All about rock journalism — and much more

It’s not too hard to figure out who has the most sense in Cameron Crowe’s semi-autobiographic take on the rock world, Almost Famous: it’s Detroit rock scribe Lester Bangs (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman). Bangs warns budding journalist William Miller (newcomer Patrick Fugit) not to get sucked into the "industry of cool" that rock music had become by 1973: "They’re gonna buy you drinks, treat you like you’re cool. And listen, I’ve met you: you’re not cool."

Not surprisingly, the other person who hands out sound advice in Crowe’s Valentine to the rockin’ ’70s is William’s mother (played by Frances McDormand) with her oft-repeated line "Don’t take drugs!" And you just know this kind of stereo lecturing will be the thing that keeps William’s feet on the ground, while those around him are spiraling off into ego trips and overdoses.

William is a 15-year-old who loves rock music, everything from The Who to Led Zeppelin to semi-obscure band Stillwater. Given a crack at writing a big story by none other than Rolling Stone magazine, Miller joins the Stillwater tour bus across America, tape recorder and microphone in hand, in an attempt to get to the band’s core and interview lead guitarist Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup). Along the way, Miller experiences a sexual romp with tour groupies, a near-death plane ride, and other wild adventures on the road.

He also befriends an enigmatic groupie (strike that: she’s a "band-aid") with the unlikely name of Penny Lane, played by Oscar nominee Kate Hudson.

About Hudson’s performance. It’s okay, full of sphinx-like poses and wry facial expressions. She captures the veneer of cool adopted by someone trying to seem older and wiser than they actually are. As Russell’s on-the-road girlfriend, Hudson is more poised that she has been in any previous role. But is her performance Oscar-worthy? You be the judge. At least for Almost Famous, she strikes the right tone of understatement and mystery.

As the tour progresses, William learns more than he bargained for about the rock world, everything from bad acid trips and mood swings to petty differences about T-shirt designs. Fugit takes it all in with a wide-eyed innocence that seems a little out of place in the gritty rock world. But this is really Cameron Crowe’s world, of course: he himself was a young Rolling Stone journalist, and with a few sweeteners added to personal history, Almost Famous is the confection he wishes folks to remember the early ’70s by.

The soundtrack brims (overbrims) with obscure ’70s tracks: stuff like Elton John’s Tiny Dancer, Zeppelin’s The Rain Song and Misty Mountain Hop. A little Rod Stewart here, a little Neil Young there. For once, you have to forgive the director his personal CD collection: it’s essential to the tone of Almost Famous.

The movie is also about rock journalism, and its somewhat adversarial relationship to its subject. Personally, I agree with old Lester Bangs on the matter: rock was already dead by 1973, just going through the motions and collecting royalty checks. Early in the movie, the Creem magazine writer hoists an album jacket by Iggy and the Stooges, declaring this is the future. Well, maybe rock was just hanging around to be knocked off its filigreed pedestal by punk in the late ’70s. But it sure does make a nice oldies soundtrack.

Despite its emphasis on rock journalism, Almost Famous doesn’t really show us much about the craft. William does precious little writing during his Stillwater tour. This is frustrating for writers in the audience who want to know how a rock journalist works under such conditions. But Crowe is obviously more interested in the relationship triangle of Penny Lane, William and Russell. So prepare yourself for the usual Cameron Crowe experience: a story premise that promises the hard truth, and delivers up a sloppy wet kiss by the final scene.

As seen through the gauze of nostalgia, Crowe’s script is full of many fine moments (like the use of Simon and Garfunkel’s America to accompany William’s sister’s leaving home) – moments which, taken together, don’t quite add up to the hard-edged view of the rock world depicted in, say, Sid and Nancy. This is a director seemingly without edges. At the heart of every Crowe movie is an unshakeable sweetness, a banishment of cynicism. This is the guy who made Jerry Maguire, after all, I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but I remember rock and roll being just a little bit more dangerous to be around when I was a kid.