Author: brucehhackett

I’m in pieces, bits and pieces

Posted on by brucehhackett

Some of classic rock’s tales aren’t quite long enough to warrant full treatment, but they’re still worthy of attention. So I’ve gathered up a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and I’ve thrown them into the pot for a mixed bag of short stories I hope you enjoy:

************************

A classic rock self-fulfilling prophecy

They were just a ragtag band of misfits, essentially a bar band from Jersey that, against all odds, made a dream come true.

They were called Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show, named partly because of Ray Sawyer, one of their singers, who had lost an eye in a car accident and always wore an eye patch. They played a lively brand of country, rock and folk that was alternately funny and serious, and their improvisational performances were full of suggestive lyrics and partial nudity. They were making it up as they went along.

They ambushed Clive Davis in his Columbia Records office one day in 1971 and danced on his desk as they auditioned their songs for him, and they must’ve caught Davis in a vulnerable mood because they were just playful enough in their anarchic presentation to win a contract.

Their manager/producer helped cement a relationship between the band and poet/author/songwriter/playwright Shel Silverstein, who wrote the children’s book “Where the Sidewalk Ends” and also wrote “A Boy Named Sue” for Johnny Cash. Silverstein’s first effort for Dr. Hook was a bittersweet ditty called “Sylvia’s Mother,” which proved to be an unlikely hit in early 1972. He proceeded to write them a whole batch of whimsical, bawdy songs like “Freakin’ at the Freakers’ Ball,” “Get My Rocks Off” and “If I’d Only Come and Gone” for their second album, “Sloppy Seconds.”

That album also included a clever parody of the rock and roll lifestyle called “The Cover of Rolling Stone,” which claimed that, even if a band had all the groupies and pills and friends that money could buy, their biggest goal would be “the thrill that’ll getcha when you get your picture on the cover of the Rollin’ Stone.” It was released as a single in late 1972 and did decent business on the charts, but it wasn’t until Dr. Hook’s manager barnstormed the offices of Rolling Stone and sold editor Jann Wenner on the plan to make the song a reality that it reached #6 in the spring of 1973.

Truth be told, the magazine was only five years old at the time, and Wenner’s notoriously huge ego wanted the fame and cachet of being regarded as a savvy businessman. He saw how the song lyrics and title helped give his counterculture publication a jumpstart toward a more mainstream audience. He sent a veteran writer on tour with Dr. Hook for a couple weeks and came up with a cover story on the band (though, by all rights, they hadn’t achieved enough to really deserve it).

In the end, Dr. Hook never got their photo on the cover, but the March 28th, 1973, issue featured a caricature of the band and the words, “What’s-Their-Names Made the Cover.” As far as the band was concerned, they had indeed made it.

The coveted cover spawned by Dr. Hook’s song

**************************

Let me stand next to your fire

In March of 1967, a still-unknown trio called The Jimi Hendrix Experience was set to perform at a London club on a bill that included Cat Stevens, The Walker Brothers and Englebert Humperdinck. While the band waited to perform, Hendrix and his manager Chas Chandler were discussing ways to increase the band’s media exposure. A local journalist named Keith Altham was also there, and he suggested they needed to do something more dramatic than The Who’s penchant for smashing their instruments. Altham thought for a moment, then said, “Well, it’s a pity you can’t set fire to your guitar.”

Chandler’s eyes lit up, and he asked the road manager to find some lighter fluid. The group gave a torrid 45-minute performance, which concluded with Hendrix lighting his Fender Stratocaster on fire. The stunt worked, giving Hendrix more attention than he bargained for, and he repeated it three months later at the Monterey Pop Festival in California with film cameras capturing it for posterity.

After the London show, press agent Tony Garland gathered the charred remains of the guitar and took them to his parents’ home and stored them in their garage, where they remained for nearly 40 years.

One day in 2006, Garland’s nephew was combing through boxes in that garage when he found the seared Strat and, knowing that his uncle had once worked for Hendrix, did a little research. Sure enough, he had a rock and roll heirloom on his hands, and it was auctioned off later that year for $575,000.

Jimi Hendrix’s first char-grilled guitar

*************************

“Really Cheap Pine”

Much has been written about the songwriting partnership of John Lennon and Paul McCartney and how they wrote “nose to nose” in the early days but were composing songs virtually solo in The Beatles’ last two or three years. In 1965, for their groundbreaking masterpiece LP “Rubber Soul,” they were still merging ideas for melodies, lyrics and arrangements, and one of their finest efforts, “Norwegian Wood,” came from that period.

