THE DUKE ON FESTIVAL
Somewheres in the midst of Festival, Murray Lerner’s stunning 1967
distillation of the essence a the Newport Folk Festival, somewheres
between Bob Dylan tearing ragged howlin flesh off a the limbs of
Maggie’s Farm and Son House shudderin his way through some
unfathomable torment or other, somewheres in the pauses tween the
sneers in Johnny Cash’s performance of I Walk The Line, somewhere
in there it’s possible for a fella to catch a glimpse of Little
Baby Punk Rock, possible to see the hint of a foetus dartin cross
Odetta’s anguished eyes, a rumour of an umbilical chord winding
along those camp-sites filled wi’ bearded politicised beat-spoutin
draft-dodgin transient youngsters.
With Donovan yackin on about “The BBC wouldn’t let me sing this
song” before tootin the harp in the direction of a number
concerning Vietnam, with the roars of approval from the audience,
with the folks on the sidelines batterin the undersides a saucepans
an blowing into empty jugs, that community spirit you always hear
folks bangin on about, that sense that this is our music, dammit,
and ain’t no reason why we can’t do this too, feet fit to walk that
line, where they’ll end up is with Joe Strummer screamin about a
White Man In Hammersmith Palais to a crowd of Anti-Nazi protesters.
But ahead of ourselves, we’re getting, look at us there, traipsing
through the mire a 1976, mother a fuck, get back a decade, say,
right the hell back to that field captured in the monochrome
intimacy a Murray Lerner’s frames.
Eagle Rock Entertainment have gone ahead and released Festival on
DVD, possibly on account of all the brouhaha surrounding No
Direction Home, Scorsese’s awe-inspiring Dylan doc, itself
featuring a fair amount of material from Lerner’s flick, and so
praise the brides a Buddha, a man gets the opportunity for to bask
in the glow of these incredible performances, these stunning
renditions a songs fit to suck the spine out the arse, and all
around, every which way, a whole cavalcade of eccentric mania;
songs about lynching nestled right alongside a troupe a tap-dancing
accountants, looks like, folk music like what you used to find in
the far corners a English villages high on the National Front,
hijacked, taken back to the bosom of the mamma done spawned it, the
mamma pissed as hell and ain’t a damn bit shy of letting folks know.
Three years-worth a the Newport Folk Festival are captured herein,
1963, 64 and 65, the crowds getting progressively larger, the
performances getting progressively edgier, Joan Baez and Peter
Yarrow half-improvising their way through a semi-stand-up
performance at one end, Dylan glaring out the darkness wi the snarl
a the damned rising around him at the other, Maggie’s Farm piercing
the night-time an the guts a half the audience in ways ain’t no
folk singer supposed to be piercing.
“Say jiminy fucks now, curses ragged, mean, what’s this cacophony
in the eyes here, this wailin bout a farm in the key of Fuckin
Loud?”
Festival doesn’t present the aftermath of it all, for that you need
to catch Scorsese’s aforementioned documentary. If this was the
only evidence you had, you’d never have any reason to assume for a
second that Pete Seeger was goin out his damn mind someplace,
looking for an axe for to cut the cables in five.
You don’t hear the booing and the hissing and the snarling and the
gnashing.
But what you do hear, what you do see, saints preserve us,
astounding, it is, utterly astounding.
Most astounding, ‘longside Dylan’s playful run through Mr
Tambourine Man, ‘longside Johnny Cash chewin gum and hummin,
‘longside all this, I say, a handful of performances by Odetta, for
one, mesmerising they are, siren songs, callin you in to that
darkness behind the eyes, just for this last verse, come on now, a
fella lost in that trembling aura hung around her, and then that
smile at the end, and the screen raw wi cathartic clawings.
Son House, another performance reekin a pain an frustration an
nights spent sat on the edge a the bed starin into the whiskey-
stained fabric a the carpet. Mike Bloomfield, when he’s bein
interviewed regarding Son House, what he says is all about “I swear
to God it’s mystic… he becomes the blues, he becomes a demon of
some sort.”
And for sure. Johnson wandered off towards the crossroads, fuck my
eyes, Son House looks like he probably is the crossroads.
