Long Time Gone
by Chris Dashiell

I'm struck with mournful nostalgia by a modest little concert movie called Festival Express, a newly recovered time capsule documenting a little-known rock extravaganza -- the journey of a chartered train carrying The Grateful Dead, The Band, Janis Joplin, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Buddy Guy, and an assortment of other musicians in the summer of 1970, to play a series of festival gigs across Canada. In that year of Kent State, it seemed as if "the revolution" was just beginning. Looking back from a 34-year vantage point, we can see that "the dream" was almost over, but the film helps us experience the exhiliration (and some of the foolishness) of that time again.

Two 22-year old promoters, Ken Walker and Thor Eaton, got the idea of a "traveling Woodstock" that would bring major rock bands to three Canadian cities. The train became a kind of Eden on wheels for the musicians, with round-the-clock jam sessions fueled by a nonstop flow of booze and other drugs. But fans in Toronto protested the ticket prices ($14), demanding to be let in free (the mythology of Woodstock was in full swing), and clashes between kids and police led to the Dead actually putting on a free show in order to lower the tensions. The festival ended up being a financial disaster for the promoters, who decided to forge ahead anyway. One of the results of this failure was that the movie being made about the event was never released, because of a financial dispute between the promoters and the film's producers. The 16-millimeter footage was believed to be lost, but was recently unearthed and put into its present shape by director Bob Smeaton.

Most of the film consists of songs from the concerts, for the most part wisely presented without cuts. This was back when the Dead were a tight band, and their performances of "Don't Ease Me In" and "New Speedway Boogie" are great. The Band does "Slippin' and Slidin'," "The Weight," and "I Shall Be Released" -- instrumentally, they're the film's best group. Buddy Guy's version of "Money" is a great example of the extended guitar solo rock style -- wonderfully histrionic.

It would seem that the filmmakers didn't shoot enough usable footage from the train, because we don't get quite enough of a sense of what that experience was like (perhaps the cameramen were too stoned?). The little we do get is fascinating -- Jerry Garcia singing "Better Take Jesus' Hand" with Sylvia Tyson (of Ian & Sylvia), and a drunken Rick Danko howling "Ain't No More Cane" with help from Joplin, Garcia, and Bob Weir. Perhaps to compensate for the dearth of train footage, the film splices in contemporary comments from Weir, Mickey Hart, and others, mostly the usual "those were the days" variety, with the delightful exception of promoter Ken Walker, who has aged gracefully into curmudgeonhood.

But what makes Festival Express stay in the memory, rescuing it from being just another concert film, is Janis Joplin. Halfway through the film, she sings "Cry Baby," and it's an unbelievably intense and moving performance. "Tell Mama," which closes the film, can't quite scale those heights, but it's still full-powered Janis. The excitement of seeing and hearing her is unavoidably tempered by sadness, knowing that she would die of an overdose three months later. It now seems an even greater loss than we knew at the time.

Behind the endless search for a bigger high was an urge to self-destruction. Garcia, sweet and Buddha-like in this film, had some of that as well. The joy of the music is not diminished, even when looking back evokes grief as much as gratitude.

©2004 Chris Dashiell
CineScene