McCartney has published his recollections about the origins of songs from The Beatles’ catalog, and here’s what he had to say about this one: “John came in one morning, and he had this first stanza, which was brilliant: ‘I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me.’ That was all he had, no title, no nothing, but we both could tell where this one was going to go based on that opening line. And it pretty much wrote itself. Once you’ve got the great idea, they do tend to write themselves, assuming you know how to write songs.

‘It’s him trying to get laid, it’s about an affair, but he wanted to be more cryptic about it because of Cynthia, you know. So I picked up the story at the second verse. John said in that Playboy interview he did just before he died that he hadn’t the faintest idea where the title came from. But I do. A friend of ours had just had his room done out in wood. A lot of people were decorating their places in wood. Norwegian wood. It was pine. Really cheap pine. But that’s not as good a title. “Isn’t it fine, Really Cheap Pine”…

Anyway, the girl decides she doesn’t want to do it, and she makes him sleep in the bath. In the last verse, I had this idea to set the Norwegian wood on fire as revenge, so we did it very tongue in cheek. She had led him on, then said, ‘You’d better sleep in the bath’. We thought the guy would want to have revenge of some kind. ‘I lit a fire’ could have meant to keep myself warm, and wasn’t the decor of her house wonderful? But it didn’t. It meant I burned the fucking place down as an act of revenge, and then we left it at that, and ended it there.”

**************************

It’s not always about romance

Writing lyrics about one thing when you mean something else is a favorite ploy of rock songwriters. Two of the biggest hits Daryl Hall and John Oates ever charted offer two examples of this technique.

In 1981, they released “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do),” which appears to be about one half of a romantic couple telling the other half that there are some things they refuse to do: “You’ve got the body, now you want my soul, /Don’t even think about it, say ‘no go,’ /I’ll do anything that you want me to do, /Yeah, I’ll do almost anything that you want me to, /But I can’t go for that, no, no can do…”

Oates explained, “In reality, that song is about the music business. It’s about not wanting to be pushed around by record labels, managers and agents, and being told what to do, and wanting to stay true to yourself creatively. But we thought it would be a good move to universalize the topic of the song, making it into something everyone could relate to and ascribe personal meaning to in their own way. So we kept the words less specific, and it worked out well.”

The same sort of thing happened the following year as Hall was working on a song about New York City in the ’80s and how it could be a tough place that put people through the wringer. Said Oates, “But we started thinking that there are a ton of listeners who’ve never lived in New York or even been there, and maybe couldn’t relate to that. So we made it about not a city but a manipulative woman. People can identify with that kind of experience, I think. So it became ‘Maneater'”: “I wouldn’t if I were you, I know what she can do, /She’s deadly, man, and she could really rip your world apart, /Mind over matter, ooh, the beauty is there, but a beast is in the heart, /Oh-oh, here she comes, watch out boy, she’ll chew you up, /Oh-oh, here she comes, she’s a maneater…”

“The most heart-melting love song ever penned”

It seems a safe bet that there have been more songs written about love than any other topic, so it’s an almost impossible task to select the best ones, or to designate one as the finest of them all.

In 1966, Brian Wilson was collaborating with lyricist Tony Asher on a new batch of songs slated to comprise The Beach Boys next LP, “Pet Sounds.” Wilson had been riding high for the past five years writing most of the group’s hits, from “In My Room” and “Don’t Worry Baby” through “California Girls” and “I Get Around.” He developed a healthy if grudging respect for the songs of The Beatles when they first appeared on U.S. charts in early 1964. By late 1965, though, his confidence faltered when he heard their album “Rubber Soul,” which knocked him off his feet. “Those songs were so wonderful,” Wilson recalled, “and I felt that I really had to up my game if we were still going to be able to stay up with them.”

Wilson sat at the piano, working his way through melodies and chord progressions, landing on some that didn’t seem like the pop music he’d been writing but still intrigued him. Asher said, “I was there with Brian, and I came up with what I felt was a grabber of a first line: ‘I may not always love you.’ Brian argued against it, but I really liked that twist, and I defended it by writing the next couple of lines as, ‘But long as there are stars above you, you’ll never need to doubt it.‘

Asher continued, “Then there was a disagreement about using ‘God’ in not only the words but the title. We had lengthy conversations about that, because unless you were Kate Smith singing ‘God Bless America,’ no one thought you could say ‘God’ in a pop song.  Brian said, ‘We’ll just never get any air play.’ But some people told him it was “an opportunity to be really far out because it would cause some controversy, which he didn’t mind at all. So we kept it in.”

