There are moments in the documentary Tribute that are almost "darkly ridiculous," if such a term exists. A case study of five small-time tribute acts who are going nowhere (though not necessarily getting there fast), the film is a bottomless quagmire of melodramatic weirdness. You have the story of Andy Patche, a man who portrayed Gene Simmons in a KISS cover band before suffering a nervous breakdown, finding Jesus, and setting his own house on fire. You have Chuck Harter, the guitarist in a Monkees tribute act who remains obsessed with destroying the career of a former friend who now fronts a rival Monkees tribute act. You even have Mark "Superfan" Eldridge, a hyperactive Los Angeles supergeek who was profoundly devastated by the breakup of the tribute band Sheer Heart Attack, his living connection to the band Queen. (In order to compensate for the loss, Eldridge drives by guitarist Brian May's mansion and imagines that Freddie Mercury talks to him from the sky.) There is no individual in this entire film who -- in a traditional sense -- would not be classified as semi-pathetic.

Yet this is not the point of Tribute. Its deeper understanding is not that these people are simply lame, even though many of them are, but that these guys get it. They inadvertently grasp the secret truth about rock-and-roll: Ultimately, its all fake, and always has been. Every artist (either subconsciously or blatantly) is pretending to be someone else; that's what art is. And what Tribute teaches us is that the kind of goofball who sings in a Journey cover band is not trying to be transcendent or immortal or even necessarily interesting; he's merely embracing the majesty of uncool rock without the crutch of irony. What's so compelling about the bands in this film is that they're not funny at all: the members of KISS cover group Larger Than Life care more about the music of KISS than any member of the actual band, and they appreciate the populist power of songs like "Cold Gin" for all the right reasons. In Larger Than Life, logic and authenticity is outrocked by sincerity and conviction (this is best illustrated by the guy who plays Paul Stanley and remains completely unfazed by the fact that Stanley, is not, in fact, black).

On the surface, performing in a tribute band seems like a zero-sum game -- ultimate success would mean you've lost your identity completely. Consequently, there is always the temptation to believe cover musicians are wasting their lives. But Tribute makes us realize that people don't form cover bands as an alternative to real life; they do so to give themselves a second life that doesn't inherently suck. One of the people featured in Tribute is Richie Sorenson, a recovering alcoholic whose brother committed suicide, Sorenson now works at a tire repair shop, and he hates his job as much as you'd expect. But Sorenson also portrays K.K. Downing in the Judas Priest cover band Bloodstone, and that keeps him from ending up like his brother. Now, if you look at this guy only as a musician, his existence seems pretty empty: here's a guy who plays "Breaking The Law" for nostalgic drunk people who are pretending he's someone else. His singular creative outlet is not creative at all. But look at it like this: if Sorenson doesn't play in Bloodstone, he only fixes tires. That's his whole being. Nobody decides to join a tribute band instead of going to Harvard; people join tribute bands because everything else in their day-to-day experience is less interesting. Tribute acts are just the postmodern extension of why teenagers start listening to music in the first place.
One of Bloodstone's biggest fans is Marc Luther, a postal employee in Albany, N.Y. (The members of Bloodstone express intense admiration for Luther, partially because he saw Judas Priest on their British Steel tour.) At first, its unclear why the producer/director team of Rich Fox and Kris Curry interviewed him for this film, since he appear to be nothing more than a mailman who happens to like heavy metal. However, Luther's interview actually validates the entire thesis of Tribute: "How many people do you know who are doing what they actually like?" he asks. "Not many that I know." Luther is correct. But the semi-pathetic guys in these tribute bands are coming closer than just about everybody else I've ever met.

--Chuck Klosterman for Film Comment