I have just watched Streetlight Harmonies, Brent Wilson's new documentary about doo wop, and it's well worth your attention whether you are an aficionado or merely, as it were, doo wop-curious. A little over eighty minutes, it provides a very clear overview of the era as well as some discussion about the genre's lasting influence. It may not be the first film dedicated to the subject but where it excels is in the deft editing of the testimony of a large number of interviewees, allowing the story of this music to be told almost entirely through the artists' own words. Charlie Horner, credited as historical consultant, makes an occasional appearance when context is needed and DJ Jerry Blavat ("The Geator with the Heater"), songwriter Jeff Barry and some others appear, although the vast majority of interviewees are group members (including some representatives of girl groups).
Interviews have been cut up and are spread throughout the film according to theme. The focus is on doo wop as a phenomenon and the experiences common to all those involved rather than having large sections dedicated to individual artists or groups. That might sound bitty but it isn't; the narrative flows very well. At the beginning we get an introductory segment about the form's gospel origins then we move to the Orioles and then - no, not to the Dominos, as a more detailed chronological approach might have taken us, but Frankie Lymon ... which is a bit of a jump, though it can certainly be justified as another major breakthrough.
The narrative then goes back and forward a little, according to theme, helped by a radio dial-type indication of the year, as you can see, though the shape is broadly chronological. A great deal is covered along the way but with little sense of its being a history lesson: there are chapter headings but we're not overloaded with facts. Incidentally, the single gospel recording chosen for illustration is Peace in the Valley, from Sam Cooke's first session with the Soul Stirrers - if that's not a badge of good taste I don't know what is.
A decision was clearly made not to rely on old interview footage from other sources, unlike an earlier documentary, Life Could Be a Dream. The latter was fairly well done but did draw rather heavily on an existing half hour programme about Frankie Lymon. Here, however, all the interviews seem to have been conducted for this specific purpose, so existing doo wop fans don't need to worry about buying a lot of rehashed material. This helps make for a greater sense of immediacy. Jimmy Merchant of the Teenagers is one of those interviewed, though the most touching moment for me is hearing Little Anthony say of Frankie Lymon:
I didn't know how to help him but he was still my friend.And a few details provided by Charlie Thomas, who was in the Five Crowns with Ben E King, add to the picture King painted in Gerri Hershey's Nowhere to Run when rhapsodising about his streetcorner days. Thomas says:
We used to sing on the streetcorner of 8th Avenue. It used to be the Cadillacs on one corner, it used to be the Five Crowns on one corner, the Harptones on another corner ... you know, you'd light the fire in the garbage can and you'd take a little nip of somethin' and then you'd hit a little doo wop song ...The Brill Building, the importance of Alan Freed, the rise of Italian American groups, racism and the oddness of groups being forced to sing to the wall rather than being seen to favour the black or white half of the audience are all covered - as snapshots rather than in exhaustive detail, but then that doesn't seem the point of this piece. An overall impression is conveyed of those times, made vital because it's been achieved through the memories of those who were directly involved. Motown is mentioned, as is the way the Beatles' invasion of America helped kill off doo wop, for all their love of it - a point also made in Life Could Be a Dream. Sha Na Na's resurrection of doo wop in the late sixties also comes in, and there are a few newer artists on hand to testify to their love of the form.
But there's not too much of the newer artists because in the end it's not their story, and I'm glad that Mr Wilson resisted the temptation to use too many of their contributions, even if it might conceivably have meant the documentary becoming a more commercial prospect. The emphasis remains firmly on the older artists telling their stories - though there is a pleasing moment near the end when Charlie Thomas is speaking to some younger singers who seem to understand why he is a big deal. It's a small but vital scene which you might even say is key to the film: the names and faces of the original singers in so many doo wop groups are not known to the general public but they were the ones who shaped this music, and they matter, both individually and collectively. For that alone, for providing them with a platform, Brent Wilson must be commended.
But we are long past Doo Wop 50, that PBS anniversary show, and - as with the BBC series Rock'n'Roll America - this makes for a great deal of unforced poignancy about this film. "I am just suddenly very cognisant of time," says one participant - a slightly odd form of words which nevertheless seems appropriately sober rather than pompous. And the sight of two singers walking through an exhibition of old photographs of groups is particularly effective. It's a well chosen moment because it could so easily have been discarded during editing but Brent Wilson or editor George Bellias obviously understood the power of seeing two men, in effect, witnessing their own memorial. As with that BBC programme, you are aware that many of the participants are advanced in years and there may not be other opportunities to share these memories; indeed, I have read that several artists have died since this was completed.
