One of the things that makes this videotape so successful and important is that in releasing it to the public, the producers chose to trust the music -- to simply present the show as the Stones originally produced it, and let the performances speak for themselves. This approach stands in dramatic contrast to the Stones' previous "historical" video release, 1989's 25 x 5, in which the producers, with a wealth of marvelous filmed performances to draw on, did not present one single song in its entirety! -- but instead gave us only tantalizing song fragments which were constantly marred and interrupted by voice-overs and cut-aways to narrative material, reminiscences and so on. As a music scholar I love hearing artists like the Stones and the Beatles explaining and musing over their early days and artistic breakthroughs; but this material should never be presented at the expense of letting the thrilling live performances these bands gave in their glory days reach out and inspire us with their full artistic power. The uncut, unadulterated Stones set on Rock and Roll Circus is a welcome contrast to 25 x 5 (and, unfortunately, to some portions of the Beatles videotape Anthology set), and points the way towards what will hopefully be the direction of future video issues: presenting full performances by these great, vibrant, and seminal bands.

It is the Stones themselves who make Circus so essential; the other performances in the show are actually only of mild interest. The Who's charming and important song, "A Quick One While He's Away," is marred by glaringly out-of-tune vocal harmonies; Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull leaps about the stage with all his famous "wildman" energy, but to me his performing style has never succeeded in redeeming the group's musical flimsiness; even Taj Mahal, usually a supremely relaxed, groovin' performer, seems curiously tense and strained in this take of the Stax classic "Ain't That A Lot of Love." And the legendary "supergroup" appearance of John Lennon singing "Yer Blues" backed by "The Dirty Mac" (Keith Richards on bass, Mitch Mitchell on drums, Eric Clapton on lead guitar) is only moderately successful. Of course it's wonderful just to have a film of Lennon doing this great song, and he delivers it fairly well, but neither he nor the group remotely matches the searing vocal intensity or the Muddy Waters-like Delta-polyrhythmic grind of the Beatles' "White Album" version.

The film also captures Mick Jagger returning to live performance after a year offstage, and playing his newest, most mature songs to a small crowd of just a few hundred people -- with the result that his performance here, while of course showing off his legendary charisma and physical energy, is also filled with direct, honest emotional intensity of a kind he has rarely if ever displayed since. Even a year later, once the Stones had launched their first arena tour (as shown in another important film, the Altamont documentary Gimme Shelter; available as ), Mick had begun to perform in a much more exaggerated, less natural style, his moves and mannerisms still exciting but inflated almost to the scale of conscious self-parody -- a change which he apparently decided was necessary to reach the huge crowds he was now playing to, and which has continued to dominate his performance style from 1969 right up to the present.

But here, in the close confines of the circus tent, Jagger renders these great songs with intensity, style, and unaffected soul. He performs like a man who passionately believes in what he's saying, who sings these songs because he needs to pour out what's inside him. Keith Richards and the rest of the band are right with him at every step, and there isn't a wasted moment.

"Jumpin' Jack Flash" is tough, gritty and grinding, with Bill Wyman's whoooming bass line the real lead instrument of the song just as it is on the single. "Parachute Woman," the salty mid-tempo Chicago-blues style tune from Beggars' Banquet, is absolutely believable and compelling, showing the Stones as even much more natural, relaxed, and confident with the blues form than they were in the earlier years of their career. The tune is extended past the album arrangement into a terrific instrumental section in which Jagger's harp and Richards' lead guitar twine and weave around each other in sinuous, snaky counterpoint. On the lovely, slow "No Expectations," Jagger sings his high, gentle vocal lines with an aching tenderness that's absolutely haunting; and Nicky Hopkins (present throughout the set) plays his lyrical country piano licks with a rippling-water loveliness that surpasses even the fine album take. "You Can't Always Get What You Want," which at that time the Stones' audience had never heard, gets a passionate, hard-rocking, electric-band treatment. I have always been lukewarm about the Stones' use of the orchestra and chorus on the issued version, and it's great to hear this more concise, stripped-down arrangement, with Keith playing many of the same lead figures we know from the record but twisting them around the vocal in different ways. And then, "Sympathy for the Devil," a tour de force as described above: Charlie Watts driving that non-stop Caribbean groove with additional percussion support from both Brian Jones and the album percussionist Rocky Dijon, while Keith lays his burning lead licks into Nicky's pumping piano chords and Jagger sings like a man possessed. The intensity just builds and builds -- ya gotta see it to believe it. Finally, singing from within the crowd on hand-held mics over the Banquet instrumental track, Mick and Keith close the show with "Salt of the Earth," both men singing with much more power and emotion than they did in the studio, and Jagger making an effective lyric change in the song's wonderful, ambiguous bridge: "Do we look real to you," he asks the camera, asks the world, "or do we all look too strange?"