The song, of course, is “God Only Knows,” which has been described by Paul McCartney as “the greatest song ever written” and by multiple Grammy-winning songwriter Jimmy Webb as “my favorite song of all time.” Barry Gibb of The Bee Gees has said, “When I first heard it, it blew the top of my head off. My first thought was, ‘Oh dear, I’m wasting my time, how can I ever compete with that?'”

It’s been recorded by literally hundreds of artists from Andy Williams to David Bowie, from Manhattan Transfer to Michael Bublé, and in 2014, a special recording of it was made involving Wilson and such luminaries as Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Chrissie Hynde, Pharrell Williams, Chris Martin and Lorde. There’s an astonishing version by a guy named Nicholas Wells that features his multi-tracked voice doing all the harmonies that’ll send chills up your spine. The Beach Boys original recording of it has also been used in many film soundtracks like “Love Actually” and “Boogie Nights.”

Even so, Wilson, who had the most amazing ear and musical sense, was right about one thing: It didn’t get much air play, at least not at first. It stalled at #39 on the U.S. charts upon first release, although it went to #2 in England, where perhaps the use of “God” in a pop song wasn’t such a problem.

Tony Asher (left) and Brian Wilson

*************************

Life’s tragic twists

Irony can be humorous — like when a truck carrying old discarded tires has a blowout — but it can also be mighty cruel. That’s the sad case with singer-songwriter Jim Croce.

Croce was in bands and coffeehouse trios and in a men’s chorus in college at Villanova University in Philadelphia, and cut an album, “Facets,” in a Delaware studio at age 23 for $500. He married his wife Ingrid, also a singer, in 1966 and performed with her as a duo, doing covers of popular songs, mostly in small clubs on the East Coast college circuit. They recorded an album for Capitol Records, “Jim and Ingrid Croce,” in 1969, comprised of a dozen songs they had written. Neither of these recordings made them much money, and even the pay they received for gigs wasn’t covering the rent. They became disillusioned with the music business, and moved to a farm in Pennsylvania.

Croce took to working various odd jobs — truck driver, welder, construction work, teaching guitar lessons — but he couldn’t shake his desire to keep writing songs, often with lyrics about his experiences at those jobs (case in point: “Working at the Car Wash Blues,” eventually recorded in 1973). This continued for another two years or so, as he and Ingrid struggled to make ends meet, but once she found out she was expecting, Croce became more focused on making music his profession.

Ingrid, A.J. and Jim Croce

In 1972, a demo tape he shopped around was turned down by three dozen labels, but his perseverance paid off when RCA Records signed him to a three-record deal. His first single, the upbeat, whimsical “You Don’t Mess Around With Jim” from the debut album of the same name, made its way up the charts, and reached #8 in September 1972. The more downbeat, poignant “Operator” followed, peaking at #17 in December, and things looked promising. He made appearances on “American Bandstand,” “The Tonight Show,” “Dick Cavett” and “Midnight Special,” as another original song about a rough-and-tumble sort, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” spent two weeks as the nation’s #1 song in July of 1973.

His next album and its title song, “I Got a Name,” poised for release on September 21, seemed to say it all. Croce was on a roll and had finally established himself as a successful singer-songwriter. But all the touring required to support his records wore him down, and he missed his wife and young son A.J. In a letter to Ingrid dated September 17, Croce told her he had decided once the current tour ended to quit music and stick to writing short stories and movie scripts as a career and withdraw from public life.

But fate intervened, and on September 20, Croce and four others, heading from one gig to another, were killed when their twin-engine plane crashed during takeoff in Louisiana.

“I Got a Name” was released the next day as planned and reached #10, and “Time in a Bottle,” released a few months later, was a posthumous #1 hit, but Croce never got to enjoy their success.

This photo of A.J. Croce holding his dad’s hat
appeared on the inside sleeve of Croce’s “Greatest
Hits” collection in 1974

**************************

 

Old school: Classic rock concert films

Posted on by brucehhackett

This post today could fairly be described as quaint, or even obsolete.

With YouTube and other platforms in wide use, classic rock music fans today have the ability to watch their favorite artists — new or vintage — captured live in concert whenever they like. Whether it’s one song or an entire performance, it’s easy to watch rock musicians strut their stuff on stage from the comfort of your living room, or on your laptop anywhere.

