|
Words From the Front
Dick Cavett's Rock Icons
by Kristine McKenna
Is it just me, or did everything used to be more fun? The thought crossed my mind last week while watching The Dick Cavett Show: Rock Icons, a fantastic DVD collection recently released by the redoubtable Shout! Factory, the wonderful outfit that gave us last year's definitive Lenny Bruce collection, Let The Buyer Beware. Rock Icons is every bit as good as the Bruce package, and it kicks off with a bang. The Dick Cavett Show, which aired from 1969 to 1975 on network television, was the hipsters talk show of its time. Though Cavett was most comfortable striking the pose of a nervous, ironic New York intellectual, he was skilled at making everyone who appeared on his show comfortable, and was extraordinarily adventurous in terms of who he invited on his show. He had a particular interest in those leading the social revolution of the '60s, many of whom were musicians, and those are the shows that have been collected together in Rock Icons. The first episode, which originally aired on August 19, 1969, is riveting but bittersweet. Taped the day after Woodstock, it features Joni Mitchell, Jefferson Airplane, Steven Stills, and David Crosby, who had all come to the studio directly after performing at the festival. Flushed with excitement and dazed by what they'd just experienced, they spoke with conviction of the better world the love generation was building. It's a sad thing to hear them now, knowing how quickly the 60s social revolution was to derail. The first thing that struck me was how young those musicians were. They were children! Modest, well-mannered children too—rock stars used to be so polite. Joni Mitchell, a shy prairie princess in a green velvet gown, is mesmerizing, and her performance here is a reminder of why we all fell in love with her in the first place. And who remembers how stunningly handsome David Crosby used to be? A dashing buckskin boy in a fringed suede jacket and handlebar mustache, Crosby went to seed at an unfortunately vigorous clip, but he certainly had his shining moments and this was one of them. The show closes with an extended jam by the Airplane that prompted several audience members to leap to the their feet and groove, reminding us, just in case anyone had forgotten, what lousy dancers hippies were. It's a really pathetic sight. The next show in the series, which aired on July 13, 1970, is the one that left me with my mouth hanging open. By the late 70s, Sly Stone had pretty much disappeared into his cocaine addiction. But before that insidious drug took hold, he was one of the most electrifying performers to ever walk on a stage. What a wickedly sexy dude! The original gangster, he fronted an unbelievably tight band that cut a groove so rock solid it was scary, but Sly was more than just a genius musician. He was a kooky philosopher with an incredibly quick mind, and his conversation with Cavett is priceless. At first he just seems high, but as their conversation progresses you begin to realize that Sly is miles ahead of Cavett. He's extremely gracious to his befuddled host too. There's lots of great stuff in the whole Cavett series, including three episodes with Janis Joplin, who had a sweetness about her that's incredibly moving. Joplin died just two months after her last appearance with Cavett. There's a wonderful show from November 1971 featuring Ravi Shankar and a wise and self-effacing George Harrison. There's a two-disc set of shows with Ray Charles (which I frankly found a bit boring, despite the fact that I'm a big Ray fan), and a fascinating episode with David Bowie, who'd just inaugurated his "Young American" period. Cavett clearly has no idea what to make of the heavily made-up Bowie, nor does Bowie seem particularly at ease—fidgeting nervously with a cane, he seems endearingly anxious and unsure of himself. Finally, there are two amazing episodes with Jimi Hendrix taped a year before he died. Hendrix was at the very peak of his powers when he appeared on Cavett, but he was astonishingly humble about his fabulous abilities. One of the Hendrix shows includes an appearance by anthropologist Margaret Mead, who discusses complex ideas with an intelligence and sophistication that's unimaginable on network television these days. And the fact that she does this while sitting with Jimi Hendrix is just so delicious. Like I said, things used to be more fun. Kristine McKenna’s work as a journalist began in the late ’70s, when she covered the Los Angeles punk scene for various domestic and international publications. During the ’80s and ’90s she wrote art, film, and music criticism, and profiled directors, musicians, and visual artists for a variety of publications, including New York Rocker, Artforum, Rolling Stone, and the Los Angeles Times. She lives in Los Angeles and is presently working on a biography of the artist Wallace Berman. She wrote the liner notes to Rhino’s expanded X releases Los Angeles, Wild Gift, Under The Big Black Sun, More Fun In The New World, Ain’t Love Grand, and See How We Are. Two collections of her interviews, Book Of Changes (2001) and Talk To Her (2004), have been published by Fantagraphics. She is presently co-curating Semina Culture: Wallace Berman & his Circle, an exhibition that begins a tour of six U.S. museums in September of 2005. The exhibition will be accompanied by a fully illustrated catalogue published by D.A.P.
