A fascinating time capsule of 1980s' pop culture

There's something guilt-inducing about watching a documentary on the making of a charity single designed to feed the starving masses of Africa while lounging on a well warmed sofa, picking at the remains of a pizza and sipping a cold beer. Yet here I am, nearly four decades later, dissecting what the film producers rather grandiosely call The Greatest Night in Pop. 

The presumption of the title itself deserves a moment's contemplation as the sheer audacity of declaring any one evening the pinnacle of popular music history speaks volumes about the industry's grandiosity and America's perpetual tendency toward self-mythologising.

Like all good stories about American excess, this one begins with a dash of European influence - Bob Geldof's Band Aid having lit the charitable touch paper. What unfolds is a fascinating study of ego management that would make a Freudian analyst weep with joy. Quincy Jones, that maestro of musical diplomacy, hangs a sign reading 'Check your ego at the door', though one suspects several participants smuggled theirs in regardless, like teenagers with hip flasks at a school disco.

The documentary peels back the glossy veneer of the 1985 recording session with all the precision of a master surgeon. In an exquisite moment of unintentional comedy, we witness Stevie Wonder offering to guide Ray Charles to the bathroom - the blind leading the blind, indeed. Then there's Prince, that purple enigma, refusing to join the collective unless granted his private recording space - rather missing the point of a collaborative effort.

The film gives a bird's eye view of the creative process by revealing the delicate dance between artistic vision and practical constraints. We witness Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie, two titans of their craft, meeting the challenge of writing a song that must simultaneously be simple enough for a universal appeal yet polished enough to challenge the abilities of its stellar roster of performers. Their writing sessions in Jackson's Encino home amidst a menagerie of exotic pets feel like something from a fever dream of 1980s excess.

What emerges is less a story about charitable giving and more a fascinating time capsule of American pop culture at its commercial zenith. The film captures the tension between artistic individuality and a worthy collective purpose, all while Al Jarreau gets progressively more refreshed on wine, like an uncle who discovered the open bar at a wedding. This human element - the vulnerability and imperfection of these pop demigods - provides the documentary's most compelling moments.

What emerges most poignantly from this multi-generational gathering is the remarkable innocence of an era when music's biggest stars could be corralled into a single room with nothing more than a promise and a purpose. The documentary reveals a time before social media management and personal brand optimisation when the likes of Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie could sit down to write a song surrounded by exotic pets, and Bruce Springsteen would show up fresh off tour simply because he believed in the cause. The sheer wattage of talent assembled that night represents perhaps the last moment in pop culture when genuine artistry trumped carefully curated images.

Here were titans of their craft - Dylan, Wonder, Jackson, Springsteen - checking their egos at the door (literally, thanks to Quincy Jones's famous sign) to create something bigger than themselves. It was a night when even the most jaded stars could be caught looking star struck, a reminder of a time when celebrity retained some of its magic and when the phrase 'We Are The World' didn't sound like a corporate slogan yet.

Lionel Richie serves as our affable guide through this star-studded landscape, his recollections tinged with the kind of nostalgia that only decades of distance can provide. His stories paint a picture of an era when pop stars were truly larger than life before social media democratised (and perhaps diminished) celebrity. The tales of Michael Jackson's pet menagerie and Bob Dylan's endearing awkwardness remind us that even legends are, at their core, wonderfully human.

The documentary succeeds most brilliantly when it reveals the human fragility beneath the glossy exterior of these demigods of pop. There's Bob Dylan, looking about as comfortable as a Puritan at a pole dancing competition, being taught how to sing like himself by Stevie Wonder - a moment of such sublime absurdity it could have been scripted by Samuel Beckett. Bruce Springsteen arrives fresh from tour, carrying both his working-class hero persona and a genuine desire to help, like a mechanic who's accidentally wandered into a costume party wearing his oil stained denims.

The plot revolves around the now redundant pre-digital recording machinery, revealing the difficulties of recording such a huge and diverse ensemble with analogue equipment. The backstage crew is patient and inventive, and the sound engineers are musical magicians, fixing everything from Cyndi Lauper's jangling jewellery to a small studio's acoustics. The story's glitz is nicely balanced by the behind-the-scenes drama and moments of relatable work anxiety.

Aside from the music, what really stands out in the footage is the wild mix of 1980s celebrity fashion on display. The documentary is a time capsule of an era when pop stars weren't yet homogenised by shared stylists and Instagram aesthetics. Cyndi Lauper shows up wearing a lot of bling that wobbles and jangles, which later caused problems for the sound engineers. 

Michael Jackson, on the other hand, wears his signature military jacket and aviators. That outfit is a stark reminder of a time when pop stars used fashion as a means of artistic expression instead of dressing like everyone else to look good for social media. 

Each artist's choice of wardrobe revealed some facet of the wearer as, for example, Bruce Springsteen wore working man jeans, and Bob Dylan wore a leather jacket. These clothes were personal statements, not carefully planned brand collaborations. The documentary depicts a time before the advent of personal stylists; in the 1980s, a performer still had the freedom to choose their dress which was seen as an extension of their artistry and not the stilted expression of precise marketing preparation.

The film also doesn't shy away from the complexities and contradictions inherent in such an endeavour. The delicious irony of millionaire pop stars singing about world hunger while sporting expensive designer clothes isn't shoved under the carpet. But neither is it allowed to overshadow the genuine good that came from the project and the documentary achieves a delicate balance with considerable grace.

The Greatest Night in Pop, by remaining true to the archival footage, achieves something rather remarkable - it makes us nostalgic not just for the music or the era but for a time when pop culture could still marshal its forces for something beyond mere entertainment. It's a reminder of when star power meant more than Instagram followers and when the phrase 'We Are The World' didn't sound quite so naive.

The documentary celebrates and eulogises a moment in popular culture that we're unlikely to see again. In our era of a rapidly changing media landscape, in which streaming algorithms have supplanted shared cultural experiences, the thought of assembling such a broad assembly of actual superstars appears almost antiquated. However, there is something genuinely poignant about seeing these artists, each of whom is a legend in their own right, surrender to the greater good of the collective endeavour.

Like its subject matter, the film celebrates and gently critiques American pop culture's simultaneous capacity for tremendous good and spectacular self-aggrandisement. It's like watching a preening, well fed peacock try to solve world hunger - at times ridiculously contrived to behold, but you can't help but admire the plumage and the effort.