Back in the ’60s and early ’70s, we didn’t have that luxury. The pickings were mighty slim, and the audio and/or video quality was usually not so great. Video clips from “The Ed Sullivan Show” or “Midnight Special” sometimes captured great performances by your favorite bands of the era, but too often we were subjected to “lip-sync’ed” moments taped on cheesy-looking sets, and it was usually the hit singles only.

By the mid-’70s, things started getting better, and by the ’80s, some of the major players in rock music spent the time and money to do it right, hiring respected directors and serious film crews to preserve live shows that showed the artists performing at their peak.

The best of these films were often premiered in theaters or on TV special broadcasts, and eventually they were issued on videotape and DVD. It was a brand-new experience to sit back and immerse myself in an intoxicating concert experience without leaving the house. Once high-definition and surround sound became available, that experience became even more mind-blowing.

I’ve singled out six of the best concert films from the classic rock era, the ones I strongly recommend that you try to see before you die. I’ve deliberately left out “Woodstock” and “Monterey Pop” because I’ve discussed them before, and because they offer multiple artists instead of focusing on the work of one major artist, as these choices do. I have DVDs of each, so feel free to stop by and we’ll watch them together!

**************************

“Stop Making Sense,” Talking Heads, 1984

David Byrne, songwriter/singer of the Talking Heads and one of rock’s most eccentric visionaries, had enough foresight to pick the right time in the band’s career arc to make a concert film, and to select the right person to take the helm. The band was operating at its peak in 1983 when Byrne conceived and executed “Stop Making Sense,” a highly visual presentation of the group in concert at Hollywood’s Pantages Theater, in collaboration with acclaimed film director Jonathan Demme, who had recently won praise for his 1980 slice-of-life comedy, “Melvin and Howard.”

Byrne drew on an array of influences, from New York’s avant garde theater world to the ritualistic traditions of the Pentacostal church, and Demme filmed the ensemble using 24-track digital sound recording, a new technology at the time. “Where analog recording loses a little something with each generation, digital maintains the sound integrity throughout the editing process, so the sound of the music is truly superb,” said Demme.

The show begins with Byrne alone on stage with guitar and a boom box playing the early classic “Psycho Killer,” is then joined by bassist Tina Weymouth, then drummer Chris Frantz on the third number, and then guitarist/keyboardist Jerry Harrison before additional singers and percussionists complete the assemblage for the sixth selection, the brutal Top Ten hit “Burning Down the House.” Byrne’s loner — alone on stage, alone in the world — has gradually become surrounded by a sympathetic community and joyously liberated from his angst and isolation. Imaginative lighting and idiosyncratic set design keep the viewer riveted as Byrne jumps around rhythmically yet spasmodically, at one point wearing his iconic six-sizes-too-big suit, recalling Japanese Kabuki costumes.

Critics were universal in their praise. Said Roger Ebert in a 1984 review, “The overwhelming impression throughout Stop Making Sense is of enormous energy, of life being lived at a joyous high. Byrne and the band seem so happy just to be alive and making music.” Elizabeth Nelson of the pop culture website The Ringer, revisiting the film for a 2019 article, called it “a masterfully executed and profoundly ambitious reimagining of the concert film genre, achieving something at once wildly theatrical but curiously unpretentious.”

“The Last Waltz,” The Band, 1978

After eight years as “a” band backing Ronnie Hawkins and then Bob Dylan, they went out on their own in 1968 as “The” Band, virtually inventing the genre now known as Americana. Eight long years of albums and tours later, chief songwriter Robbie Robertson said the time had come to hang it up. “We had come to a point. We could tell something was going to happen. Something wrong. I’m not talking about the guys individually, I’m talking about The Band as a train itself. It was us, saying goodbye to the road.”

That was the impetus for staging “The Last Waltz,” The Band’s final show, on Thanksgiving Day 1976 at Winterland in San Francisco. They decided to invite key colleagues to participate — Hawkins and Dylan, for sure, but also Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton, Dr. John and Neil Diamond, among others. As the cast of supporting characters grew, so did Robertson’s original concept of a home movie, until he decided he had to enlist a real filmmaker. Rock music on film he had seen before, and it was all “Horrible….That’s another reason to do this. “I had watched music on television and in movies, and it was all pretty horrible. We needed someone who was professional and imaginative. Marty Scorsese was our first choice, and fortunately, he was not only willing and available, but he got us. He knew what The Band was about.”

