In the acclaimed 1986 film Round Mid­night, the great tenor sax­o­phon­ist Dex­ter Gor­don plays an aging Amer­i­can jazzman liv­ing in Paris in the late 1950s, strug­gling to con­trol his addic­tion to alco­hol so he can keep play­ing every night at the Blue Note in Saint-Ger­main-des-Prés.

The role came nat­u­ral­ly to Gor­don, whose own strug­gle with hero­in addic­tion in the 1950s result­ed in prison time and a loss of his New York City cabaret card. Unable to play in the clubs of New York, Gor­don moved to Europe in the ear­ly 1960s and stayed there for 14 years. But while Dale Turn­er, his char­ac­ter in Round Mid­night, is a worn-down man near­ing death, Gor­don’s Euro­pean exile was a peri­od of rebirth.

By the time the French film direc­tor and jazz enthu­si­ast Bertrand Tav­ernier tracked Gor­don down in 1984, though, the sax­o­phone play­er had been back in Amer­i­ca for a decade and was, after 40 years on the jazz cir­cuit, becom­ing a bit worn down him­self. The Dale Turn­er char­ac­ter is based part­ly on tenor sax­o­phon­ist Lester Young, who was Gor­don’s friend and men­tor and a major influ­ence in his life, and part­ly on pianist Bud Pow­ell, whom Gor­don knew and worked with in Paris. Tav­ernier was look­ing for authen­tic­i­ty and he found it in Gor­don, a man with a direct link to the gold­en age of bebop. As the film­mak­er told Peo­ple in 1986, “I could not think of any­one else doing the part.”

Round Mid­night was a crit­i­cal suc­cess. Gor­don received an Acad­e­my Award nom­i­na­tion for best actor in a lead­ing role. The film was not­ed for “its love­ly, ele­giac pac­ing and its tremen­dous depth of feel­ing” by Janet Maslin of the New York Times. “No actor could do what the great jazz sax­o­phon­ist Dex­ter Gor­don does in ‘Round Mid­night,’ ” writes Maslin, who describes Gor­don’s screen pres­ence as the very embod­i­ment of the music itself. “It’s in his heavy-lid­ded eyes, in his hoarse, smoky voice, in the way his long, grace­ful fin­gers seem to be play­ing silent accom­pa­ni­ment to his con­ver­sa­tion. It’s even in the way he habit­u­al­ly calls any­one or any­thing ‘Lady,’ as in ‘Well, Lady Sweets, are you ready for tonight?’ ”

Those are the words Turn­er address­es to his sax­o­phone at the begin­ning of the scene above. The film then cuts to the Blue Note, where the musi­cian’s young admir­er Fran­cis (played by François Cluzet) is trans­fixed as the old man gives a melan­choly, world-weary per­for­mance of the John­ny Green stan­dard “Body and Soul.” Like all of the music in the film, “Body and Soul” was record­ed live on the set. Gor­don is accom­pa­nied by Her­bie Han­cock on piano, John McLaugh­lin on gui­tar, Pierre Mich­e­lot on bass and Bil­ly Hig­gins on drums.

For more on Dex­ter Gor­don, includ­ing a film clip from a vin­tage per­for­mance at a Dutch night­club, see our ear­li­er arti­cle “Dex­ter Gor­don’s Ele­gant Ver­sion of the Jazz Stan­dard ‘What’s New,’ 1964.”

There’s a new film com­ing out about the rise of CBGB as the pre­mier site of New York punk, new wave, and art rock. And I have to agree with Dan­ger­ous Minds, it looks like this might just be “AWFUL.” But then again, maybe not. Who am I to make a crit­i­cal appraisal of a work I haven’t seen yet? Watch the trail­er and make your own pre-judg­ments.

No mat­ter how this fic­tion­al­ized ver­sion of the CBGB sto­ry turns out, we are lucky to have copi­ous footage from the real hey­day of the dirty Bow­ery club that made the careers of The Ramones, Pat­ti Smith, Tele­vi­sion, Blondie, the Talk­ing Heads and count­less oth­er New York bands who rose to semi-star­dom, or local noto­ri­ety, from CBGB’s famous, filthy bow­els. Although Alan Rick­man must sure­ly do a fine job as CBGB’s own­er Hil­lel Kristal, there’s noth­ing like hear­ing from the real thing, and you can, in the doc­u­men­tary CBGB’s: The Roots of Punk (part one above, part two below).

Kristal, who intend­ed to cre­ate a space for “Coun­try, Blue­Grass, and Blues,” end­ed up man­ag­ing a very dif­fer­ent beast when he real­ized that no one in low­er Man­hat­tan cared about his tastes. Instead, to keep the lights on, he was forced to let the lowlifes in, the “dere­licts, lost souls… hook­ers and pimps and junkies,” who came from the flop­hous­es and ten­e­ments to hear music that spoke to them.

