As an A-grade nit-picker I was determined not to be irked by
the inevitable anachronisms in Vinyl
(HBO/Sky Atlantic). I would sure as hell find them, but I didn’t want any trivial
inaccuracies to spoil my enjoyment of what promised to be Mad Men on Tin Pan Alley.
From a TV drama series point of view, it was crying out to be made, and this
show has been at least five years in development and production, so it should
be good.
I soaked in the scene in which lead protagonist Richie
Finestra (played by Bobby Cannavale) is guzzling on a fifth of some dark
spirit, then rips the rear view mirror from his unloved car interior to furnish
a glass surface from which he can snort from a quarter of ‘blow’, freshly
purchased from an over-animated street dealer. Then I heard in the background the
giveaway refrain of ‘Stranded In The Jungle’, only to wonder why followers of
what had to be the ‘New York Dolls’ run
towards ‘The Mercer Arts Center’, in an era when cool indifference was the teen
and twenty norm. ‘Personality Crisis’ heralds the first sighting of this
non-fictional act, and ’Johnny Thunders’ is quite authentic.
Finestra, perhaps loosely modelled on Sire Records’ Seymour
Stein, is a fan at heart, hopelessly hooked on early rock’n’roll and, like Stein,
has an uncanny knack of just happening to rock up to some dive that is giving
birth to the next big music craze. It’s ‘1973’ remember, and although the
presence of the New York Dolls is credible (their debut album on Mercury
appeared that year), the suggestion that this is also the dawn of hip-hop - represented
by 12” platters on twin turntables being lightly ‘scratched’ by a deejay’s
hands - is ludicrous.
But this is not a series that has been created for jaded music
biz execs, seen-it-all musicians, and cynical hacks. It is aimed fair and
square at the gawping TV market that sits through Nashville, and was probably glued to Rock Follies all those years ago. And producers Mick Jagger and
Martin Scorsese are both masters of the over-exaggerated gesture and spectacle.
So, breath deeply, unfurrow the brow and stay tuned… we see Finestra
in his well-upholstered New York pad with full park view, while his wife and
small kids appear to live elsewhere in the city. Although the wife’s character
requires some development if their relationship is to drive Finestra’s angst, it’s
a back story that rings true; an adolescent obsession with early R&B and
doo-wop; a penchant for Bo Diddley; the discovery and recording of a young
black singer who would be exploited and literally beaten by some shady mobsters
(apparently muscling in on a record label boss, presumably fashioned on Sid
Nathan or Morris Levy), and a bizarre and empty marriage.
Finestra goes on to found a mainstream record label, ‘American
Century’, with midtown offices in (where else) ‘The Brill Building’. The walls
are adorned with gold discs, but this appears to be a hollow enterprise built
on hype and payola. In an A&R meeting Abba’s ‘Ring Ring’ is given a brief
assessment, and we are told (if I heard it right), ’They’ve just signed to
Atlantic in the UK’… ahem.
An hilarious meeting with the label’s German backers, in an
office adorned with Deutsche Grammophon LP sleeves, possibly echoing Polydor’s
dabbling in the US rock scene, allows for some some mild anti-Semitism and humorous
digs at the Nazis – touché!
While the background music is knowing - Blue Cheer, Edgar
Winter, some light country rock - the show is marred by a scene so crass and
laughable that the whole premise is blown. Finestra is backstage at a ‘Led
Zeppelin’ concert, and we are led to believe that their record contract (with
Atlantic, or possibly Epic) is up for renewal. And while manager ‘Peter Grant’
is berating the promoter, effing and blinding in a scene taken directly from The Song Remains The Same, Finestra gets
into a dialogue with ‘Robert Plant’ in which there is a crude discussion about contractual
detail and royalty rates. My cringe-o-meter was off the scale.
And then there’s a nasty murder, naturally, and a cinematic
climax featuring what appears to be one of New York City’s extremely rare earthquakes,
sort of implying that the Dolls rock so hard they can literally bring the house
down. But even if a dose of sensationalism is necessary to drive
the ratings, the show itself falls down on one major detail; there simply isn’t
enough cocaine.
As Brian Moylan notes in The Guardian: ‘There
is a great show to be made about pop music and how it shapes our culture, but
this isn’t that show.’
