WAKE N BAKE

in which Erin informs you of the best movies to blaze to

As many herb enthusiasts will tell you, one of the most kick-ass traditional blazing spots is a summer music festival.  Getting high enhances all of the inherent good associated with festivals–live music in the great outdoors–while mitigating the inherently crappy–hot, sticky weather (that, and trying not to fucking get groped.)

Then again, maybe you’re kind of soft, and would trade the life-changing experience of live music for something a little more climate-controlled.  And maybe something a bit funnier.

It is with this desire in mind that I present to you the first in a series: The Wake n Bake Summer Music Mockumentary Festival.  I decided on the mockumentary format because it’s got a way of distilling the most ridiculous elements of music culture into a heady laughing gas.  (You’re free to watch an actual documentary, of course, but I just don’t get the feeling that The Decline of Western Civilization is “haha”-funny.)  And why not begin our series with the genre’s gold standard?

I looked REALLY hard for the n-umlaut on my computer. Well, I mean, pretty hard, anyway.

For those of you who were never exposed to good cinema, This is Spinal Tap (1984) is a “rockumentary” about a fictional world-famous heavy metal band from England on tour in the US.  Their musical style is modeled after acts like KISS, Dio, and Def Leppard.  The band’s main members consist of guitarists David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) and Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) and bass player Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer.)When (fictional, remember) filmmaker Marty DiBergi (Rob Reiner) joins the tour to film them for a documentary, we quickly see that the famed rock-gods are little more than gentle idiots, prone to prima donna-ism, testing their manager’s patience, and generally taking themselves way too seriously.

No, not this band.

(Nigel’s entitlement coupled with his stupidity makes for quite a hilarious scene involving bread.)  But they also display flashes of dumb earnestness that make them immensely lovable.

Their state of permanent adolescence reflects their fanbase.  The only problem with this is that real-life adolescents eventually grow up, leaving the band in a state of denial over their dwindling popularity.  Their manager Ian (Tony Hendra) tries to keep a professional demeanor on the road as gigs are cancelled, album covers are censored, and the dimensions of stage scenery are grossly underestimated.  All of these events occur by way of understated improvisational comedy and bombastically funny concert scenes.

The interviews with DiBergi reveal past incarnations of the band (dorky skiffle, even dorkier psychedelic pop), and the long list of short-lived drummers’ freakish fatalities.  The documentary effect is flawless, and the comedy flourishes in the spoken jokes (“He died in a bizarre gardening accident”) as well as in the unmentioned details (such as Nigel and David each sporting quite similar mouth sores at a tour party–I initially believed they were infections contracted from groupies, but other sources point to actual scars, and the presence of lip rings in an earlier scene.  I’d like to believe that it could be both.)

If there was ever a comedy that had discovered the Fountain of Youth, this would most surely be it.  The humor’s ever-freshness is due in no small part to the unmatchable ad-libbing talents of McKean, Guest, and Shearer.  A set-in-stone script might have robbed the film of its spontaneity, so it was wise of them to just let everyone do their thing.  Indeed, they fooled quite a few people into believing that Spinal Tap was a real band (probably because the mockumentary format hadn’t been done to death yet.)  And who could blame those gullible idiots?  The filmmakers get the concert footage, the music industry professionals, and especially the band members, exactly right–the silliness of the self-important rockstars, their inability to laugh at themselves, the dynamic between the band and their exasperated manager, their pretentious clutches at intellectualism.  A sampling of lead guitarist Dennis’ philosophizing:

“Well I don’t think the end can really be assessed in and of itself as the end, because what is the end?  What does the end feel like…if the universe is indeed infinite, what’s stopping it, and if it is stopping, what’s behind what’s stopping it, so what is the end?… is really my question to you.”

 These boys could never hope to get as deep as Nigel’s chin cleft.  Their portrayal’s accuracy is astonishing.  In fact, it’s an aspect of the film that is documentary in the literal sense; even kids today understand the attitude and style of the bands the movie is making fun of, and it’s because This is Spinal Tap’s longevity has preserved that memory.  Plus, they’ve singlehandedly tripled the public’s appreciation for the number 11.

I was working, of course, so now I have to wait ANOTHER 998 years.

Of course, acting is not the creators’ only talent.  The three main actors, along with director/co-star Rob Reiner, wrote and played all of Spinal Tap’s songs.  They’re catchy as hell, with ridiculous lyrics that broach the topics of sex, rock ‘n roll, and occasionally, national monuments.  Writing music competently in a style you’re attempting to lampoon is a tricky line to walk.  The creators take that line, raise it 4’ off the ground (not 4”), and give it the Danielle Silivas treatment.  I have never heard any other music parodies that capture mediocrity so flawlessly, while sounding so heavenly.  I mean, the hopelessly simple innuendo notwithstanding, these guys would have rocked the faces off of every boring-ass band at Coachella this past April (except maybe Wu-Tang.)

I mean, are you fucking kidding me?

This is Spinal Tap has everything I’m looking for in a film for a relaxing evening.  The first drum intro cheers me up instantly.  It doesn’t make me cry or anything stupid like that.  And it makes for a fantastic sing-along with your stoned friends.  You could definitely make a drinking game out of all the random cameo appearances, if weed isn’t your thing (or if mixing substances is).  And of course, it’s always nice to end on a good note* close with an uplifting reconciliation.  Even these morons can realize that, even if they’re not the hottest shit in town anymore, they get real joy out of making the music they like with the friends they love, and that’s all they should have ever wanted in the first place.

(And studio executives and Ticketmaster laughed and laughed and laughed.)

*Musical puns suffer a fiery death in the blackest of Hellholes.