A crucial element in the power of this performance is the excellence of the songs themselves. Jagger and Richards at this point in their history had worked through two strong albums (Aftermath, Between the Buttons) on which they explored the possibilities of songwriting outside the normal pop or R&B; conventions, and experimented freely with more complex, adult subject matter, different narrative techniques, song forms, and musical textures. In expanding their writing in these ways, the Stones -- like their colleagues in the Beatles -- were exploring territory first opened up by Bob Dylan a few years earlier; they were responding to the challenge and the great liberating influence of his groundbreaking work. (The acerbic political-history verses of "Sympathy," or the resigned, world-weary poetry of "No Expectations," would be hard to imagine without Dylan's work in "God On Our Side" and "One Too Many Mornings.") By the time of Beggars' Banquet and the Circus, they had consolidated these gains and were writing at an amazing level of focus, power, and maturity. Dylan's breakthroughs had opened the way for them to become more fully themselves as artists.

The Beatles had been working through very much the same process of maturing in their new-found artistic freedom, and at this point, with three brilliant songwriters all in full bloom, were producing exciting new material at an astonishingly prolific rate. Less than a month before the Circus, in late November of '68, they had released the 2-LP set The Beatles, which the press and the world (picking up on a casual phrase George Harrison used in an interview) soon came to call the White Album.

The usual line taken on this period of the Beatles' work (by critics, historians, and even the surviving Beatles themselves) has become a tired refrain: White Album shows impending dissolution of the group as each member brings in own songs rather than write collaboratively; Let It Be film shows miserable experience of group in process of breaking up; Yoko, wrangling, Road briefly recaptures magic, and so on. Obviously, the interpersonal stresses and growing pains which led (unfortunately, unnecessarily) to the group's breakup were a presence in this period. But what this sort of superficial analysis does not acknowledge or emphasize is that this period is one of incredible artistic productivity and achievement for the band as writers, singers, and musicians. In fact, the breathtaking array of original songs they recorded in this period (roughly sixty in the space of 14 months!) represents a maturing of their skills and talents, and contains a great deal of work which stands among their very finest accomplishments.

This truth is obvious if one actually bothers to read down the list of songs from this period -- from the deeply emotional popular classics (Hey Jude, Don't Let Me Down, Something) to the snarling on-the-edge blues raves (Old Brown Shoe, Yer Blues, the transcendent Helter Skelter) to shining intimate acoustic gems (Blackbird, Two of Us), soulful, good-rockin' party tunes (Get Back, I've Got A Feeling), spiritual explorations, comic numbers, quirky one-offs... The list just goes on and on! "Oh, that one, yeah, I sort of forgot that... and that one... and that one..."

Yes, the three writing Beatles were at this point mostly bringing in songs they had composed individually; but that had actually been a big part of their group process for a long time. And by this point in their history, Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison had all settled solidly into the post-Dylan world of songwriting freedom which their earlier (Revolver/Pepper period) experiments had opened up for them and for us all. They wrote now as mature artists, absolutely confident in their ability to explore the world in their songs without the restraints of popular love-ballad conventions. (But, of course, with the natural sense of clarity and form which their years of solid, simple rock & roll songs had left in their bones.) At this point, great songs were just pouring out of all three of them, in most cases without any need for polish or help from their friends.

