Probably more interesting than Bussard's obsessiveness, though, is his clear delight in the music he collects (mostly old country and blues from the early 20th Century). He seems to relish the opportunity to play side after side for whomever will listen, holding court in his basement wonderland of hi-fi gear and spinning old Black Patti 78s while chompin' on a cigar and tappin' his toes. He lives and breathes music to the extent that when a record is playing, his whole body becomes animated with a sense of joy that most of us would be lucky to know even once in our lives. He's knowledgeable, opinionated, and knows what he likes – and it ain't rock 'n' roll. He's a charming guy who's spent most of his life trawling the blue highways literally door-to-door in pursuit of the beautiful sounds that feed his soul. I tend to enjoy anything about obsessive collectors, especially record collectors, though this film left me feeling a little hollow, as it doesn't dive too deep to consider all angles—like, for example, what is Joe Bussard like as a human, instead of just as a record collector? I got the feeling that there was a lot more to reveal about Joe and how the collecting bug affects the people in his life, but the filmmaker seemed content to just make a casual portrait. And in a couple of instances (such as showing stock footage of the Great Depression to accompany a Depression-themed 78 Bussard was playing), the director seems downright amateurish. So in the end, this is a breezy and engaging little film that could have been a whole lot better. The music is great, but ultimately DMB isn't a platter I'd choose to spin more than a couple of times.
Review by |