Some­times they got it, some­times they didn’t, but for the musi­cians who used Kristal’s dive bar as a live rehearsal space, the oppor­tu­ni­ty to play, night after night, and cre­ate their own sounds and iden­ti­ties, the CBGB’s expe­ri­ence was invalu­able. You’ll hear a few of them reflect on those heady times in the film, but most­ly, CBGB’s: The Roots of Punk is a car­ni­val of vin­tage per­for­mances from New York’s sem­i­nal punk bands. Maybe the Hol­ly­wood ver­sion won’t be so bad, eh? Even so, I’d rather watch, and lis­ten to, the real thing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Deb­bie Har­ry Turns 68 Today. Watch Blondie Play CBGB in the Mid-70s in Two Vin­tage Clips

The Talk­ing Heads Play CBGB, the New York Club that Shaped Their Sound (1975)

The Ramones in Their Hey­day, Filmed “Live at CBGB,” 1977

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

I vivid­ly remem­ber learn­ing the first song my high school garage band cov­ered, The Clash’s “Clash City Rock­ers.” We spent hours deci­pher­ing the lyrics, and nev­er got them right. This was, if you can believe it, a pre-Google age. While the exer­cise was frus­trat­ing, I nev­er resent­ed Joe Strummer’s slurred, grav­el­ly vocals for mak­ing us work hard at get­ting his mean­ing. For one thing, I loved his voice, and as a stu­dent of the blues and Dylan, nev­er real­ly cared if rock singers could actu­al­ly sing. For anoth­er, Strum­mer nev­er seemed to care much him­self if you could under­stand him, though his lyrics blast­ed through moun­tains of BS. This is not because he was an ego­tist but quite the oppo­site: he pas­sion­ate­ly hat­ed rock clichés and wasn’t mak­ing pop records.

The first scene in the doc­u­men­tary above, Viva Joe Strum­mer (lat­er released as Get Up, Stand Up), gives us The Clash front­man decon­struct­ing the genre. “Well, hi every­body, ain’t it groovy,” he says to a cheer­ing crowd, fol­lowed by, “ain’t you sick of hear­ing that for the last 150 years?” The documentary’s nar­ra­tor describes Strum­mer as “the man who put cred­i­ble rock and roll into the bas­tard cul­tur­al orphan that was called punk,” but this seems an inac­cu­rate descrip­tion.

For one thing, rock and roll is itself a bas­tard genre, some­thing Strum­mer always rec­og­nized, and for anoth­er The Clash, fueled by Strummer’s ecu­meni­cal inter­est in world cul­tures, drew lib­er­al­ly from oth­er kinds of music and stuck their mid­dle fin­gers up at estab­lish­ment rock and every­thing it came to rep­re­sent.

Viva Joe Strum­mer gives us loads of con­cert footage and inter­views with band mem­bers and close friends like the Sex Pis­tols’ Glen Mat­lock. The focus remains on Strum­mer, a front­man with tremen­dous charis­ma but also, para­dox­i­cal­ly, with a tremen­dous amount of humil­i­ty. One review­er of the film says as much:

Joe Strum­mer always pro­ject­ed him­self as a hum­ble man. Even at the height of The Clash‘s mega­lo­ma­nia, when he fired gui­tarist Mick Jones, Strum­mer came across like a bet­ter read, more world­ly Bruce Spring­steen. The every­man image has made eulo­giz­ing the singer dif­fi­cult.

This sug­gests that Strummer’s every­man per­sona may have been part of his show­man­ship, but even so, he was respect­ed and admired by near­ly every­one who knew him. And his pro­le­tar­i­an pol­i­tics were gen­uine. As one inter­vie­wee says above, “he always had a cor­ner to fight in. He always had some­one to stick up for.”

The orig­i­nal DVD includ­ed a CD with inter­view clips from 1979 to 2001, such as the 1981 Tom Sny­der Show inter­view above. Viva Joe Strum­mer lacks the pow­er­ful dra­mat­ic arc and tight direc­tion of Julian Temple’s 2007 The Future is Unwrit­ten, but it’s still well worth watch­ing for inter­view footage you won’t see any­where else. Despite the film’s orig­i­nal sub­ti­tle, The Sto­ry of The Clash, the doc­u­men­tary fol­lows Strummer’s career all the way through the dis­so­lu­tion of the band that made him famous and through his suc­ces­sive musi­cal endeav­ors with Joe Strum­mer and the Mescaleros. And it doc­u­ments the reac­tions to his sud­den, trag­ic death in 2002. I still remem­ber get­ting the news. I hap­pened, odd­ly enough, to be drink­ing at the bar where the Joe Strum­mer mur­al would go up in New York’s East Vil­lage in 2003. I walked out­side and lit a cig­a­rette, put on my head­phones, cued up “Clash City Rock­ers,” and shed a tear for the punk rock every­man who every­body loved.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“Joe Strummer’s Lon­don Call­ing”: All Eight Episodes of Strummer’s UK Radio Show Free Online

Remem­ber­ing The Clash’s Front­man Joe Strum­mer on His 60th Birth­day

The Clash Live in Tokyo, 1982: Watch the Com­plete Con­cert

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness