Of course I have disappeared into the movies. The Neil Young concert film 'Heart of Gold.' 

There have been many great concert films through the years. The best being Martin Scorsese's 'The Last Waltz' which filmed the Band's last concert at Filmore West. A phenomenal concert and a phenomenal film, that is if you love rock and roll and felt as if you had been born into it and were part of the music, and could be in the band if you had a better guitar and someone would show you the chords and that with a few chords and a lyric or two you could change the world...as you can guess I felt all five to the bottom of my twenty four year old soul. 

Neil Young was in 'The Last Waltz.' They had to digitally, before digital actually, they had to manually scrape a big hanging cocaine rock that extruded from his nose so in the film there's a bright light that is not the star of Bethlehem dangling above his lip and below his nostril...it's a famous bit of rock and roll history. 

But 'The Last Waltz' was made when the Band and Neil and everyone else was in their thirties and 'Heart of Gold' was filmed last year when Neil is in his sixties and his band looks as if they are in their late nineties and the entire movie could visually be used by the Christian Right and the DEA in the same way that those Ohio State Patrol films of the perils of drunk driving were used when I was in high school showing dead teenagers hanging through front windows or dangling from trees or bloody in a ditch. 

Close your eyes and it is a terrific concert, open them and view Dorian Grey's hidden portrait. Case in point, the once ethereally beautiful Emmylou Harris literally coming out of the darkness to sing with Neil and from dark to light appearing to be a ring wraith leapt full borne out of the river in front of Rivendale. Ghastly, ghostlike, a nose that doesn't appear in nature and is not an advertisement for plastic surgery, eyes that make buttons on dolls look lifelike, and the ability to express any emotion, human or not, constrained by unrestrained over indulgence in Botox. My mind reeled...porcupine...Peru...Jack Daniels...living hard for decades...my god...sweet Emmylou Harris who I saw sing for free at Fred's in Boulder, a face a 2000 year dead Pharoah would not accept. But the voice, as pure as a thick lipped bottle of Boulder beer brewed from the waters of Boulder Creek and I closed my eyes and smelled ammmmmbbbererrrrrrrrrgerrrrrrrssss (an homage...one must use homage at least once in any film review...to Fred's hamburgers on Boulder Mall and the Steve Martin Pink Panther movie). 

It would have been a terrific concert sitting in the dark in Ryman Auditorium, maybe twenty rows back. But, close up, in close ups, it was a medieval morality play depicting the horrors of indulgence and the consequences of a sinful life. 

The concert theme, emblazoned on the scenery, A Prairie Wind...the last song, massed guitars (I counted eight) and I wondered if irony was at play. I don't think so. A Native American bass player, a lead guitarist who looked and dressed like Buffalo Bill, a piano player whose face looked like the screamer's face in Munch's The Scream, the chick singers (actually matronly singers, mostly reminding one of the lost youth of senior United flight attendants still plying the friendly skies) dressed in matching full length distressed denim dresses...no it was played straight. 

None of them had seen, I would bet, A Mighty Wind. 

It will be a great CD, and would be glad to tell tales of hippy dippy Boulder when Neil was a long haired Canadian crooner whose indecipherable lyrics seemed to mirror heartache and loss, feelings as universal then as now. 

But, only in a dark bar.

Sentiment: negative