Jonathan Demme’s film of a Neil Young concert is just that. There is no flashy camera work or pyrotechnics on offer. This is an unadorned concert film of a type rarely glimpsed since the 70s. Have Neil and his buddies got the chops to pull it off? You bet your arse they have.
Remarkable performances from all concerned and Demme’s unadorned presentation really sucks you in to the event. Like one of those IMAX rollercoaster films, you feel like you’re there and are often tempted to clap or jump to your feet between songs.
Mr Young meanwhile is in fine form, rattling off delightful anecdotes about growing up on the Canadian prairie, the death of his father and the song he wrote for his daughter leaving home. “I used to write songs like this for girls my own age,” he laughs.
The classics are all dusted down and lovingly performed. The old friends on stage all exchange smiles. Young’s voice, always a beautiful, fragile, brittle thing, has attained a new poignancy with age. It now aches with a sense of mortality and tradition.
“This was Hank Williams’ guitar”, he beams, as he cradles the battered instrument towards him before he makes it sing.
Nice to see it’s with its rightful owner.