What follows is something like a tale of two attitudes. Taylor’s group touts itself as “the most well-adjusted band in America,” while BJM haphazardly releases psychedelic-influenced indie-rock recordings as fast as possible, burning an equal number of bridges in the process. The former goes on to a record deal with Capitol and an infamous music video, and the latter hilariously disintegrates under the glare of a label showcase concert.

Timoner was smart to let Taylor narrate the proceedings. The spotlight is all Anton, whether getting busted for drugs on tour, kicking a heckler in the face or complaining into the void for hours, in some sense performing almost every waking moment and loving every minute of the attention. What would otherwise have been a run-of-the-mill rockumentary about a band most people have never heard of benefits immensely from its star’s outbursts.

You can still find the longhaired Anton quite often around his Hollywood haunts — every Thursday night DJing psyche-rock at The Vine Bar or at the occasional party at his house in Hollywood, where he recently yelped at the gathered that they were a bunch of stupid somethings we’d rather not print. Disappointingly for Anton, the gathered didn’t seem much to notice. Fame and notoriety can be tricky. Perhaps they would have been shocked only if he hadn’t done it. — Wayne Melton

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