for you. On the band's web site, one can download nearly the group's entire recorded output. It's in the uncommonly used Ogg Vorbis format (why is that not a surprise, coming from Newcombe?), but it does give you a chance to really dive in without taking a blind leap at your local indie record mart (where, one assumes, the clerks are much too cool to be bothered actually helping you find the band's best disc). No matter the hassle, this is what is truly at the heart of all of this: Is the music any good? Yes, the band is entertaining thanks to its drugged-out, mutton-chopped, self-proclaimed genius front man who fights with the Cousin Oliver-looking "real musician" in the band, the goofball tambourine player whose most obvious talent is preening beneath a pair of ridiculous looking sunglasses and the rest of the Royal Trux reject-looking musicians who wander in and out over the years. But it's the music that determines whether there is any need to pay attention to the Brian Jonestown Massacre, and on that one, it's not looking good. Genius? Hardly. I'll take the prodigious output of fellow self-proclaimed top dog and lovable functioning alcoholic Robert Pollard over the wheezing, hazy strumming of the burnout Newcombe any day. And as for the Dandy Warhols? They are exactly where they ought to be, landing the occasional TV show theme song or European commercial as they count down the days until they've been out of the spotlight long enough to qualify for a nostalgic best-of (not, mind you "greatest hits") from Rhino and a spot on the small-town summer festival circuit. Spin Doctors of the aughts, anyone?
Newcombe has come out against the film, saying the footage was "reduced at best to a series of punch-ups and mishaps taken out of context." This from a guy who sabotaged an industry showcase by firing a band member on stage and then fighting the rest of the band as the set came to an early, crashing close. Still, Newcombe might have a point. The film does pare down 1,500 hours of footage into a story that makes him look like an addled ass and Taylor look like a more successful, slightly more clued-in ass. I'd love to see a version of this film as edited by Newcombe. Let him find a way to spin it so that he is the principled hero and Taylor is the sell-out. I'm sure it's in there somewhere, right next to the part on the cutting room floor that make both look like geniuses.
The story is that of two bands, the Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Dandy Warhols. Each is fronted by a self-important songwriter -- BJM's Anton Newcombe, who talks of making music so good it will spark a revolution, and the Dandy's Courtney Taylor, who says in the film that when he sneezes, hits come out (he must be allergic to nothing if that's the case) -- and each is on the cusp of, well, something. For BJM it is a long, strange journey toward continued mainstream irrelevance and blindered fanboy fawning, and for the Dandys its mild commercial success. They start in roughly the same place and are friendly, but as one follows the money and the other does everything to sabotage ever finding success, it becomes by default a commentary on the terribly flawed music industry. The problem is, as Richard Harrington so succinctly puts it in his review of the film in the Washington Post, the bands "simply don't matter as much as (the filmmaker) thinks they do." Further, Harrington says, the film "never makes a convincing argument for Newcombe's musical genius." Some of the music in the film sounds great, while much of it seems like the out-of-tune ramblings of the stoner guy in every college town who is this close to putting together a kick ass band. It would be one thing if Newcombe weren't so prolific, but it's hard to imagine being sufficiently rewarded with good songs when one is faced with the prospect of taking a dip into the dozen or so CDs in his back catalog.
At least he makes it easy for you. On the band's web site, one can download nearly the group's entire recorded output. It's in the uncommonly used Ogg Vorbis format (why is that not a surprise, coming from Newcombe?), but it does give you a chance to really dive in without taking a blind leap at your local indie record mart (where, one assumes, the clerks are much too cool to be bothered actually helping you find the band's best disc). No matter the hassle, this is what is truly at the heart of all of this: Is the music any good? Yes, the band is entertaining thanks to its drugged-out, mutton-chopped, self-proclaimed genius front man who fights with the Cousin Oliver-looking "real musician" in the band, the goofball tambourine player whose most obvious talent is preening beneath a pair of ridiculous looking sunglasses and the rest of the Royal Trux reject-looking musicians who wander in and out over the years. But it's the music that determines whether there is any need to pay attention to the Brian Jonestown Massacre, and on that one, it's not looking good. Genius? Hardly. I'll take the prodigious output of fellow self-proclaimed top dog and lovable functioning alcoholic Robert Pollard over the wheezing, hazy strumming of the burnout Newcombe any day. And as for the Dandy Warhols? They are exactly where they ought to be, landing the occasional TV show theme song or European commercial as they count down the days until they've been out of the spotlight long enough to qualify for a nostalgic best-of (not, mind you "greatest hits") from Rhino and a spot on the small-town summer festival circuit. Spin Doctors of the aughts, anyone?
Newcombe has come out against the film, saying the footage was "reduced at best to a series of punch-ups and mishaps taken out of context." This from a guy who sabotaged an industry showcase by firing a band member on stage and then fighting the rest of the band as the set came to an early, crashing close. Still, Newcombe might have a point. The film does pare down 1,500 hours of footage into a story that makes him look like an addled ass and Taylor look like a more successful, slightly more clued-in ass. I'd love to see a version of this film as edited by Newcombe. Let him find a way to spin it so that he is the principled hero and Taylor is the sell-out. I'm sure it's in there somewhere, right next to the part on the cutting room floor that make both look like geniuses.
