“Gimme Shelter” (1970)
The day the music died, or almost. If “Woodstock” was the ultimate celebration of the 60s, the same year’s “Gimme Shelter” was its ugly side laid bare. The Altamont Free Concert had been meant to be a Woodstock for the west coast, with a bill featuring the quintessential hippie bands: Jefferson Airplane, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, The Grateful Dead, topped off by the Rolling Stones. It all went horribly wrong once someone hired the Hell’s Angels to provide security and paid them in beer —the result was chaos, with mass violence and such confusion that no one knew to stop the show, though the Dead did pull out when they saw the way things were going. The Stones didn’t—despite Mick Jagger being punched in the face seconds after arriving at the venue—and as they played to close the concert, things devolved. In the worst moment, 18-year old Meredith Hunter tried to rush the stage, was stopped by an Angel, pulled a gun, and was promptly stabbed to death. The appalled cameramen, under the direction of documentarian brothers Albert and David Maysles, caught it all. Controversially, the (mercifully brief) footage was used, forming the climax of a film that masterfully captures the rising tension on the day, the various concert-goers’ own confusion and dismay, the negotiations that allowed the concert to take place in the first place (featuring flamboyant lawyer and occasional “Star Trek” guest Melvin Belli), and the disbelief of the performers in the subsequent days. In a sense it’s not a great concert movie: the Stones were at the height of their powers and their performance is amazing by any normal standard, with Jagger in full hypersexual space alien/clown prince mode, but they’re obviously unnerved by the atmosphere and unsure if they should keep playing (they didn’t realize someone had genuinely died until the next day). But “Gimme Shelter” is a great movie, and a great document of a strange and easily romanticized time.
From the Playlist to your playlist: The opening “Jumping Jack Flash” is pretty good, as is the title track that plays over the credits but, inescapably, the real essential moment of the film is Hunter’s stabbing.
“TAMI Show” (1964)
The fact that even the people who put on the show and made the film of it couldn’t decide if T.A.M.I. stood for “Teenage Awards Music International” or “Teen Age Music International” should clue you in to the fact that this is a concert film from before a time when people were sure how to spell teenager, and that there was no such thing as the Teenage Whatever Awards: the title was the invention of clever concert promoters in Santa Monica in 1964, who assembled a bill of Chuck Berry, the Beach Boys, the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, the Rolling Stones and James Brown, and then gave away free tickets to local high schoolers. They had cameras at the ready—operated by unknowns—and two months later released to theaters what is arguably the first modern concert film. The result ought to have been a cheap, B-movie experience (and the hacky MCing tips into this at times), but the sheer force of performance turns “TAMI Show” into an extraordinary document of mid-60s music, capturing the greatness not just of the young Stones—who have been on film plenty of times, including elsewhere on this list—but the R&B and Motown of a slightly earlier pop era: the Supremes at the height of their powers are a blast, Chuck Berry is manic, the Beach Boys are clean-cut and weirdly old-looking, and then a young man named James Brown takes the stage. Along with his backing band, the Famous Flames, he tears it up with ridiculous theatrics and music that immediately makes the rest of the show feel old-fashioned. The Rolling Stones, who appeared after him to close the show, were for once in their lives completely upstaged, and ended up regretting doing the film (not that their performance is bad or anything). “TAMI Show” is remembered now for launching Brown’s career, and he’s the obvious stand-out, but the whole thing is exuberantly good, like watching the show at the beginning of “Dreamgirls.” We’re celebrating 30 years since “Stop Making Sense,” but it’s also 50 years since “TAMI Show” and concert movies as we know them.
From the Playlist to your playlist: Every second James Brown is on stage, but especially his antics during “Night Train”; the dancers rightfully ceding the stage to the Supremes, who are then shown in close-up for the finale to “Where Did Our Love Go.”
“Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars” (1973)
Legendary documentarian D.A. Pennebaker almost got onto this list several times, with his Dylan movies and with “Monterey Pop.” Ultimately it’s his record of David Bowie’s concert at the Hammersmith Apollo in 1973 that makes the cut, for capturing an artist at the peak of his impossible charisma and an era of fascinating excess without falling into the trap of actually displaying that excess (that trap is the reason many, many 70s movies in the style of “The Song Remains The Same” aren’t on here). Pennebaker gives us a straightforward set-list that doesn’t bother getting into the silliness of the Ziggy album’s “storyline,” and a straightforward film that doesn’t bother with too much behind-the-scenes stuff. Instead it’s a starkly lit, savagely beautiful pattern of blood-red lights, jagged-edged glam and Bowie’s extraterrestrial cheekbones, gradually stripping off one outlandish outfit and displaying another as the gig goes on. The key moment comes just before the final song, “Rock n Roll Suicide,” when Bowie announces that “not only is this the last show of the tour, but it’s the last show that we’ll ever do.” No one saw it coming (even most of the band members hadn’t been told), and no one in the howling crowd understands that Bowie means it’s his last show as Ziggy: he appeared to be genuinely retiring (which, of course, was what he wanted people to think). Ziggy leaves the stage to the mocking sounds of “Land of Hope and Glory”: Bowie was off to America to immerse himself in soul and become someone entirely new, leaving behind “Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars” as the final document of one of rock and roll’s richest, strangest eras.
From the Playlist to your playlist: “Rock n Roll Suicide,” in this context, is tremendous; the storming version of “Moonage Daydream” is also a highlight.
