How I Made the Greatest Concert Movie of All Time by Adam Kaz

Things really pick up at the fifteen-minute mark. Lionel Bottom, lead singer, is belting the chorus of “Baby Without Bottle.” He’s suffused in steamy shades of red and purple, highlighting the angularity of his spiky hair and turning his pasty skin pink. He holds the microphone like he’s choking it when he sings, “We are men we need no coddle / We’re like baby without bottle.” It’s a glorious crescendo, really marvelous, powerful stuff, exactly what The Scrum is all about. A crowd of five thousand worships the trio with bacchanalian ardor, yelling, dancing. 

I’m down stage left with my motion picture camera, about twenty feet from Bottom. I have a pretty good zoom on his wily face, but what I really want is something intimate, something close, something sweaty.

I’m twenty-seven and riding high after three successful studio pictures. It’s nineteen seventy-four and I’m a hot young director making his first concert movie. Compelled by reckless confidence, I give myself license to approach Bottom and squat in front of him. I aim the camera upward so that his face fills the frame. From the audience’s perspective I’m some bearded toad in a brown jacket blocking their favorite rock star. They boo and you can see the irritation in Bottom’s eyes. The singer trades venomous glances between the lens and the crowd, as I draw the camera closer and closer.

Then, ah, movie magic.

He shoves me! Lionel Bottom pushes me aside, hard. This is my favorite sequence in the picture, when I’m careening around the stage looking for balance, the unrestrained din of the crowd responding to the attack with cries of approbation. 

And through this spinning the filmwatcher enjoys a remarkably perspicuous view of the images that pass me by. There’s Harry Dread on guitar looking cool in his signature leather jacket, then Donny Smithy on drums, then we pan past a swirling-whirling audience entranced by glorious punk rock. Lovely, just lovely.

When I find my footing I’m center stage and have a perfect shot of Bottom’s back. He ends the song and yells into the microphone, “We love our documentarians, don’t we?” 

The crowd goes wild, Ahhhhhh. I’m blushing.

Bottom continues, “We love them about as much as we love our ‘Constable Contrarians.’” Then of course they jump into their minor hit “Constable Contrarian.” 

At that moment I remember thinking to myself, ‘Yes, that shove was good. I like that interaction, that breaking of the fourth wall. It was good cinema. I want more.’ I know I thought that because I admitted to it under penalty of perjury several months later. The lawyers said it went to my “intent,” although obviously I never intended for things to get so out of hand.

A few songs later I approach Smithy on the drums and motion for him to react. “Do something crazy!” I yell over the music.

Smithy finds a break in “Burn the Flag Down.” With this puckish smile he leans forward and, ker-sploot, spits right onto my lens. It’s a glorious spit, perfect, the crowd loves it, great arc. And that is the first time a movie used the liquid-on-lens technique, a technique which my good friend Steven Spielberg would shamelessly steal for his little war picture many years later.

I wipe the lens clean on my sleeve. As I lift the camera back up, woosh, a net of fire dashes overhead. I jump back, feel the heat lick at my beard and eyebrows, and when I’m settled I see Harry Dread is in front of me holding a can of hairspray and a lighter. The chorus kicks in, “Our Queen is the world’s clown / Comeon U.K. let’s burn the flag down.” He blasts another fire cloud. And that is the first time a movie used the lens flare for dramatic effect.

After the next song “Island of Coconuts” the audience is hate personified. I realize my obstructions and the band’s reactionary assaults have signaled to the crowd a pesky new oppressor to rally against, namely me. The place is screaming, “Kill the camera! Kill the camera!” Line dividers in front of the stage fall over and security guards bust skulls with truncheons. The band stops playing, and all three survey the anarchy with self-satisfied grins. That’s when Bottom looks back and beckons me down center stage.

I’m a walking goosebump as I approach.

 Bottom rips the camera from my hands and shoves it into his ruddy face. Bam, our poster image. He glares down the lens, eyes googly by the madness of rock stardom, wagging his tongue back and forth. It’s the kind of egomaniacal performance you cannot fake. Believe me I’ve tried to replicate it with some of our finest actors.

He shoves the camera back into my arms. He turns to the audience and raises his hand, calling for silence, which comes immediately. It’s hard to imagine that kind of power. 

“Boys and girls,” his voice echoes. “Get em’!”

And then what was a successful concert movie becomes a very successful escape thriller.

The audience rushes the stage, trampling over security. I tear through Segar Theater’s backstage, heavy breathing, the clomp of footsteps. I search desperately for a way out. It’s ingeniously effective, the sequence, perhaps the first great example of shaky cam. 

Is this door an exit? No, it’s a closet. What about here? Nope, there’s an angry mob in there. 

Talk about suspense. As far as I’m concerned the Blair Witch Whatevers and the Clover Prairie franchises owe everything to those five minutes of film. It takes the audience closer to peril than most can comfortably withstand. And sustains a level of terror far longer than most directors can achieve. Then of course there’s the tremendous relief when I find an exit and, thank Christ, hail a cab.

Adam Kaz

Image: pixabay.com – concert stage with smoky background and a guitar player performing.