In VH1 Iraq documentary, a show of musical force

August 18, 2004|Globe Staff

VH1 has lost its way over the years. It has turned into a dull pageant of entertainment filler about "The Maxim Hot 100" and celebrity workouts and diets -- anything, it seems, but music. And so "Soundtrack to War," which was excerpted in Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 9/11," arrives as a welcome exception. The affecting documentary, which premieres tonight at 9, uses music as a way to look at human beings, and not just at their awesomely bad hair.

On one level, the hourlong show is a simple showcase of the music that US soldiers listen to in Iraq. One soldier, for instance, talks about blasting "Bodies" by Drowning Pool "when we're killing the enemy." He says that the refrain "Let the bodies hit the floor" has served as the motto for all the fighters squished together in his tank. "To me, war is heavy metal," says another soldier, pounding out a furious riff on his electric guitar. Meanwhile, a bespectacled young man confesses his punk-rock obsessions, to the great dismay of his buddies.

But the documentary is also so much more than a "Coolest Get-Psyched Songs Ever!" countdown, the likes of which VH1 and E! have turned into the TV equivalent of spam. And it's not an MTV-style bit of graphic frenzy that turns battle into a video game and portrays soldiers as hip consumers. "Soundtrack to War" is a surprisingly low-key homage to the power of music -- a trite description, I'm afraid, but the best I can come up with. This un-slick visit to American bases in Iraq shows how music -- rap, gospel, folk, country, hard rock, classic rock -- helps to keep young fighters human. The filmmaker, George Gittoes, uses talk of music to establish an instant intimacy with his subjects, and we see them take off their figurative and literal armor to tell him who they really are. Naturally, without their helmets, they all seem to have baby faces.

The best sequences in "Soundtrack to War" are of soldiers singing and rapping their own songs directly to the camera, spontaneously and usually without accompaniment. In their dusty uniforms, under the unobscured sun, facing their loved ones, they personally deliver their fears, their rage, and their sorrow. Their voices are off-key and shaky, mostly, but that only makes them even more poignant. Two guys who call themselves Private Joe sing a Staind-like dirge to friends they've lost in battle. A group of soldiers, clapping for rhythm, sing an a cappella gospel song to God while gunfire cracks in the background. Janel Daniels, a more polished singer with "American Idol"-like vocal flourishes, launches into a downbeat hip-hop song she wrote called "Home of the Brave."