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***1/2 If “Mayor of the Sunset Strip” were not a documentary, no one would ever maintain the anecdote it tells. The film chronicles the life of Rodney Bingenheimer, the L.A. DJ who helped to originate the careers of many of the most influential bands in rock music history. However, if you’re expecting Rodney to be a dashing, high-powered music exec with loads of cash and garages tubby of adore sport cars, consider again. He is, in fact, a painfully haunted and unassuming man who seems totally out of area in the celebrity swirl of which he became so integral a piece beginning in the 1960`s. This is what makes his record and the film so exciting, for who could have imagined that this gnomish young lad from Mountain Conception, California – essentially abandoned by both his mother and father and rejected by his peers – would somehow manage to beget himself the center of attention for some of the greatest rock celebrities of the 1960′s and `70′s. Everybody who was anybody knew and adored Rodney, and, after he landed a gig as DJ at L.A.’s KROQ in the 1970`s, he gave many struggling alternative artists their first genuine toehold on the radio, playing their records at a time when no other disc jockeys would touch them. The bands who practically owe their careers to Rodney Bingenheimer include Blondie, the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Runaways, the Go-Go’s, No Doubt, Coldplay, and many many others.
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As a documentary, the film, written and directed by George Hickenlooper, takes a fairly passe come, combining images from Rodney’s life with interviews by celebrities, relatives and friends commenting on him both as a person and as a phenomenon. The film provides a virtual who’s who of some of the biggest names in the music business stepping up to the camera to have their say, most of it highly complimentary to the subject. Indeed, almost to a person, the interviewees talk about what a sweet, lovable guy Rodney is and how hobnobbing with so many celebrities has not diminished his innate humility and decency as a person. There is one moment in the film when Rodney allows his exasperate to gather the better of him, but, most of the time, he comes across as a goodhearted, almost passive person who is surprisingly inarticulate and – one senses – not all that comfortable being the subject of a documentary. The film achieves a poignancy and sadness in its latter scenes when we witness that, despite all this notoriety among the glitterati in Hollywood, Rodney lives a rather isolated existence, never having found that one accurate savor with whom he could determine down and manufacture a life. In fact, the movie makes us put a question to whether fame – or even proximity to the famed – can ever really lead to a satisfied, successful life. It`s a lament we`ve heard many times before and will hear many times again.
“Mayor of the Sunset Strip” provides us with a kaleidoscopic idea of the L.A. music scene from the mid 1960′s to the indicate. Rodney’s life becomes the forum for reliving all those enchanting moments in which this parade of heavenly and talented people came to explain the culture and eras of which they were a allotment. The film has an almost “Zelig” quality to it, as Rodney is photographed standing next to virtually every essential rock artist to approach down the pike in the last four decades.
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I must admit that, even after watching “Mayor of the Sunset Strip,” I calm don’t claim to understand how Rodney achieved everything that he did, and maybe no film could ever really remove that magic alignment of elements that made it possible for a insecure, petrified young boy from a broken family – yet a boy with dreams and an abiding appreciate of rock ‘n roll – to play such a crucial fragment in music history. I guess you had to actually be there to really understand it.
My absorb experience with Rodney Bingenheimer is an extremely modest one. I once stood tedious him while waiting to board a flight from San Jose to Burbank. Few people in the crowd seemed to know who he was, but an sparkling young girl, obviously eager in pursuing a career in music, approached him and politely engaged him in conversation. Rodney, despite the fact that he could have simply ignored her advances and begged for privacy, instead turned his burly attention to what it was she was saying, smiled demurely at her compliments, and offered her an opportunity to compose for him when they got succor to L.A. It’s that Rodney Bingenheimer who comes through in the film.
By turns outrageously silly and reflectively unlit, this bright examine at the life of L.A. music scene fixture Rodney Bingenheimer is a must-see for anyone claiming to be a serious rock fan. The small, alarmed and soft-spoken Bingenheimer comes off as Andy Warhol’s West skim twin, or perhaps the Forrest Gump of rock and roll-somehow he has been in the hurricane’s recognize of every major music “scene” since the mid 60′s, from Monkeemania (working as Davey Jones’ double!) to becoming the first DJ to champion unusual superstars Coldplay. Although ostensibly “about” Rodney, the film is at its core a whirlwind timetrip through Rock’s evolution, filtered through a coked-out L.A. haze. The ongoing photograph montages of Rodney posing with an A-Z roster of every major seminal rock figure in the genre’s history began to remind me of Woody Allen’s Alfred Zelig, a nondescript milquetoast who could morph his appearance to match whomever he was with at the time. Rodney himself remains a cypher; in one scene he fidgets nervously and begs the director to turn off the camera when the questions accumulate too “stop”. There is also a sunless irony; despite his ability to attract the company of the rich and eminent (and they all appear to admire the man), the fruits of fame and success evade Rodney himself. He drives a “beater” to his DJ job at L.A.’s legendary KROQ; he lives alone in a cluttered exiguous hovel, where treasured memorabilia like Elvis Presely’s first driver’s license(!) collects dust next to the empty pizza boxes. Priceless commentary from the likes of music producer Kim Fowley (whose gain wacked-out rock ‘n’ roll career contains enough fodder for a whole other documentary), Pamela Des Barres (legendary groupie; aka “Miss Pamela” of Frank Zappa proteges The G.T.O.’s) and her husband, musician Michael Des Barres. One of the best “rockumentaries” to date.
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