By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
From the gut-wrenching moan of the Delta blues to the brassy fire of New Orleans jazz, the Mississippi River has birthed some of this country's finest homegrown sounds. But for self-appointed hipsters in the coastal megalopolises of New York or Los Angeles, where voguish chart-toppers train their mikes toward bottom-line dollar signs only, river-spun songs are often seen as quaint relics of Americana best left to backwoods historians. Even the waterway itself, the nearly 2,500-mile channel that once powered the torrential prose of Mark Twain and served as an essential trade and travel route before the advent of the auto and Internet superhighways, tends to mean little more to contemporary non-Midwesterners than a barely remembered multiple-choice question on a junior-high geography test. In a recent issue of The Baffler, satirist Ben Metcalf echoed mainstream disdain by cracking on the "wrongheaded desire to peddle as the font of all that is virtuous and productive and eternal about our nation that shallow and putrid trough we call the Mississippi River."
With its unpretentious regional customs and disparate community-based musics far removed from an American pop consciousness perverted by the sound-alike faux glamour of MTV and Top 40 radio, the concept of a meaningful river culture does seem of another era, if not another world. So when filmmaker John Junkerman set out five years ago to begin documenting music that had grown up near the banks of the Mississippi, from the town of Inger in northern Minnesota to Delacroix Island at the southernmost tip of Louisiana, he understandably expected to find our indigenous songmaking traditions barely treading water.
But he was mistaken. The Mississippi: River of Song, which airs locally in four hour-long episodes on KERA-Channel 13 every Friday evening in January, presents a vibrant and wide-ranging spectrum of U.S.-bred music that's marching onward--without a care for platinum-selling trends--in the streets, back yards, parks, living rooms, churches, local clubs, and concert halls of the heartland.
As a document of diversity, Junkerman's travelogue covers a lot of ground. After opening the program with a politically correct nod to the Chippewa Nation's annual powwow in Minnesota, the film offers performance excerpts and brief interviews with musicians who capture the breadth of America's distinctive folk forms: blues, jazz, gospel, soul, R&B, country, rockabilly, bluegrass, Cajun, and zydeco. The segments on onetime, big-name Minneapolis rockers Soul Asylum and Babes in Toyland are the only incongruous figures in an otherwise rootsy, folksy lot (ill-conceived attempts, perhaps, to fill in gaps from the film crew's north-country expeditions). But the director more than makes up for this gratuitous pop-rock deviation by sticking to the grassroots and letting unlikely local stars such as Missouri's snazzy St. Charles High School Band, who are allegedly "bigger than the football team," strut their stuff for the cameras.
By including both professionals and amateurs, old-timers and kids, nationally renowned artists (folk guitarist Greg Brown, veteran blues singer Little Milton) and relative unknowns (brass-band hip-hoppers Soul Rebels), Junkerman gives the film a wholesome, family-oriented feel. Every player represents the archetypal common man, telling the stories that need to be told in order to keep the community together and to promote a sense of hometown dignity. Besides the river-centered geography, the only binding thread throughout is that all of the musicians perform for the sheer love and joy of playing. While not exactly an original theme, this idea does manage to drive the film and makes it worthwhile viewing, because it reminds us how great music can be when the intentions of its practitioners are pure.
Despite this inspirational message, River of Song falls flat as a fully developed documentary, which is somewhat surprising given producer-director Junkerman's resume as an Academy Award nominee for Hellfire: A Journey From Hiroshima. In an effort to present an outsized stylistic range, his footage races from one artist or region to the next, with limited or zero transitions between cuts, often sacrificing story and substance for sound. Even the headings for the individual episodes--"Americans Old and New," "Midwestern Crossroads," "Southern Fusion," "Louisiana, Where Music Is King"--seem absurdly arbitrary and nearly interchangeable with each other. And these titles in no way encapsulate a unified context.
Junkerman recently told the Web music network SonicNet that "the idea really was to capture something of the current state of contemporary American music and do it in a way that allowed us to cross over the barriers that usually divide different kinds of music." He said he wanted the film "to look at music from a different standpoint, not dictated by Top 40 charts." Along with his partner Elijah Wald, a music critic for the Boston Globe, Junkerman succeeds at transcending the segregative boundaries of the commercial marketplace. And this is arguably the work's greatest coup. It certainly renewed my faith in the kind of American music that typically flies below the Billboard radar: I barely even liked folk or bluegrass or country before watching this program, yet now I can't seem to get enough of them.
Still, a film on music should do more than merely proffer live performances interspliced with snippets of player commentary. It should dig into history and expand on the social, economic, and cultural developments that led to the various forms of musicmaking. Though Junkerman and Wald's storyline does provide folk goddess-narrator Ani DiFranco with snatches of relevant information about the river and the growth of its neighboring communities, their text is woefully shallow.