They dressed the Winterland stage like an antebellum ballroom complete with chandeliers. Instead of the usual rock movie crew with hand-held sixteen-millimeter cameras, Scorsese called out Hollywood’s best technicians, a full complement of wide-screen professionals. They made the viewer feel like he was as tapped in to the onstage emotions as any musician there, with the cameras picking up all the looks and glances. The sound, laid down on a full studio twenty-four-track machine, set a new standard (at least until “Stop Making Sense” and its digital sound).

There is interview footage of band members reminiscing, giving the film a quasi-documentary feel, but the performances are the real deal, from The Band’s dozen songs (“Up On Cripple Creek,” “Don’t Do It,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”) to offerings from Mitchell (“Coyote”), Young (“Helpless”), Waters (“Mannish Boy”), Clapton (“Further On Up the Road”), Dr. John (“Such a Night”), Hawkins (“Who Do You Love”) and Dylan (“Forever Young”). Critics agreed that Scorsese brilliantly captured the sophistication and poignancy of the evening, and classic rock devotees will find the DVD two hours very well spent.

“Ladies and Gentlemen: The Rolling Stones,” The Rolling Stones, 1974

“Nobody really knows it yet, but this is the first really good rock-concert film,” said cinematographer Steve Gebhardt at the time of its theatrical release in 1974. “There’s no message to it. It’s just what it says it is: The Rolling Stones in concert. Period.”

Indeed. “Ladies and Gentlemen: The Rolling Stones,” filmed during four shows in Houston and Fort Worth during the group’s 1972 tour, was shot using 16mm film but blown up to 35mm using a “wet gate” process to “make it look like it was shot for the wide screen.” The concerts were recorded in 32-track audio and released in “Quadrasound” (a variation of the four-track magnetic sound format) for the US theatrical release. The objective was to transform the typical 650-seat movie theatre into the auditory phenomenon of a 10,000-seat arena. A black screen and quadraphonic audience noise fooled theatergoers into accepting the recorded ambience as coming from their own venue, intensifying the aural intimacy when the Stones began to play.

What we see here is Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, Bill Wyman and Mick Taylor in superb form, playing the best material they ever wrote: “Gimme Shelter,” “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “Brown Sugar,” “Midnight Rambler,” “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” “Tumbling Dice,” and ten more, all from their 1968-1972 period. The filmmakers and a four-man camera crew worked mostly from the back of the halls, using a 600mm lens powerful enough to pull in phenomenal close-ups. As Rolling Stone said in its review at the time, “The shots get so close that Mick Taylor’s fingers sometimes look like three-foot-high fence posts.”  

Once its initial theatrical run was over, the film disappeared for decades and wasn’t made available commercially until 2010, when a re-mastered digital version was issued on DVD and Blu-ray, complete with a Jagger interview segment serving as an introduction. Watching this film today in 2022 is an eye-opening experience for younger generations who may be ambivalent about why The Rolling Stones were once known as “the world’s greatest rock and roll band.” Here’s your proof.

“Shadows and Light,” Joni Mitchell, 1980

In the 10+ years since her entry into the music business, Mitchell and her music in 1980 had undergone enormous change from timid folkie to confident jazz bandleader. We heard the first big jump in that evolution on 1974’s “Miles of Aisles” LP, with Mitchell fronting a full band for the first time. Her next three or four albums showed her moving inexorably toward a not-always-welcome exploration into jazz arrangements that challenged those of us brought up on “Big Yellow Taxi” and “Both Sides Now.” In 1979, Mitchell assembled a truly all-star jazz ensemble to accompany her as she showcased her newer songs, offering incredible musicianship that we are fortunate to see and hear captured on “Shadows and Light,” an exceptional concert DVD.

Joni had a whole new look at this point, as well as a take-charge seriousness to her delivery that complemented the professional approach of the band, which included the wondrous Pet Metheny on guitar, the unparalleled Jaco Pastorius on bass, Michael Brecker on sax, Don Alias on drums and Lyle Mays on keyboards. Are you kidding me? Just watch these maestros strut their stuff alongside Mitchell and bathe in the alternating soothing/ambitious sounds they make on the Santa Barbara County Bowl stage.

The film throws in some curious, somewhat distracting film clips of various ’50s and ’60s iconic artists and images, but once the cameras settle on the live music at hand, it’s a real treat. We get stellar versions of three tracks from 1975’s “The Hissing of Summer Lawns,” five from her 1976 masterpiece “Hejira,” three from her then-new tribute to Charles Mingus, and just two from her earlier days (“Free Man in Paris” and “Woodstock”). The vocal group The Persuasions make an appearance near show’s end with a lively take on the ’50s nugget “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” and a stunning collaboration with Mitchell on the title track.

