text: Harvey Keitel gives a typically top-rate performance in one of his first-ever lead roles as brash, ambitious, uncompromising young staff producer Coleman Buckmaster, a real talented hot shot with a discerning "golden ear" and the son of a famous jazz pianist to boot. Coleman's eager to cut some tracks with the smokin' R&B outfit the Group (none other than Earth, Wind & Fire in their awesomely funky prime), but his rigidly commercial greedhead label A-Chord Records run by uptight, mob-connected middle-of-the-road square Jerry (a properly unhip Ed Nelson) wants him to record a hit single for the hideously insipid Carpenters-like pop pap trio the Pages, an allegedly squeaky clean bunch which includes smarmy pedophile step-dad Franklin (a perfectly vile Bert Parks), bitchy, neurotic daughter Velour (a fine, flighty turn by perky, comely brunette Cynthia Bostwick), and hedonistic smack addict son Gary (former 50's juvenile sitcom staple Jimmy Boyd). The extremely naive and idealistic Coleman must learn pronto how the music business truly works and play the lowdown dirty game as best he can or else he'll lose both the Group and his credibility.<br /><br />Adopting an acrid, incisive, corrosively harsh and unsparingly biased script from syndicated columnist and rock journalist Robert Lipsyte, director Sig Shore (who's most famous for producing "Superfly") shows a decidedly cynical and unflattering depiction of the various bribes, pay-offs, broken promises, back-stabbings, duplicities and double-dealings which are an unpleasant, yet intrinsic part of the largely corrupt rock music business, with particularly thoughtful thematic asides concerning Art vs. Commerce, fighting to retain one's artistic integrity, and the then recent push to homogenize rock into bland, useless, creatively stagnant mainstream respectability. Moreover, this gritty, downbeat gem offers a rare fascinating, minutely detailed and wholly believable backstage glimpse at the recording process as recording booth console cowboy Coleman struggles gamely in his own words to "make chicken salad out of chicken s**t." Appearing in nifty bits are disc jockey and legendary "fifth Beatle" Murray the K as leering, lecherous DJ Big John Little (Velour bites his hand after Big John paws her thigh during a live on-air interview!), New York soul DJ and host of NBC's "Friday Night Videos" Frankie Crocker as his own jazzy'n'jivin' self, R&B singer-songwriter Doris Troy (she penned the lovely "Just One Look") as a church pianist, and tubby, bald-pated 70's blaxploitation favorite Charles MacGregor as a priest at a wedding. The rather poor sound and Allan Metzger's sloppy cinematography inadvertently add to the film's overall ragged, rough-around-the-edges documentary-style authenticity. Although technically a bit lacking, this movie overall still rates as one of the great, most bitterly pessimistic unsung behind-the-scenes rocksploitation gems from the 70's.