And no matter who wrote the songs, almost all of them benefit enormously from the distinctive style of the four Beatles as musicians. No one else in the world would have played these tunes the way this "great little band" (as Paul McCartney calls it) was able to do. The songs become classic Beatles numbers as the band wraps its sound around each new composition. Again and again, listening to the generous array of fifty previously unreleased alternate versions collected on the two discs of Anthology 3, one is struck by what a great band they are -- their sound natural, grooving, cohesive, tight and tasty, and of course completely distinctive.

Hearing this material in lively, rough-edged, acoustic sketch tapes, work-in-progress rough versions, alternate-take studio gems, variant interpretations, live rave-ups, and impromptu jams allows you to re-experience these classic songs with fresh ears. The Anthology performances are not only musically satisfying and exciting in their own right, but also provide a new perspective in which to enjoy the "official" issued versions. Almost every cut here contains at least some utterly striking and memorable musical moments; and in at least a few cases you may find yourself wondering why this version wasn't the official release.

George Harrison, for one, really shines in song after song. His "Not Guilty" is a superb song and performance, full of characteristic touches -- a dark, minor-key melody, provocative aphoristic lyrics, and sinuous, interweaving electric-guitar lines. The Beatles inexplicably left this gem off the White Album; it is issued here for the first time. Harrison also delivers a tough, bluesy electric-guitar studio sketch of "Old Brown Shoe," and gorgeous, heartfelt acoustic versions of "While My Guitar..." and the aching, Band-like "All Things Must Pass," recorded in his home at Esher during early White Album rehearsals. Paul McCartney has a hilarious turn on an outtake of "Rocky Raccoon," first flubbing the lyrics, and then ad-libbing playfully off the flub; and throughout the album he displays amazing skill and versatility as a singer, pouring out rough-edged blues lines on a powerful, slowed-down "Helter Skelter" and singing with unbelievable, lilting, ease on lovely soft passages like the scat lines in "Mother Nature's Son." It's also great to hear his profound, underrated "The Long and Winding Road" finally issued without the gratuitous orchestral arrangement Phil Spector slathered over it on the Let It Be album.

Paul and John sing their rock'n'roll hearts out on a surprising duet vocal take of "Oh! Darling," and it's always a joy to hear those great voices play off each other as they do on these lively, unforced, thoroughly fun versions of "I've Got A Feeling" and "Two Of Us," plus ragged-but-rockin' jams on several1950s oldies. John Lennon's lead guitar lines yowl and scream with delightful abandon on the final "rooftop concert" take of "Get Back" -- the very last number the Beatles were ever to perform live. Lennon also turns in stunningly personal, emotional versions of "Sexy Sadie" and "Cry Baby Cry," and there are some fascinating writing-in-progress sketches (as there were on the also-superb Anthology 2) showing him working out his songs on acoustic guitar. Even Ringo Starr turns in a surprisingly touching, effective vocal on a (superior) alternate take of Lennon's lovely "Good Night." And the gorgeous "a capella" mix of Lennon's "Because," with its rich layered vocal harmonies, is simply breathtaking.

Like any specialist, I have my small criticisms of some of the production decisions here: they've got a better out-take of "Two of Us" than the one they used... should've let that "Helter Skelter" take run longer... why in the world did they leave out the incredible versions of "Revolution" they have both from the Frost TV show and the Esher tapes? And so on... Almost all of my complaints, though, really boil down to the point that the Beatles should not stop with this volume (as the structure of the series suggests they will), but should continue to release more of the great music they still have in the vault. The complete rooftop concert should be available on CD; it is a crime that the Let It Be film -- which despite all the wrangling is filled with wonderful, joyful performances -- is still not available on video after all these years (possibly an expanded version, guys?); and there are many more classic outtakes, well known to fanatical tape collectors, which the general public deserves to hear. The huge sales response to the Anthology series proves that the audience is eager for more. The Beatles organization should simply trust the music and continue to release it if the demand is there.

