Cocksucker Blues Review

It’s 1972. The year of Bloody Sunday and it’s lesser known counterpart Bloody Friday. Even the Munich Olympics is mired in bloodshed as 11 Israeli athletes are killed by members of Black September.

Fitting then, that The Stones are back on US soil for the first time since Altamont – the thunderous, murderous ‘festival’ that slammed the door firmly and irrevocably shut on the high noon of the sixties dream. They are promoting the albums they have made in the intervening 3 years – Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main Street – and according to almost anyone who saw them this was their greatest hour as a touring band.

With them is film maker Robert Frank. During the tour he will shoot countless hours of rehearsal, on-stage and backstage footage with unprecedenting access to the Stones and their entourage. The resulting film was called Cocksucker Blues.

When Jagger was first shown the film he declared “it’s a fucking good film, Robert but if it shows in America we’ll never be allowed in the country again.” Thus was set in motion a series of legal squabbles that mean the film has never been on official release and is shown, at best, a handful of times a year to tiny audiences.

“it’s a fucking good film, Robert but if it shows in America we’ll never be allowed in the country again.”

Rock is full of lost artefacts –  primarily pieces of music like Smile by the Beach Boys that, for one reason or another, are gathering dust under court orders – and this is one of the most legendary.

But hey – what are the Stones’ legal team against YouTube? Nothing, it appears, for the entire film is finally available for those minded to seek it out

Firstly, if you’re a fan of the Stones’ music there’s not much for you here to pick over. Of the film’s running time, I reckon that maybe 15 minutes tops consist of the Stones actually playing (although they showcase the Stones in pretty killer form). But if you’re more a fan of the Stones’ legend – and rock mythology in general – then…this slice of over-exposed, black and white cinéma vérité is unmissable.

But rarely can a film have been made that so ruthlessly exposes the vacuum at the centre of its subject.

Largely shot in a series of bedrooms, waiting rooms and dressing rooms, the film shows the emptiness – even loneliness – at the heart of the Stones’ machine. Denied simple human contact by their own fame, the band hang around a series of impersonal spaces, filling the time with drugs and booze to no discernable end. A string of vignettes see various members of the band and their entourage engaging in heroin, coke and sex – often in little knots of two or three.

Never once does it look much like fun.

Keith – skin deeply lined at the age of just 30 – alternates between primping his hair, languidly picking out riffs on his piano or guitar and even nodding off, clearly doped to the eyes on heroin. Wild times, I guess.

At one point, the camera lingers on Mick’s famous crotch as he rubs his cock through his jeans. It’s an emblematic moment – Jagger caught in the act of teasing the camera, you suspect, as much to alleviate his own boredom as anything else, deriving a moment of pleasure from his residual ability to shock if he wants to.

And if the stars of the show seem to be in a semi-permanent state of torpor, the roadies and managers – manhandling groupies like butchers weighing sausages – fare little better. Without fame or residual personal glamour to fall back on, their own relationship to the film is just another one of indifference as they barely acknowledge the presence of the camera, even as it records them perform oral sex on young women.

Could you actually sit down and watch this film? Just possibly. Like the band and the tour itself, the film passes from incident to incident, lost to anything other than itself and without any coherent narrative or end point in view. You are unlikely to reach the end and feel exhilaration or that you’ve gained much from the experience. But despite that, the voyeuristic appeal of watching the rock and roll myth in the flesh is undeniable. After all, few bands – and certainly none of the Stones’ stature have been captured with this much rawness and honesty. It’s a peek behind the curtains and worth the effort if you have even a passing interest in music.

And on the plus side, there’s some fannies in it – and a blowjob or two if you like that kind of thing.

I can also tell you that when they release the film of Superset: the Years of Outcast and Exile, it will be even less fun. The only drugs we have are anti-histamines and an occasional snifter of pale ale.