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I’ve seen a fair share of “rockumentaries” in my day, ranging from such mainstream classics as the Rolling Stones’ Gimme Shelter to decidedly smaller-scale gems like Out Of The Loop (a charming, albeit no-budget, look at the Chicago indie scene of the 1990s). I’ve enjoyed most of these films, but few are quite so inspiring as The Band That Would Be King, Jeff Feuerzeig’s intimate portrait of underground legends Half Japanese. The principal players in Half Japanese, brothers Jad and David Fair, decided to start a rock band in the mid-’70s; they proceeded to record their first EP, Calling All Girls, before they had really learned to play their instruments (incidentally, they were living with their parents in Ann Arbor at the time—how about that?). It’s important to note that when I say they hadn’t learned to play, I don’t mean that Half Japanese just played rock’n’roll simplistically, like the Ramones or Meg White or whatever—the brothers Fair just didn’t bother to learn how to play at all. If the story stopped there, Calling All Girls would certainly be a fascinating anomaly in recorded history, but as it stands, Half Japanese kept going, slowly but surely improving their technical skill and figuring out some of the particulars of songwriting. When the Fair brothers weren’t able to do something musically, they would have more accomplished musicians like Fred Frith, Don Fleming and former Velvet Underground drummer Moe Tucker help them out on their recordings. Even with the help of the auxiliary members, though, Half Jap records remained raw, noisy and sloppy affairs, features that would eventually endear the band to more adventurous members of the punk/indie/alternative/whatever set, and even more so to rock critics of the same stripe. Lester Bangs, the Jesus Christ of rock critics (in terms of inspiration, mind you, not moral rectitude), declared himself a Half Japanese fan before his untimely death in 1982, and in the film, well-known critic Byron Coley raves about the band with nary a trace of inhibition. He’s not the only one: Matador Records head Gerard Cosloy, the aforementioned Moe Tucker, and even Penn Gillette of Penn & Teller (who released several Half Jap records on his own record label, 50 Skidillion Watts) all turn up to praise the brothers Fair as rock’n’roll saviors in a world of phonies. Still, honest-to-god real as the band may be, critical acclaim and influence rarely translates into record sales. The Band That Would Be King was made in 1993, as “alternative rock” shoved its way into the mainstream, and to the (mostly indie purist, at least at the time) interviewees on hand, the inevitable blur of good art and evil commerce is the source of palpable tension. On one hand, one wants to be excited about the successes of friends and well-wishers, but it is also clear that the “alternative” explosion did little to change the likelihood of seeing Jad Fair’s skinny, bespectacled face on the cover of Rolling Stone, even as Half Jap disciples Nirvana feigned reluctance at same. The
Band That Would Be King is not, however, a bitter film—it’s
a hopeful one. In the end, it becomes clear how little Half Jap’s
record sales really matter—their music remains alive and vital,
and will continue to be as Pearl Jam becomes a distant memory. Not
exactly the grandiose moment of triumph one would normally hope
to close with, but it certainly beats having a band member die of
an overdose, or audience members being killed by overzealous Hell’s
Angels. In fact, The Band That Would Be King may be the most tragedy-free
“rockumentary” ever made, and although that makes it
a smidgen less funny than Motley Crue: Behind The Music, it’s
probably a lot more worthwhile in the long run. A2P
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