In fact, as a stage performance, this set is very restrained, with very little of the guitar-humping theatricality that initially contributed to Jimi's fame. Hendrix looks understandably tired as he walks onto the festival stage at 3 AM; and he occasionally looks uncomfortable on stage as he struggles with problems he seems to perceive in getting the right guitar sound from his equipment. But in spite of it all, the music he delivers is thrilling! He sings and plays with absolute commitment, focus, passion, and energy, throughout a great selection of songs spanning the history of his brief recording career. I like Hendrix by far the best as a player when his wild guitar sounds, the screams and roars and howls he coaxes from his amp, are used to serve and enhance a coherent musical statement, with melodic shape and definition, musical continuity and integrity. When Hendrix pulls it all together -- the musical shape and intonation plus the noise; his wildly adventurous imagination and his monster instrumental chops; the wild sonic adventurousness plus the structure of a soulful song -- there's no one who can touch him. That's the way he plays here, and in song after song the musical fireworks are truly spectacular.

It's wonderful to hear a live "All Along the Watchtower," from Hendrix, to see how much he refers to, and rings variations on, the distinctive guitar themes which added so much interest to his studio arrangement. Hendrix is not simply playing Bob Dylan's song, blowing over the changes, which he could of course do in his sleep; he's treating the recorded version as the guitar composition it really is, and then improvising with that, playing even hotter and more driving versions of the same themes. In a terrific concluding solo following the line "the wind began to howl," Jimi screams and moans like the wind itself -- a great example of how his music has always drawn so much of its inspiration from the sounds of the natural world, from the voices of ocean and wind and fire, from Jimi's dreams of wildcats and birds and distant planets.

A towering "Voodoo Chile" kicks off with a quick verse from the "Slight Return" version, and then explodes into a two-and-a-half-minute guitar rave-up -- filled, yes, with noise and fury, but also with concise, articulate, blues themes, played perfectly in tune and with skilfully controlled dynamic contrast and deep emotion. Jimi works in hyperspeed tremolo moans, screaming and very vocal high-string screams, and potent rhythmic riffs and syncopations, before eventually spiralling down into a gentle, flowing octave line to end the piece. "Freedom," a major song from the then-unreleased Cry of Love album, starts out with a driving funk riff (played here on a Gibson "Flying V" model rather than Jimi's trademark Strat), and concludes with another dazzling instrumental ride in which Hendrix contrasts classic blues and soul licks with startling ascending and descending chordal and octave runs.

The intensity continues to build with "Machine Gun," which gets a totally passionate -- but also beautifully controlled -- performance over ten minutes in length. Building from the grinding Muddy Waters/ Howlin' Wolf style riffs which open the song, Hendrix hangs on the tonic chord for an extended vamp after each lyric line, racing through a series of his most classic blues lead licks like a man possessed, his head thrown back, seemingly transfixed by the emotions of the music -- and yet always able to make it back to the mic in time for his next vocal. The support he gets here from drummer Mitch Mitchell is amazing. With bassist Billy Cox holding down a rock-solid basic beat, Mitchell is free to ride with Jimi through his many emotional twists, turns, builds, surges, pull-downs, and accents -- and he stays with Hendrix so perfectly, with such amazing intuitive rightness, you'd swear they were psychically linked. The excitement, the emotional power and endless musical invention, continue on through a kick-ass "Dolly Dagger" (a relatively obscure late-period rocker which has always been a special favorite of mine); a fabulous take of "Red House" marked by some lovely falsetto vocal moans and gorgeous, liquid-sounding bend-and-vibrato guitar tones; a blazing, screaming "In from the Storm"; and more. Hendrix plays so much, so brilliantly, in the course of this 55-minute performance, it's almost almost more than you can take in. This amazing set should really be out on CD as well; it will stand alongside his classic albums as a touchstone, an essential text, definitive and endlessly enjoyable.