Here we are near at the end of 2012 and the Rolling Stones are
about to embark on a brief tour to celebrate their 50th anniversary
(a more thorough assault on the arenas and stadiums of the world is planned for
next year). If there was a sixties era
band less likely to survive into the third millennium, I can’t think of them. They’ve endured drug arrests, artistic dry
periods, internal squabbling, the death of one member and the voluntary exiting
of two others. And, did I mention, drug
troubles? Along with their shows in
London, Newark and Brooklyn in November and December, the band has produced a
documentary being shown on HBO that essentially covers the first twenty years
of their turbulent existence. While Crossfire Hurricane is filled with
memorable images, some shown for the first since they appeared, the story
behind them remains somewhat obscure, and a bit dishonest.
This is a brief film, clocking in at under two hours, when
compared to The Beatles Anthology or Bob Dylan’s No Direction Home retrospectives, especially since it covers far more
ground chronologically than those other two documentaries. It follows the same style as their recent
film on the making of Exile on Main
Street; the “boys” are heard but not seen, except in the archival footage
that’s featured. Along with the four
current members we have Bill Wyman and Mick Taylor, the only two people who
ever left the Stones and lived to tell about, offering remembrances of their
time in the “Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World.” They all speak from the shadows, hiding
behind the images of their former selves.
But even with this wall of anonymity they say very little new. Mick Jagger is notoriously tight lipped (no
pun intended) about his private history (he returned a sizable advance on a
proposed autobiography years back when he claimed he couldn’t remember
anything), and he proves equally evasive here.
Keith Richards is a little better, giving some fascinating insights into
his transformation from play outlaw to the real thing as a result of the 1967 Redlands
bust. But Wyman, who kept a detailed
diary during the band’s hay day, offers surprisingly little as well. And even if he did have more to say things go
so fast there’s little time to savor what’s being presented.
I’d say that this is a film for hard core fans only, but I’m
not so sure about that. There is no
discussion of the music or how their sound developed, for instance. How did they go from wannabe bluesmen to pop
hit makers, through a psychedelic period and out the other end as purveyors of electrified
“supernatural Delta blues?” There is no
mention of Ian Stewart, a founding member who was unceremoniously dropped from
the lineup in 1963 because he didn’t fit the image, but stayed on behind the
scenes until he passed away of a heart attack in 1985. Brian Jones’ problems are covered more or
less, but the events leading up to his departure and death in 1969 are not
really talked about in detail. Mick
Taylor, Jones’ replacement, at least admits, even opaquely, that he exited the
band after five years because the lifestyle wasn’t conducive to family life or
survival in general. We don’t even get
far enough into the story to ask Wyman why he bowed out after thirty
years. I could go on with the questions
not asked and important names left out or barely mentioned, (can you say
Marianne Faithful, Anita Pallenberg and Gram Parsons, anyone?) but you get the
point.
The most fascinating part Crossfire Hurricane is the beginning, when we see the “anti-Beatlemania”
the Stones unleashed come to life. From
the start there was a violence they inspired that stood in contrast to the
manic, but generally good natured, chaos brought on by the Beatles. Richards is up front about the fact that
Andrew Oldham, their first manager, purposely put the “black hat” of villainy on
them as a publicity gimmick. But the hat fit, and they, or at least Jagger,
Richards and Jones, were content to wear it.
In the end Crossfire
Hurricane admits to the excesses, especially the drugs, but still wants to leave
us with the impression these are five, now four, beloved icons. Richards, the roguish pirate of rock and
roll, is loved by the fans, both hard core and casual, but I can’t say the same
for Jagger, or the band in general.
People admire them for being survivors, and appreciate their unique blending
of blues, R and B, reggae, disco, and whatever other form of black music they
could mix together and put their British stamp on. But they are not the Beatles, and never
wanted to be. And if they are keeping
their story obscure, it’s for a reason. There
is a darkness surrounding the Stones, the darkness of those who played with
evil not realizing it’s not a toy. While
they did try to make a break from it, lightening their image, employing comedy
at times, the residue and the wreckage remains.
The Bottom Line: The
Stones fan will appreciate the old footage, but the casual fan will be left
clueless. There is an inherent dishonesty
that in the end makes this diapointing. Not
that they are lying necessarily, but that you know they’re not really giving
you the whole truth, not even close. Even
the Beatles and Dylan have been accused of creating a myth to take the place of
history. But here we have something
else. It’s a group that has fostered a
legacy that they don’t really want to own up to. They want to wear the black hat still, but to
be thought of in genial terms as well, and I’m not sure it really works that
way.
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