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By PAUL BRENNER
Martin Scorsese is a man not
to be trifled with. As the guiding force behind
"The Blues: A Musical Journey" (the seven part PBS
series now available in a handsome box set from
CMV and Legacy), Scorsese digs back into his own
deep past as an instructor at New York University
and gives six master directors -- Wim Wenders,
Richard Pearce, Charles Burnett, Marc Levin, Mike
Figgis, and Clint Eastwood -- a classroom homework
assignment to come up with a feature length
documentary on a unique American musical form from
their own singular perspectives.
Van Morrison defines the blues by saying, "It has
to do with the truth. Blues is the truth." In this
series, all seven directors seek an
impressionistic and idiosyncratic truth about the
blues. Eschewing the chronological and superficial
documentary explorations of Ken Burns, Scorsese's
group miss as many great artists as Burns missed
in "Jazz" but ultimately succeeds where Burns
failed by not giving a damn about being
comprehensive and instead relying upon the
emotions of the filmmakers and their feelings
about the music they love to capture an inner
emotional and raw truth about an emotional and raw
musical form.
Scorsese sets the foundation in "Feel Like Going
Home." Using contemporary blues artist Corey
Harris as a catalyst, Scorsese travels to the
Mississippi Delta -- the Tigris and Euphrates of
American blues -- to explore the roots of the
blues. Harris mixes it up with Taj Mahal, Willie
King, Keb' Mo' and Otha Turner before leaving the
Mississippi hill country to the true source of the
blues, the Niger River in Mali. Along the way,
Scorsese punctuates Harris's journey with archival
clips and field recordings by Alan Lomax of blues
legends Robert Johnson, Son House, Muddy Waters,
Leadbelly, Charley Patton, and John Lee Hooker.
The nuttiest segment follows with Wim Wenders's
"The Soul of a Man." Perhaps the most singularly
self-possessed of the series, Wenders explores the
tensions between the sacred and the profane in the
blues by showcasing the lives of three of
Wenders's favorite blues men -- Skip James, Blind
Willie Johnson, and J. B. Lenoir. Wenders,
overdosing on Guy Maddin movies, provides early
black and white sound film recreations of James
and Johnson roaming the Southland. These
retro-creaky background visuals are used to
underscore Laurence Fishburne's narration as Blind
Willie Johnson, as he reflects on the state of the
blues from the perspective of deep space on the
Voyager space craft. Don't rub your eyes; you're
reading it right. But, despite the super nova of
ego infusing "The Soul of a Man," if you have no
desire to listen to James, Johnson, or Lenoir
after watching this episode, you got no right to
watch "The Blues."
Richard Pearce's "The Road To Memphis" brings the
series back down to earth both literally and
figuratively. Pearce follows B.B. King as he
revisits Memphis for a "Last of the Blue Devils"
style 2002 concert reunion of the great blues men
of Beale Street. Pearce explores the birth of a
new, "Memphis-style" blues as seen through the
artistic life of King. Where King is depicted as
The Great Blues Man returning to his roots by
exploring the struggles King took to get to that
plateau, Pearce also intercuts King's struggles
and phenomenal success with itinerant blues
performer Bobby Rush, who spends his life
traveling from one one-night-stand to the next,
sometimes even driving the bus himself. Pearce
touches on the inherent racism and bitterness of
the Memphis scene and the uneven fame of the black
and white artists in a fascinating and
uncomfortable dialogue between Sam Phillips (of
Sun Records) and Ike Turner.
Perhaps the most successful entry in the series is
"Warming By the Devil's Fire," not a documentary
at all, but a fictional account of director
Charles Burnett (the only black director involved
with the series; the directorial Ike Turner of the
bunch). Burnett depicts himself as Junior, a young
city boy from Los Angeles who is sent by his
mother down to Mississippi to be saved by his
preacher uncle. Fortunately, he is waylaid by his
other wild, musicologist uncle, introduced to "the
devil's music" and his soul and spirit are renewed
from a life of piety. Interspersed with Junior's
rite-of-passage is footage of Son House, Willie
Dixon, Lightnin' Hopkins, Willie Dixon and Sister
Rosetta Tharpe. W.C. Handy even appears as a ghost
at a crossroads.
Marc Levin's "Godfathers and Sons" also takes "The
Last of the Blue Devils" route but from the
perspective of a music executive. In this
exploration of Chicago blues, Levin follows the
life of Marshall Chess (the son of Leonard Chess
of the famed independent Chicago record label,
Chess Records) as he seeks to gather the past
(Muddy Waters' electric backup for his
groundbreaking "Electric Mud" album) and the
present (Chuck D, Common, and Kyle Jason) together
for a monumental meeting of the minds of blues and
hip hop for a new recording of the Muddy Waters
classic "Mannish Boy." There is also a diversion
to Koko Taylor's jazz club and the Chicago Blues
Festival, where Otis Rush, Pinetop Perkins, and
Ike Turner (once again) set fire to the form. But
the best moment in the film comes in the bonus
performances with rare club footage of Howlin'
Wolf singing "Evil (Is Going On)." Otherwise, it
is, as Levin says, "blues and Jews."
The British blues invasion is the subject of Mike
Figgis' "Red, White, and Blues." Once again, there
is another super session of British blues greats
(Tom Jones, Van Morrison, Jeff Beck, Pete King) at
Abbey Road Studios to invoke the phantoms of
British blues of the sixties. Figgis employs old
footage with new interviews to explore the British
blues style and the British love affair with
American Delta, Memphis, and Chicago blues
legends. The British blues is traced from its
roots in skiffle music to its over-ripe conclusion
into, as Eric Clapton defines it, "a rambling,
meaningless, self-indulgent music." For music fans
who never dreamed of Tom Jones and Van Morrison
sharing a jam session together, the dream is now
over.
The series concludes with Clint Eastwood's "Piano
Blues." Without a doubt, this is the most
comfortable and cozy segment of the series.
Eastwood simply plays host to piano greats Ray
Charles, Dr. John, Pinetop Perkins, Jay McShann,
Dave Brubeck, Otis Spann and Pete Jolly as
Eastwood and his guests sit around a piano and
reminisce about their influences and trade
nostalgic licks (the most stunning recollection is
when Pinetop Perkins reveals that he can't play
the piano like he used to ever since he was
stabbed in his left hand). The Eastwood episode is
a fitting conclusion to the series, since the
definition of "the blues" fades away into the
wispy air as the piano style becomes mixed with
jazz and r&b. "Piano Blues" is the most
unpretentious and loving of the segments; it's
simplicity belies the complexity of the piano
riffs (particularly the great footage of Art Tatum
-- jazz or blues piano great? -- does it matter?).
All of the discs are filled with special features.
The songs in the films can be accessed separately
from a menu of song titles. There are terrific
bonus performances on each disc, along with
on-camera director interviews, director
filmographies and biographies, "The Blues"
trailer, weblinks, and an annoying Volkswagen
commercial. Each disc also features audio
commentary by the director of that particular
except for the following exceptions -- Richard
Pearce's "The Road To Memphis" lists "director
commentary" on the box but there is none on the
disc; Charles Burnett's commentary on "Warming By
the Devil's Fire" is so sporadic as to be
non-existent; and the commentary is non-existent
on Eastwood's "Piano Blues." In fact, "Piano
Blues" is the most minimal of the discs -- it
contains no bonus features, except for the
obligatory director filmography and bio. Either
"Mystic River" was taking up too much of
Eastwood's time or else he just had nothing more
to say. After all, sometimes a man's got to know
his limitations. |
