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Filmmaker's Diary:
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What the fuck am I doing?
It's 2:46 in the am. I should be sleeping, but I'm not. Instead, I'm writing an entry into my filmmaker's journal; a record of the agonies and ecstasies experienced while attempting to make a movie. Except the journal doesn't exist. In fact, neither does the movie. Despite my having begun shooting over thirteen months ago, this is my very first journal entry. And as for the film ... it's not finished. Not at all finished. Not by a damn sight. [Neditor: One graf in and already you're dropping the Pulp Fiction references!]
How did I get here? Why did I put myself in this situation? It was just supposed to be this simple little thing, and now it's a fucking albatross around my neck. And it's my fault. I do this all the time. Bursts of energy and inspiration followed by total paralysis. Maybe I just can't---
I'm getting ahead of myself.
My name is Alex Fernandez and I'm a filmmaker. Said film is a documentary. The tragical/comical history of the final weekend in the life of a band called PopCanon. They were a unique and talented group of irreverent artists whose noisepop avantpunk idiotrock was unlike anything I'd ever heard. The story of how I came to chronicle their demise will require you, gentle reader, to follow me back in time as I attempt to recreate what happened. I will also attempt to reveal my state of mind during this process as candidly as possible, as is evidenced by the ranting and raving above. Please judge kindly.
Speaking of rants and raves, that's where it all began. I received something
called the PopCanon Rant & Rave for 2 February 2001.
The Rant & Rave was the band's newsletter, announcing upcoming shows
and anything else of interest to their fans. It was sent by band member Ned
Davis, whom I've known since high school. He and I were very close back then
and have somehow managed to stay that way, even though we've lived a continent
apart for the last fifteen years. He always sent me these newsletters. Sometimes
I read them, sometimes not. However, this one (as the story goes) was different.
OK, it's time to 'fess up. The curtain is dropping and we're
leaving
the stage. After April 2001, PopCanon will officially cease to be.
What d'ya know? The rumors turned out to be true...
Now, Ned had always talked to me about the band, but to be honest, I never paid that much attention. I mean I cared about him and what he was doing, but I didn't listen to the cd's he'd sent that much, and because I lived all the way in California, the fact that they were breaking up just wasn't real for me. [ you bastard! You utter, self-absorbed bastard!] But I read on...
PopCanon has played more than 200 shows since Founder's Day,
17 June 1995, when Ned & Blue backed a startling and talented
12-string acoustic guitarist with the unlikely name of M. David
Hornbuckle exactly one hour after seeing him play a solo set
opening for the band Planet Ten. In those six years, we've
played in clubs, bars, pubs, hellholes, pizza palaces, art museums,
coffee shops, university debates, bookstores and festivals; we
were the pit rock band for a production of Jesus X Supercar;
we lived through an East Coast tour. We bought a van,
fixed it up and drove it into the ground.
PopCanon won the Hogtown Music
Award for Favorite Pop Band
twice and won Favorite CD of the Year for d'art. We put out nearly
60 songs over four independent CDs; we made a video
using
Playmobil dolls. Our music and stage show delighted some,
irritated others and confused the rest. We were NOT
a ska band.
We read a lot of books and wrote more songs than necessary
about that fact; that some of them were actually good was funny...
It was the next paragraph that really hit me...
We realized that playing rock music is both one
of the silliest things you can do, and at the same time one of the
purest and greatest ways you can change your own life and the
lives of others; and that the one hour spent on stage in a night can
be some of the best fun you will EVER have...
NOW it was real for me. I'm only a filmmaker by accident, taking advantage of the digital revolution to tell some stories. I'm actually an actor. And even though I'm classically trained and have worked a great deal as a professional, I love acting so much that I would dig a ditch and act in it if I had to. At the risk of sounding like I'm on Oprah trying to find my spirit, Ned's simple and beautiful statement seemed to speak for all artists who do what they do not for gain, but for love. It sounds pretty fuckin' stupid, but I don't care. It had an impact on me.
The newsletter went on to say that they would be playing some farewell shows, culminating in their LAST SHOW EVER, at the Common Grounds Coffeehouse on April 21st. I called Ned to offer my condolences and congratulations. I mentioned that I hadn't actually seen him play any music at all since his high school band the id. We laughed, and talked about the Simpsons as we usually do, then hung up. A day later he called back and said
"What if I flew you out to see the last show? [he knows I'm broke] You
could bring your camera and shoot it."
"Shit, dude (which is how I talk, I'm afraid), wouldn't it be funny if
I made a documentary about it?"
"Yeah, it could be a mocku-rocku-documentary" he said. "Like
'The Last Waltz'. We could call it 'The Lost Wallets'!"
"Fuck, yeah! A movie about a final swan song concert. Except instead of
it being the world famous The Band, it's this bunch of smartass intellectuals
nobody ever heard of ! It'll kick ass!"
And from that remarkably stupid conversation came this film. I ask again ...
What the fuck am I doing?
I've never made a documentary. I've never shot a concert. Not to mention that I was still in the middle of editing a short film I'd directed (another chapter of 'Profiles in Procrastination'), as well as working with a group on an improvisation-based feature film, which was taking a shitload of time. And now I'm gonna take on this? Still, I couldn't hold back the ideas that were coming...
"Dude, what if I came early and covered the whole final weekend?"
"Dude, we should get the whole band together for a dinner the night before
and shoot it!"
"Dude, wouldn't it be cool if we could shoot the show with multiple high
quality DV cameras?"
And Ned made them all happen. And more. It wasn't just talk, it was happening. I would now have to actually DO THIS FUCKING THING.
Don't get me wrong: this whiny attitude of punk-ass bitchery is a fairly new (and I hope short lived) development. I was very enthusiastic about this. I could see even then that this was something which had the potential of being terrific, an opportunity that I simply could not pass up. And I had every intention of following through with it, regardless of my fears.
Ned and I spoke frequently about every detail in preparation for the event (although I managed to put off most of my prep until the last minute). During our conversations, two distinct impressions would emerge. One, that Ned seems to be the only member of the band who cares that they're breaking up; and two, that he's trying to control me.
I always knew Ned to be an extremely strong personality. Even as kids, he always seemed to know exactly who he was, and if someone didn't like it, they could kiss his ass. It's what drew me to him in the first place. But now I was feeling that personality trying to dominate me. Get me to do the things he wanted, and see things his way. He didn't mean any malice by it. It's just him seeking perfection. And my reaction to it probably speaks more about my faults than his. Still, I knew that I had to be careful. If this film was to work, I would need to see the event objectively; through my own eyes, not his. [Lies! All lies! And you can kiss my ass!]
For example, everything I knew about the band I heard from him. So spending time alone with the other members and getting their stories was essential. Michael Murphy, the bass player; Robby Copeland, the drummer; Alyson Carrel, trombone and trumpet; Don Undeen, saxophones; and especially David Hornbuckle, guitar player, vocalist and primary songwriter. I saw a sort of rivalry between Ned and Dave, which would make for an interesting story line. I just hoped I could create an environment where they'd feel safe to talk freely. These people had a lot of history with each other, not all of it pleasant. Why would they want to let me in on it? This was my biggest concern.