MR. BEAKS Can

Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab.

Beaks not only got to see this film, which Jeff Dowd recently raved about in an unsolicited e-mail he sent out to dozens of friends, but he also got to go to a live show that paid tribute to the musicians the film profiles. Would’ve been really, really nice, and I guess I can placate myself with thoughts of the movie, which is coming soon, and which Beaks seems quite fond of:

STANDING IN THE SHADOWS OF MOTOWN (d. Paul Justman)

You may never have heard of the Funk Brothers, but you’ve heard the Funk Brothers. If you’ve ever gotten loose to The Contours’ “Do You Love Me”, sung along with Smokey on “You Really Got a Hold on Me”, or asked “What’s Goin’ On” with Marvin, you’ve experienced these unsung, unknown soldiers of popular music at their most exultant. The Funk Brothers weren’t just any ordinary session band; they were the Motown Sound, serving under Mayor Berry Gordy as the City Council of Hitsville U.S.A.; without them, the Motor City wouldn’t rev so proudly. And with the release of Paul Justman’s infectious STANDING IN THE SHADOWS OF MOTOWN, it’s time to give some long overdue props to the band that has played on more #1 hits than Elvis, The Beatles and The Beach Boys combined.

Structured around a reunion concert at Detroit’s Royal Oak Music Theater, where the likes of Chaka Khan, Ben Harper, Joan Osborne, MeShell Ndegocello and Bootsy Collins help the Funk Brothers celebrate their awesome legacy, Justman’s film is a lively chronicle of the band’s magnificent twelve-year run at Motown. Though the modern-day performances more than make the Funk Brothers’ case for R&B immortality, Justman complements them with footage of the band returning to their old haunts in Detroit, capturing an anecdotal history of their formation, while once and for all dispelling this erroneous notion that the particular and inimitable Motown sound was owing to anything other than the master musicians laying down the tracks. Context is provided by narrator Andre Braugher, who fills in the historical blanks, giving us a sense of the turbulent times and shifting cultural attitudes outside of the studio.

A collection of highly skilled jazz musicians, The Funk Brothers viewed their Motown duties as something of a day job. Recording for Berry essentially paid for their nightclub habit, the smoky environs of which afforded the Brothers safe haven to stretch themselves musically. Often, songs recorded at Hitsville the next day became the unexpected beneficiary of the previous evening’s jam session. One can hardly argue with the results; the Funk Brothers’ crucial contributions to classic Motown tracks range from guitarist Robert White’s opening hook for “My Girl”, arguably the catchiest in R&B history, to bassist James Jamerson’s virtuoso work on Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On”, all the more remarkable considering Jamerson was allegedly forced to play flat on his back in a drunken near-stupor.

In fact, it’s Jamerson’s story that provides the film its inescapably heartbreaking core. After all, it’s a young Jamerson we glimpse in the opening minutes, plucking a crudely fashioned, stick-and-string bass at the banks of a river, makin’ them ants dance, only to see him near the end, buying a scalped, upper-balcony ticket to Motown’s Twenty-Fifth Anniversary celebration in Los Angeles, watching other musicians perform hit after hit of songs made memorable through his contributions, while his own career had dried-up. Not surprisingly, Jamerson died a few months later.

While tales such as Jamerson’s unavoidably stir up a sense of righteous indignation in the viewer, the Brothers themselves are surprisingly upbeat and bereft of any substantial bitterness, even when recounting how their career at Motown came to a cruelly abrupt end in 1972 when Gordy pulled up stakes and moved the company to Los Angeles. They seem resigned to the decision, understanding its harsh practicality; all they desire is the recognition so long denied them, a glory granted as we delight in the performances of standards like “Heat Wave”, “I’ll Be There” and “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg”, each executed with the Brothers’ storied musicianship (and all of it captured, along with most of the interviews, on 35mm film. I must say, it’s nice to see a new documentary not shot on digital). After forty years, their precision astounds; as the band rips through “Shotgun”, it feels as if you just dropped the needle on an old 45.

And, essentially, that’s Justman’s goal; as noted session drummer Steve Jordan points out, The Funk Brothers’ sound was so perfect, you could’ve had anyone singing and still had a number one single. And before you go citing the admittedly formidable songwriting talents of Dozier-Holland-Dozier, consider producer Don Was’s assertion that what set these songs apart from the rest of the popular music landscape was that The Funk Brothers could swing. After all, they were jazz musicians at heart; while folks like Elvis and Chuck Berry drew on blues and rockabilly, The Funk Brothers were distilling the “cool” aesthetic of Miles and Bird to fit the three minute confines of the pop single; a talent perhaps unidentifiable to musical journalists and casual listeners of the time, but quite evident to rival producers and labels, who lured the Funk Brothers to perform on non-Motown hits like “Cool Jerk” and Jackie Wilson’s triumphant late-1960’s comeback, “Higher and Higher” (these dalliances eventually led the covetous higher-ups at Motown to enlist a spy within the band, who amusingly pocketed a $100 a week fee in return for bogus hunky-dory reports). For the sound was more than unique; it pulsated with that ineffably joyous feeling that pervades all classic R&B. It’s a priceless commodity, and it could be bought for a mere pittance just by hiring the Funk Brothers.

In fact, that indescribably blissful sensation builds up so much goodwill in the viewer, the picture ends up being nearly critic-proof. I suppose the film may lack a bit of focus – an unavoidable flaw given the band’s size – and Justman’s use of extended dramatic recreations to punch up the Brothers’ anecdotes may undercut their effectiveness at times, but the flaws are so minor compared to Gerald Levert’s rollicking “Reach Out”, or the majesty of Joan Osbourne’s stunning rendition of “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted”, I’d feel like a crank to dwell on such piddling shortcomings.

By the time Chaka Khan and Montell Jordan close out the film with the Brothers’ unofficial anthem, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”, the full weight of Justman’s passionately argued case hits the viewer. Forty plus years of obscurity is not only too much, it’s criminal. As the titles of all the songs they played on rain down over that wonderfully staged image of a young James Jamerson plucking his bass, the viewer feels ready to rise up out of their seat to march on the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, demanding that the following names be inscribed within:

Let justice be done. Give it up for The Funk Brothers.

Faithfully and funkily submitted,

Mr. Beaks

Beaks should be back later today or early tomorrow with his look at Nick Broomfield’s piercing BIGGIE & TUPAC, as well as a reaction to the insanely wrong-headed LA TIMES piece about the film that ran over the weekend.

Can’t wait. See you back here then.

"Moriarty" out.