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Come Feel Me Tremble: the Documentary was directed by Paul Westerberg, but it's mostly concert footage that was filmed by kids like me. We get to see a lot of great live recordings here because a few folks snuck camcorders into the show and struck gold. They then donated their priceless amateur memorabilia to Mr. Westerberg, and he did with them as his whims dictated.
Westerberg's words do not tell us much about him, but one of his few revealing comments ultimately shows how personal this film truly is. Apparently Westerberg has attention deficit disorder, and he says in the film that he thinks this helps make his first run-through of a song the best. Later takes do not improve upon his immediate inspirations, because he doesn't remember them, and eventually he just loses interest. His mind is focused on something else.
Come Feel Me Tremble: The Documentary is a very personal film, because Westerberg directed it without ever trying to hide his ADD. Here is a film that intentionally chops off moments of confession, and some truly stellar live cuts from the Stereo/Mono tour, because Westerberg the director has lost interest. It makes for a film that feels raw as Hootenanny, and just plain reckless, but it's simply an honest documentary. It shows who Westerberg is, and how Westerberg operates. It doesn't philosophize, or babble endlessly about craft. In fact, you mostly just see a lot of Westerberg drinking water, and spitting water. It shouldn't sound exciting, and it isn't. Westerberg's film shows him doing twenty seconds of this, and twenty seconds of that; you'll either be compelled by the beauty of an artist trying to mirror his mind, or you'll be bored. Having attended the DC show at the 9:30 Club, I can attest that the live performance was so much better than the footage of it, but that doesn't seem to be Come Feel Me Tremble's point. It doesn't intend to give you the alternative takes -- though, coincidentally, you hear the alternative take of "Crackle & Drag", and it's much better -- but to give you a snapshot of who Westerberg really is. And it succeeds.
Tremble documents an artist who's socially awkward, who can stand neither cameras nor people too much. Not surprisingly, it makes for many recorded moments that other directors would call "down time", where Westerberg exchanges unscripted small talk with unnamed companions. It tells us more about Westerberg, in its own way, than any interview could, but it's basically showing us his soul. Most fans demand far less, preferring facts.
The movie takes a slow, unsteady pace, and won't stick in your mind. Aside from some riveting live recordings (including the beautiful final track, which may be part of Westerberg's next record), you'll here few anecdotes worth remembering or sharing. One definitely stuck out, though: Westerberg talks about the time when he and Kurt Cobain were in an elevator together. Cobain was a star, and Westerberg one of his heroes, and they didn't say a word to each other. The interviewer to whom the story is related cannot not believe this, and Westerberg gives a poetic summation of the event: Cobain was dying to die, and he was dying to be somewhere else. The remembrance here recalls Westerberg's interaction with Johnette Napolitano on the All Shook Down sessions: she comes in to sing her part, then immediately splits, without the two really saying anything to each other.
The Tremble CD has been in my CD player almost every day since I received it; the Tremble documentary is as intellectually appealing, but a far different pleasure. You don't want to see the filmed take of "What a Day (For a Night)" nearly as much as you want hear the studio version and sing along, but you'll enjoy thinking about the film after you've seen it. Assuming that Westerberg received full concert films from his renegade fans, it's fascinating to see what he chooses to spotlight. For example, he ends the 9:30 show with kids gathered around him on the sofa, singing "Here Comes a Regular" and other beautiful shit. They sing along to many of his classics as if they were all at a campfire together. Witnessed from the balcony, those closing songs were absolutely magical for a fan, and made Westerberg look kind and generous and wonderful. Under his own direction, this moment is skipped over in favor of performances and moments designed to make it clear to all viewers that he's playing in small clubs. He's not on top of the world. He is a genius, intermittently surviving.
-- Theodore Defosse
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