This concert film will delight and surprise you, regardless of where you are on the Joni spectrum. I’ve found it’s great to watch on a rainy, mellow Sunday when I’m in a reflective mood.

“’68 Comeback Special,” Elvis Presley, 1968

In 1968, it had been seven long years since Presley performed live, a period during which his manager, the controlling “Colonel” Tom Parker, had him focused on Hollywood, starring in more than 20 slapdash, average movies with even worse soundtrack LPs. The rock music world had exploded in the meantime, as The Beatles and the British Invasion, then garage bands and psychedelia took rock listeners on ever-expanding journeys into uncharted territory. Presley was frustrated that he seemed left behind, a relic of an earlier era.

Parker had originally envisioned Presley’s next move to be a mostly traditional Christmas special, broadcast on NBC, but producer Bob Finkel and director Steve Binder had other ideas. With Presley’s encouragement, the program was transformed into something else, a more current version of Elvis doing vintage rock and roll in fully staged fashion as well as in a sit-down, intimate setting in the round. A bluesy treatment of “Blue Christmas” near show’s end would be the only remnant left of Parker’s initial concept.

“Elvis” (commonly referred to as the “’68 Comeback Special“) was a huge success in every way. Partly because people of all kinds tuned in to see what he would say and sing and do, the show earned huge TV ratings, and the press was mostly complimentary (The Chicago Tribune called it “dynamic, compelling, incredibly sensual”). Most important, the public’s perception of The King as a has-been joke went through a major correction. They now seemed to re-appreciate him as a vital performer and respected icon of the rock and roll oeuvre.

Filming had taken place six months earlier in NBC’s Burbank studios after numerous rehearsals, and the show made use of the best of the various takes. Most eye-opening is the sit-down setting where Presley, dressed head to toe in black leather, gave strong renditions of rockers and ballads alike surrounded by a small audience in what amounts to a precursor of the “MTV Unplugged” format.

The DVD package I own, released in 2004, is a 3-disc deluxe edition that includes all available footage and outtake, but there’s also a 1-disc version that shows the original broadcast with a few extra numbers added for good measure. If you want a delicious slice of rock history, look no further.

“Led Zeppelin DVD,” Led Zeppelin, 2003

It wasn’t until 2001, more than 20 years after Led Zeppelin disbanded following John Bonham’s death, that Jimmy Page began compiling, editing and remixing video and audio materials with an eye toward a definitive DVD of the band in concert at different phases of their career. “There was nothing out there except dreadful quality bootleg stuff,” said Page, “We built our career on live shows, so top-flight video of us in concert was something I felt had to be done.”

Much of the available footage had to be painstakingly restored from tape that had partially decayed and decomposed. Videotape from shows at Royal Albert Hall in 1970 needed considerable work, although footage from 1975 at Earls Court and 1979 at Knebworth Festival were in better shape. Video from Madison Square Garden in 1973 had been used in the lackluster 1976 film “The Song Remains the Same” but was repurposed for this larger project.

The result, titled simply “Led Zeppelin DVD,” is a 2-disc treasure trove released in 2003 that shows the foursome on stage at those four different times in the band’s relatively short lifespan in the Seventies. As a huge fan in the band’s early days, I was most thrilled to see the 1970 footage, as it approximates what they looked like when I had seen them a few months earlier doing the blues rock classics from their first two LPs. The stuff from 1975 is great because it includes a section when they gathered on stools at the edge of the stage with acoustic instruments to do a few ballads (“Going to California,” “That’s the Way”).

But this is Led friggin’ Zeppelin we’re talking about, so the footage showing them really cranking it up (“Dazed and Confused,” “Black Dog,” “Rock and Roll,” “Kashmir,” for example) is the meatiest part of it. Critics like Michael Azerrad of Rolling Stone called it “the Holy Grail of heavy metal” and gave it four of four stars. The band’s fan base, still avid 25 years after the fact, made this package the best selling DVD in the US for three consecutive years.

**************************

I would have loved for this Spotify playlist to include songs from each of the films featured here, but there was no corresponding album to accompany “Ladies and Gentlemen: The Rolling Stones” nor “Led Zeppelin DVD,” and Joni Mitchell has removed her entire catalog from Spotify, so tracks from “Shadows and Light” aren’t available. But I do have music from “Stop Making Sense,” “The Last Waltz” and “’68 Comeback Special.”