Filmmaker Tim Sutton's new film, Memphis, which opens today, casts real life musician, Willis Earl Beal, as something of a contemporary bluesman who cracks up and loses his marbles on a dead end journey of self-reinvention.

As a movie I dug Memphis, it was familiar. See, in a past life, the '80s, I played music and occasionally hung out with kids like Willis. They were so very serious and sensitive, but living as a tortured artist held no weight in the '80s. We were all equally weird, so no one got to be aloof or act like some kinda star. And there was no easy outlet for music. We all played house shows, opened for touring bands, and made cassette demos with the hope a cool label would take notice. Um, or not, as we mainly played music for fun. I think had he been around then, as precious as Willis seems to be, he would have ended up shooting dope and just gotten lost; in the underground if you didn't evolve there were only so many rock 'n' roll life choices. Now-a-days a tragic underground hero like Willis, gets to go on a fantastic journey into his own self-made void; at least the filmmaker, Sutton, made sure it was engaging and pretty to watch.

Okay, so, this guy Willis, he's stuck. His label is asking for a new album, and he's driven to make music, but he can't sort out his next batch of recordings (or anything really) and spends his time looking for inspiration and some peace. He gets plenty of advice, but he's indignant and refuses to see his music as an expression of his talent. His music is HIS exclusive craft, but he is so lost in the romance of being Willis he decides he's a "wizard." Yeah, like he's so fucking magic,his greatness can be willed into existence. Goddamn. I get it, kinda. Sometimes being successful, especially with music, can feel like magic. However, to remain buoyant, an artist needs to be grounded; but Beal ain't, he's delusional. Sadly, rather than working through his hang up, he walks around a lot, talking, smoking cigs, and avoiding stuff. His self-absorbed struggle is unrelenting (but again, beautiful to watch).

In the end tho' his resolution is to accept his tragedy, and, like Brian Wilson after Pet Sounds, he tries to simply BE as the world goes on. I guess in a way then, he does succeed in making something new: he's finally quiet. He ultimately quits his life and moves to the woods so he can live his life singing to the trees. Well, at least for a few days. This guy is an artist, so of course he returns to town—SOMEONE has to know what he went through. You know, I think had he traveled to Burning Man his shit would'a been sorted. Hmm, maybe that'll be the sequel.

Anyways, for all the weirdness and trite "I'm Willis Earl Beal" bullshit, my only REAL issue with this film is via my record nerd hang ups. There is an allusion to Beal living an imagined life as some kinda updated bluesman. In real life Willis' music is well-reviewed experimental/pop art. Meaning he's an up and coming contemporary song writer/composer, informed by '90s lo-fi freaks like Smog, who occasionally plays the drunk son of Scott Walker, and Tom Waits. As for his blues cred, well, it's weak. Only one song, "Too Dry To Cry," comes close to real blues (it feels like, "Rosie," a prison work song). Turns out, there weren't many tortured blues players. True, many were broke and hungry, but the pop construct of Beal the artist, in Memphis, is NOT a parallel. Blues players were often farmers, mechanics, or factory workers who had no time to detach themselves to find themselves (if they were hoboing it, it was to find work or a meal). The filmmaker's appropriating bluesman as some contemporary romantic notion, to me, is revisionist, condescending, and very 21st century. I bet I could count on a single hand the most precious of artists who ever played blues, R&B, or soul.