I have reviewed that comparable documentary, Life Could Be a Dream, earlier in this blog. I'm not quite sure how to compare the two pieces, nor whether it matters much. The interviewees are mostly different, anyway. What I will say, however, is that the patchwork quilt approach of Streetlight Harmonies works very well indeed and that, stylistically, it feels more of a piece than the earlier film. Different approaches are possible. I am also very fond of Owen McFadden's four part radio series Street Corner Soul, which was more strictly chronological, but Streetlight Harmonies, in giving us the close-up faces of these performers in addition to their voices, carries an extra emotional punch.
The strapline for this documentary is: "Millions know the music. Few know the artists." That neatly sums up what it does. It's the story of doo wop but also the story of those men and women. And Brent Wilson's film presents them with the dignity they deserve. I said earlier that there is little sense of its being a history lesson; it is, of course, but it's not dry and never seems to labour its points. It's very well pitched and deserves a wide audience. It's not misted over with nostalgia and it pays its participants the tribute of taking them seriously. There are all sorts of pleasing details: the camera pans from a picture of the Elegants (Little Star) back in the day to the proud smile of the man holding it, their singer and songwriter Vito Picone. And as I've gone back through the film for videocaps there have been many other felicitous moments which can only have come out of the taking of immense pains to locate the telling moment or remark during the film's assembly.
On the picky side the DVD doesn't come with any extras, which in a way is a pity. I can't begin to imagine how many hours of raw footage must have been distilled to make this 83 minute feature. A PBS documentary about John Lennon made the raw audio of ten interviewees available to download, and it might be nice to have something of the same for this. Against that, however, I can understand if there's a feeling that releasing such material might dilute the effect of the film, though let's hope that it might be preserved and made accessible to future scholars and biographers.
But the main point is that Streetlight Harmonies is very well made and a credit to those involved. You can buy it in various forms. There may be a lot more to explore - personally, I'd love to see a Ken Burns-style twenty episode series - but a summary of the essence of this music in a form which is accessible to the widest range of people I reckon this will be hard to beat. Some of the names not already mentioned include Terry Johnson, Little Anthony, Willie Winfield - plus many, many others. Maybe not quite eight million stories, though not far off, coalescing into a single shared experience.
Postscript:
Since writing the above I have come across an interview with Brent Wilson which can be found here. It's worth a listen, although be warned it has the limitations and annoyances of interviews conducted at the present time (what a good job the documentary was already done and dusted before the current crisis put limits on two being in the same space). It makes clear that Wilson was keenly aware of the time factor in capturing these firsthand accounts, which gave an added urgency to the project, despite obstacles: he talks about the difficulty of tracking down artists in the first place and then gaining their trust - so many have been exploited in the past, after all - often having to go through their more IT-savvy children or grandchildren in the first instance. (A virtual Q&A, here, is also worth investigating; it features Brent Wilson and several singers from the film.)
It's both sad and gratifying to learn that he was especially eager to include Ben E King, eventually finding a fax number for him; they made contact but he died before an interview could be set up - which makes the testimony of Charlie Thomas, quoted earlier, all the more affecting. Some readers may know that although Ben E King wrote There Goes My Baby he wasn't originally slated to sing it: it was Thomas's job until he got the studio equivalent of stage fright and King took over; now only Thomas's voice is left.
Another person who died before an interview could be recorded was Dave Somerville of the Diamonds, the white Canadian group who covered the Gladiolas' Little Darlin' and had the big hit with it, though he is quite prominent in Life Could Be a Dream. If you follow the link below to my review of that earlier documentary please be aware that I would now be more generous in my assessment of his contribution; at the time of writing it I couldn't see beyond the fact that a member of a white covers group was being given so much screentime but he is very articulate and would undoubtedly have enhanced Streetlight Harmonies too.
This reminds me that Ben E King has been interviewed elsewhere too: an episode of Rock'n'Roll America is dedicated to King at the end; he is featured but died before the broadcast. Here is how that was acknowledged at the end of the programme, and it seems fitting to include this in a piece about Streetlight Harmonies as one recurring theme is the gratitude so many artists feel towards others: "I'm standing on the shoulders of giants!" Little Anthony says at one point.
Related posts and links:
My review of Life Could Be a Dream here.
A series about the Flamingos' early recordings here.
Posts about the radio series Street Corner Soul here.
Ben E King and everything you ever wanted to know about Stand By Me here.
Charlie and Pam Horner's Classic Urban Harmony website has many riches to explore. This page contains a guide to their articles including a seven part series about Richard Barrett.
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