AllMusic Watches: Rock Docs on the Stone Roses, Rush and More

March flew by, but regardless we managed to sit still long enough to watch a few music documentaries across the streaming services we all know and love. Take a look at what we watched, and then follow the links to check them out for yourselves.

When the Stone Roses were announced as a headliner at Coachella last year, Twitter became a flood of millennials asking, with varying levels of profanity, "Who are the Stone Roses?" Just a few years before the band's reformation, the British music press had almost buried itself under the avalanche of "The greatest British rock album ever turns 20!"-related hubbub. So clearly, there was a void to fill in introducing a younger audience - and an American audience at large - to the Britpop pioneers. Made of Stone depicts the band's reunion almost exclusively through the perspective of fans displaying their enthusiasm, leading to a lengthy scene with a crowd lining up for the band's first show, which is given more emphasis than a scattered series of flashbacks outlining the band's history and significance. The live footage is also rough at times, as frontman Ian Brown has never been the strongest performer onstage, and a scene in which drummer Reni disappears from a show before the encore and is called out onstage by Brown is ignored in the following scenes, like the next episode of a sitcom. The only times that the band's full power is on display is in the rehearsals, as Brown and Reni lock into outstanding harmony on "Waterfall" and then tear through the non-album track "Where Angels Play" as if it's their showstopper. It's the closest the film comes to answering "who are the Stone Roses?"

Lightweight and easygoing, Ain't In It For My Health is a lot like Levon Helm in his later days: Kind, quiet, slow, and unassuming. The film seesaws between brief archival clips from the heyday of The Band and Helm as an old man, dealing with throat ailments and visits from his lawyers. Early on there is some very uncomfortable footage of Helm's medical treatments, showing that this film is not planning on holding back on any dark aspects and this goes on to include his history with drugs, bankruptcy, and cancer. The film also touches upon the bitterness stemming from Helm's belief that his down-South experiences inspired Toronto native Robbie Robertson throughout Robertson's much more successful Americana career, one biographer even stating, "Everything is predicated on Robbie discovering the South through Levon Helm and then writing about it." Throughout the movie, there are multiple difficult scenes where it seems like the folks around him are trying to push him to things he doesn't want to do - finish some Hank Williams lyrics, go out on tour, go to the Grammys - he seems happiest riding a tractor and talking with neighboring farmers. The film ends abruptly after a couple of high notes, but ultimately feels more like an slight but intimate snapshot than an in-depth retrospective. (watch it on Netflix)

Much like one of Phish's trademark long and winding jams, Bittersweet Motel has no narrative. Directed by Todd Phillips - who would go on to fame and fortune with the Hangover movies and Old School - the documentary spends most of its time trying to understand what it is about this band that draws such a devoted following. Phillips clearly doesn't get it, as he says to an interview subject who looks exactly like what you'd come up with if handed a pad and paper and were asked to draw a Phish fan, which creates a point of entry into the film for those who haven't bought what Phish are selling. He makes them read their own bad press aloud, and the band is game enough to react with varying levels of defensiveness, revealing that Phish doesn't exist entirely in a vacuum. The spectacle of the band's New Year's Eve shows is made apparent, and the scale of the festival the band puts on in Maine to close the film, the Great Went, is impressive. The musical segments will drag for non-fans, who may react as Phish bassist Mike Gordon does when talking to frontman Trey Anastasio about problems he had with a particular show: "I think you were playing a lot of notes."

Another wildly divisive band, Canadian progressive rock band Rush might manage to convert some of the non-believers with their documentary treatment, Beyond the Lighted Stage. The members of the trio come across as enormously likable, personal guys who genuinely enjoy each other after 30 years, The band's origins - and original lineup, before drummer Neil Peart - are detailed, including an interesting look at how the band managed to break through in America by appealing to the blue-collar audience in Cleveland with the song "Working Man." The band revisits their discography and treats it honestly, acknowledging its peaks and valleys and clarifying the band's mindset at the time. A cavalcade of rock heroes are sprinkled throughout, talking about what the band means to them, including Smashing Pumpkins frontman Billy Corgan telling a story about how as a teen he could only explain himself to his mother via a specific Rush song, which sounds like something he still might do today. It's a welcoming portrait of a band that so many find to be impenetrable, one that doesn't shy away from poking fun at their excesses while not slacking on lauding their triumphs. (Watch it on Netflix)