Ticking off the boxes, every damn name a fella might conceivably
expect to see in such a motion film, every one a the hollerin,
finger-pointin, floppy-haired troubadours lined right the hell up;
Peter, Paul And Mary, Donovan, Pete Seeger, Mississippi John Hurt,
Johnny Cash, Howlin’ Wolf, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Odetta, Son House,
Buffy Sainte-Marie, hells bells, a man can’t move thout kickin
gainst the shins a some countercultural icon a some kind.
Course, in a 97 minute flick, ain’t no way all these people can
been represented via the unabridged tune-flingin, no way this side
a sixty tonnes a speed an a compression chamber the size a Texas,
but ain’t any justice in the here or there if this was to be held
against the film.
Right up front, what we learn is that Lerner’s wanderin through the
innards a the scene, what he’s got nestled ‘side a that camera is
some kind a divining rod a some kind, damn thing draggin him this
way an that, from the side a the stage to the back a the buses, all
in search of The Essence, see, the nuts a the whole affair, wants
to capture some kinda vibe, you understand, kinda vibe most folks
ain’t ever for a second gonna taste less they been stood sixty-
third in line for a hole in the ground holds the shit a thousands
in its grip.
And he did it, you understand, Festival is a tapestry of music an
banter an Famous Types an the folks shiverin wi every syllable
uttered from up front, it presents this collage right there in the
4:3, says here it is, jack, best you make your own damn mind up
with regards how important it might be, or mighta been.
Make up your own mind, again.
Cause it’s some kinda cultural expectation, t’is, a man can’t hope
to see Joan Baez singin’ back in 64’ without some age-ravaged
talking-head waxing on about how significant it all is.
“See here, now, blessed mamma Mary, you ain’t ever been alive less
you stood knee-deep in beatnik piss back in the day, scrapin the
flies out the teeth wi’ Bobby Dylan telling us how The Times They
Are A-Changing, look at you there, with your compact MP3’s an the
motherfuckin interwebbin’, ain’t no sense in even tryin, y’all
buncha bastards, less you seen it, y’understand, less you been
caught twixt Paul and Mary and Peter strumming top your damn
skull.”
And none a that, praise de Sade, not a frame of it, on account of
the folks in the fields don’t have time to grow up an get all
embittered an nostalgic 'fore the credits roll.
Didn’t have time to see Punk an Acid House an Rave grabbin hold
those very ideals and slappin them round the yap a every council
estate in Britain, for one thing.
Didn’t have time to spit in the paths a the teenagers turning off
that documentary about how useless they are, compared to 67,
y'understand, turning it off I say an headin in the direction of a
field alive wi love an solidarity, an the music pourin out the
speakers, soaked into every muck-scourged inch a the ground an
risin up an out through the pores a the gyratin mass.
Because what’s on evidence in Festival, a man can find it most any
weekend, assuming he knows where to look, see, assuming he knows
the directions an all, assuming the police ain’t tailin the sorry
bastard right the way there.
Some folks like to mourn the passin of the sixties, other folks
ain't got the time to worry about it, they’re too busy hitchin
those sentiments cross the shoulders an headin on up yonder to
wherever the hell that sound might be comin from, that guitar
carvin the insides out, those beats breakin like shotgun blasts
gainst the knee-caps.
And hell’s bells, who can think of mourning anyhow, when the music
is this fuckin intoxicating, tell me that, when the motion film is
this evocative, when the whole affair is so damn celebratory an
invigorating?
And a lass stood by the coke-machine in Great Victoria Street
station, what she’s sayin is “What’s with the awe in the eyes an
the grin?” and what can The Duke say except “Because holy shit,
Festival’s finally been issued on DVD, I’m out my mind wi’ the
wonder of it all”, and she nods, she knows, who couldn’t know, is
the question to be posed, really, at the end of the day, any damn
time a day, morning or night, who could fail to be buggered
ruthlessly about the brains with the news.
Because it’s a stunning film, fit for no-end a re-watching an
rewinding and pausing and then look, look here, you see it there,
right in the corner of her eyes you see it, right, Little Baby Punk
Rock, look at it there, what a beautiful sight to behold.
Thanks folks.
Festival is available on NTSC Region 1 & 4 DVD from Eagle Rock
Entertainment. Sadly, barring Jeff Rosen’s excellent liner-notes,
there are no extras to speak of.
Fling The Duke An Email or Sign The Mondo Guestbook
distillation of the essence a the Newport Folk Festival, somewheres
between Bob Dylan tearing ragged howlin flesh off a the limbs of
Maggie’s Farm and Son House shudderin his way through some
unfathomable torment or other, somewheres in the pauses tween the
sneers in Johnny Cash’s performance of I Walk The Line, somewhere
in there it’s possible for a fella to catch a glimpse of Little
Baby Punk Rock, possible to see the hint of a foetus dartin cross
Odetta’s anguished eyes, a rumour of an umbilical chord winding
along those camp-sites filled wi’ bearded politicised beat-spoutin
draft-dodgin transient youngsters.
With Donovan yackin on about “The BBC wouldn’t let me sing this
song” before tootin the harp in the direction of a number
concerning Vietnam, with the roars of approval from the audience,
with the folks on the sidelines batterin the undersides a saucepans
an blowing into empty jugs, that community spirit you always hear
folks bangin on about, that sense that this is our music, dammit,
and ain’t no reason why we can’t do this too, feet fit to walk that
line, where they’ll end up is with Joe Strummer screamin about a
White Man In Hammersmith Palais to a crowd of Anti-Nazi protesters.
But ahead of ourselves, we’re getting, look at us there, traipsing
through the mire a 1976, mother a fuck, get back a decade, say,
right the hell back to that field captured in the monochrome
intimacy a Murray Lerner’s frames.
Eagle Rock Entertainment have gone ahead and released Festival on
DVD, possibly on account of all the brouhaha surrounding No
Direction Home, Scorsese’s awe-inspiring Dylan doc, itself
featuring a fair amount of material from Lerner’s flick, and so
praise the brides a Buddha, a man gets the opportunity for to bask
in the glow of these incredible performances, these stunning
renditions a songs fit to suck the spine out the arse, and all
around, every which way, a whole cavalcade of eccentric mania;
songs about lynching nestled right alongside a troupe a tap-dancing
accountants, looks like, folk music like what you used to find in
the far corners a English villages high on the National Front,
hijacked, taken back to the bosom of the mamma done spawned it, the
mamma pissed as hell and ain’t a damn bit shy of letting folks know.
Three years-worth a the Newport Folk Festival are captured herein,
1963, 64 and 65, the crowds getting progressively larger, the
performances getting progressively edgier, Joan Baez and Peter
Yarrow half-improvising their way through a semi-stand-up
performance at one end, Dylan glaring out the darkness wi the snarl
a the damned rising around him at the other, Maggie’s Farm piercing
the night-time an the guts a half the audience in ways ain’t no
folk singer supposed to be piercing.
“Say jiminy fucks now, curses ragged, mean, what’s this cacophony
in the eyes here, this wailin bout a farm in the key of Fuckin
Loud?”
Festival doesn’t present the aftermath of it all, for that you need
to catch Scorsese’s aforementioned documentary. If this was the
only evidence you had, you’d never have any reason to assume for a
second that Pete Seeger was goin out his damn mind someplace,
looking for an axe for to cut the cables in five.
You don’t hear the booing and the hissing and the snarling and the
gnashing.
But what you do hear, what you do see, saints preserve us,
astounding, it is, utterly astounding.
Most astounding, ‘longside Dylan’s playful run through Mr
Tambourine Man, ‘longside Johnny Cash chewin gum and hummin,
‘longside all this, I say, a handful of performances by Odetta, for
one, mesmerising they are, siren songs, callin you in to that
darkness behind the eyes, just for this last verse, come on now, a
fella lost in that trembling aura hung around her, and then that
smile at the end, and the screen raw wi cathartic clawings.
Son House, another performance reekin a pain an frustration an
nights spent sat on the edge a the bed starin into the whiskey-
stained fabric a the carpet. Mike Bloomfield, when he’s bein
interviewed regarding Son House, what he says is all about “I swear
to God it’s mystic… he becomes the blues, he becomes a demon of
some sort.”
And for sure. Johnson wandered off towards the crossroads, fuck my
eyes, Son House looks like he probably is the crossroads.
Ticking off the boxes, every damn name a fella might conceivably
expect to see in such a motion film, every one a the hollerin,
finger-pointin, floppy-haired troubadours lined right the hell up;
Peter, Paul And Mary, Donovan, Pete Seeger, Mississippi John Hurt,
Johnny Cash, Howlin’ Wolf, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Odetta, Son House,
Buffy Sainte-Marie, hells bells, a man can’t move thout kickin
gainst the shins a some countercultural icon a some kind.
Course, in a 97 minute flick, ain’t no way all these people can
been represented via the unabridged tune-flingin, no way this side
a sixty tonnes a speed an a compression chamber the size a Texas,
but ain’t any justice in the here or there if this was to be held
against the film.
Right up front, what we learn is that Lerner’s wanderin through the
innards a the scene, what he’s got nestled ‘side a that camera is
some kind a divining rod a some kind, damn thing draggin him this
way an that, from the side a the stage to the back a the buses, all
in search of The Essence, see, the nuts a the whole affair, wants
to capture some kinda vibe, you understand, kinda vibe most folks
ain’t ever for a second gonna taste less they been stood sixty-
third in line for a hole in the ground holds the shit a thousands
in its grip.
And he did it, you understand, Festival is a tapestry of music an
banter an Famous Types an the folks shiverin wi every syllable
uttered from up front, it presents this collage right there in the
4:3, says here it is, jack, best you make your own damn mind up
with regards how important it might be, or mighta been.
Make up your own mind, again.
Cause it’s some kinda cultural expectation, t’is, a man can’t hope
to see Joan Baez singin’ back in 64’ without some age-ravaged
talking-head waxing on about how significant it all is.
“See here, now, blessed mamma Mary, you ain’t ever been alive less
you stood knee-deep in beatnik piss back in the day, scrapin the
flies out the teeth wi’ Bobby Dylan telling us how The Times They
Are A-Changing, look at you there, with your compact MP3’s an the
motherfuckin interwebbin’, ain’t no sense in even tryin, y’all
buncha bastards, less you seen it, y’understand, less you been
caught twixt Paul and Mary and Peter strumming top your damn
skull.”
And none a that, praise de Sade, not a frame of it, on account of
the folks in the fields don’t have time to grow up an get all
embittered an nostalgic 'fore the credits roll.
Didn’t have time to see Punk an Acid House an Rave grabbin hold
those very ideals and slappin them round the yap a every council
estate in Britain, for one thing.
Didn’t have time to spit in the paths a the teenagers turning off
that documentary about how useless they are, compared to 67,
y'understand, turning it off I say an headin in the direction of a
field alive wi love an solidarity, an the music pourin out the
speakers, soaked into every muck-scourged inch a the ground an
risin up an out through the pores a the gyratin mass.
Because what’s on evidence in Festival, a man can find it most any
weekend, assuming he knows where to look, see, assuming he knows
the directions an all, assuming the police ain’t tailin the sorry
bastard right the way there.
Some folks like to mourn the passin of the sixties, other folks
ain't got the time to worry about it, they’re too busy hitchin
those sentiments cross the shoulders an headin on up yonder to
wherever the hell that sound might be comin from, that guitar
carvin the insides out, those beats breakin like shotgun blasts
gainst the knee-caps.
And hell’s bells, who can think of mourning anyhow, when the music
is this fuckin intoxicating, tell me that, when the motion film is
this evocative, when the whole affair is so damn celebratory an
invigorating?
And a lass stood by the coke-machine in Great Victoria Street
station, what she’s sayin is “What’s with the awe in the eyes an
the grin?” and what can The Duke say except “Because holy shit,
Festival’s finally been issued on DVD, I’m out my mind wi’ the
wonder of it all”, and she nods, she knows, who couldn’t know, is
the question to be posed, really, at the end of the day, any damn
time a day, morning or night, who could fail to be buggered
ruthlessly about the brains with the news.
Because it’s a stunning film, fit for no-end a re-watching an
rewinding and pausing and then look, look here, you see it there,
right in the corner of her eyes you see it, right, Little Baby Punk
Rock, look at it there, what a beautiful sight to behold.
Thanks folks.
Festival is available on NTSC Region 1 & 4 DVD from Eagle Rock
Entertainment. Sadly, barring Jeff Rosen’s excellent liner-notes,
there are no extras to speak of.
Fling The Duke An Email or Sign The Mondo Guestbook
