What's so fascinating about this film is how its music soars, despite the pot-fogged incidents that happen offstage, and despite poor concert production planning.
Only great musicians of merit could survive this crap: An embarrassing mid-concert altercation between Steven Stills and a hostile audience member, all in full view and focus of the audience, after which Stills performs his set. Cringe-inducing interstitials of of wacked-out audience members-- from drug addict transient/philosophers with truant, abused, harmonica-chewing children, to poet wannabees with bad dentistry along Highway 1-turned-parking lot.
Did it ever dawn on Crosby, Baez or Hendricks that they're wasting their time singing to the great unwashed? People who have smeared their faces with greasepaint, siphoned stolen gas by mouth and can't find their children? People who call attention to themselves at public concerts by running naked without having trimmed their pubic hair? Luckily these great musicians don't seem to let it get to them. (Except for Stills who walks into the crowd and mauls a psychotic loudmouth.)
What becomes really clear is how naively the whole concert production was engineered. No parking. No rehearsal (as a bewildered Joan Baez looks about the stage for an ending after the 20th chorus of "Oh Happy Day".) No barrier between audience and performers-- anyone could jump in the downstage swimming pool and cause a ruckus at random. (The "swimming pool downstage" was a weed-fried concert promoter's whimsy-turned nightmare-- too odd to be believed, and would be unthinkable for today's uber-engineered concerts.)
It's hilarious to watch a generation of brilliant, carefree artists step in their own crap because of faulty production design and engineering.
This film is hideous and beautiful. Like a 1920's Montparnasse outdoor art show in a rainstorm. Or like an evening with David Crosby-- in a hot tub.
Only great musicians of merit could survive this crap: An embarrassing mid-concert altercation between Steven Stills and a hostile audience member, all in full view and focus of the audience, after which Stills performs his set. Cringe-inducing interstitials of of wacked-out audience members-- from drug addict transient/philosophers with truant, abused, harmonica-chewing children, to poet wannabees with bad dentistry along Highway 1-turned-parking lot.
Did it ever dawn on Crosby, Baez or Hendricks that they're wasting their time singing to the great unwashed? People who have smeared their faces with greasepaint, siphoned stolen gas by mouth and can't find their children? People who call attention to themselves at public concerts by running naked without having trimmed their pubic hair? Luckily these great musicians don't seem to let it get to them. (Except for Stills who walks into the crowd and mauls a psychotic loudmouth.)
What becomes really clear is how naively the whole concert production was engineered. No parking. No rehearsal (as a bewildered Joan Baez looks about the stage for an ending after the 20th chorus of "Oh Happy Day".) No barrier between audience and performers-- anyone could jump in the downstage swimming pool and cause a ruckus at random. (The "swimming pool downstage" was a weed-fried concert promoter's whimsy-turned nightmare-- too odd to be believed, and would be unthinkable for today's uber-engineered concerts.)
It's hilarious to watch a generation of brilliant, carefree artists step in their own crap because of faulty production design and engineering.
This film is hideous and beautiful. Like a 1920's Montparnasse outdoor art show in a rainstorm. Or like an evening with David Crosby-- in a hot tub.