LET US KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.
A word about submissions: We post what you give us, so please don't include your email address or any personal info. Your comments reach Rhino, not necessarily the writer, so don't expect a reply from them (or us, see our help section for contact info). We gather and post your submissions in batches, so do expect a short delay. And don't get bent if we edit your comments. We probably won't, but we reserve that right.
Comments:
For those who might not know one Dick from another, Mr. Cavett was a member of the early ‘70s fraternity of late night talk show hosts, in direct competition against an already-legendary Johnny Carson and more preening-and-fawning Merv Griffin in an era where the three major networks (CBS, NBC, ABC) were all that mattered in American television. What distinguished the Nebraska-raised, Yale-educated compere, other than an inability to deliver his own jokes well, was an eagerness to let his guests be utterly honest and candid in their opinions, something even more rare on today’s television than it was then. Think of him as somewhere in between Conan O’Brien and Charlie Rose, with a greater need to make himself look superior (coupled, oddly, with a willingness to fail miserably at the same), and a personality cult big enough to get him satirized on both Saturday Night Live and SCTV. “What else really gives you pleasure?” he asks one guest in a moment of pure Cavettness, “do you snorkel?” Cavett’s production, even by early ‘70s standards, was nearly amateurish, but all kidding aside, he did his homework – as he often reminded everybody – and often got uniquely good interviews from his guests.
The Dick Cavett Show, a frequent ratings-loser more beloved by a vocal minority viewership than by ABC execs, was also apparently poorly archived. That may partially explain the unevenness of this three-disc package, which wants us to believe that Cavett booked an unusually high number of rock artists. Perhaps so, but considering that the appearances of Jimi Hendrix (already documented on a separate DVD), Ray Charles and John Lennon (both getting their own double disc releases in September and November respectively) are neither represented nor even referenced herein, it’s hard to avoid a feeling of sloppy seconds about Rock Icons.
The emphasis there should be on sloppy, though, rather than seconds. There are indeed some indelible performances and interviews herein, particularly those of Sly Stone, David Bowie, Stevie Wonder and Paul Simon (who sings an unfinished “Still Crazy After All These Years”). But for some reason, the set’s producers insisted on including the original nine broadcasts in their entirety, even when that means we are treated to an extended interview with Elsa Lanchester or Debbie Reynolds. Those may be of interest to TV historians or culture omnivores like Cavett himself, but not to many classic rock fans. On the other hand, a whole disc -- fully one third of the set -- is devoted to shows featuring Janis Joplin (who apparently appeared more on Cavett’s show than any other; 3 times in 13 months), which is an embarrassment of riches to Joplin fanatics, but a bit boring to the rest of us (why isn’t her disc a separate release, too?). Did I mention that the shows run in no particular order and the packaging is inconsistently and incorrectly annotated?
Considering that one of the most impressive items in the package is footage with the Rolling Stones at Madison Square Garden (presented as an extra, presumably because the full show in which it was broadcast is now lost), it seems obvious that the subject would’ve been better served by an edited compilation program – especially considering the cooperation of Cavett and award-winning documentarian Bob Weide. Then the entirely musical episodes, such as a particularly notable show done the very day after Woodstock, could’ve been included as extras. Instead we get Cavett today introducing each episode, which frankly serves nothing but more self-congratulation. Yes, there is an option on the discs to watch the musical performances only or skip through, but that’s not the same thing.
Giving it a positive spin, the shows force/invite you to relive a true ‘70s television experience (sans commercials) in all its rewards and frustrations. If that’s too much to bear, bow your head and thank a higher power for inventing the remote.
|
|
Subscribe to Feed
