If the movies are any indication, nostalgia these days for old time rock & roll seems to be more than a feeling, indeed an ongoing moondance — and with good reason. In retrospect, the musicianship and lyrics in the best of 1960s and especially ’70s classic rock were astonishingly creative, masterly, and, indeed, some kind of wonderful.
Five, count ’em, five, tributes to classic rockers are (or will be) in theaters this year. First out of the gate was the megahit Bohemian Rhapsody (about Queen’s Freddie Mercury), followed by Rocketman (Elton John), Yesterday (The Beatles), Blinded by the Light (Bruce Springsteen) and, soon, Stardust (David Bowie). The first two and last are standard biopics, while Yesterday and Blinded by the Light are clever, winsome, novel-like tributes with storylines built around the superstars’ music. (I can with great enthusiasm recommend Bohemian Rhapsody, Blinded by the Light, and especially Yesterday, but I haven’t yet seen the other two.)
So what’s going on here? Why the sudden interest in the songs of yesterday when the musicians themselves said don’t stop thinking about tomorrow? Put another way, why does old rock music suddenly seem like a paradise (by the dashboard light)?
Some of us thought we were prematurely obsolete when in recent years we complained that modern pop music sounds tuneless, rhymeless, rhythmless, storyless, and either way too whiny or too prone to artificial, overly self-conscious, snarky attempts at hipness. Setting aside those judgments of musical taste, though, what are the elements of the “old stuff” that seem to be thrilling movie audiences today?
First, there really is something to be said for traditional musical structure, with real melodies, usually rhyming, in verses surrounding catchy refrains, all with a (usually) danceable back beat created by real instruments rather than by some computer-generated techno-fakery. Even amid a wonderfully dizzying array of styles, images, and voices, almost all classic rockers remained in some sense balladeers or even troubadours.
Those roots in traditional rhythmic and melodic structures explain why, despite the vast stylistic range of the classic stuff, Billy Joel could sing to the effect that “hot funk, cool punk, even if it’s old junk, it’s still rock and roll to me.”
Yet there was another element, exuberantly apparent in the work of the artists celebrated in this year’s movies, that the best of classic rock had in abundance. Springsteen, Joel, the Beatles, Bob Seger, the Eagles, and Dire Straits weren’t merely balladeers but bards: Their songs told stories, with characters, narrative, and richly crafted scenes.
“The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves. Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays … [Springsteen]” And: “She stood there bright as the sun on that California coast. He was a midwestern boy on his own. She looked at him with those soft eyes, so innocent and blue. He knew right then he was too far from home. [Seger]”
Or, from among dozens from the pen of Dire Straits’ Mark Knopfler: “She took off a silver locket. She said remember me by this: She put her hand in my pocket. I got a keepsake and a kiss. And in the roar of dust and diesel, I stood and watched her walk away. I could have caught up with her easy enough, but something must have made me stay.”
Both music and lyrics then were often textured, evocative, and aspirational. Some, like Queen and Springsteen (in very different ways), could be orchestral and even operatic.
Happily, this year’s film tributes are ably capturing those qualities, in abundance. They remind us that music can have nuance and depth — and yes, bring real joy to the world.
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