by CHRIS BARRY

Chances are you've never heard of Rodney Bingenheimer. Which isn't all that surprising, given that - on the surface at least - Rodney is essentially just some ageing Los Angeles radio jock who still wears Beatle boots and sports a nutty Prince Valiant haircut. In other words, a "groupie," as Mick Jagger refers to him in this film, a wildly eccentric little gnome who's hung with everybody from Iggy Pop to Brooke Shields to Elvis Presley, and whose dedication to honest pop music is unparalleled.

Bingenheimer's influence on rock and roll culture cannot be understated. A seminal presence on the Hollywood rock scene going back to the mid-'60s, Rodney almost single-handedly introduced the original, and unquestionably influential, early '70s Bowie/Sweet/T Rex glam scene to America via his KROQ radio show and legendarily debauched Rodney's English Disco club. A few years later, when crapola like Styx and Kansas mercilessly dominated American airwaves, Rodney was the first - and for several years the only - commercial FM radio jock to actively champion what was then coming to be known as punk rock. Over the course of his scenester/radio jock career, Rodney has discovered more important rock acts than you can shake a stick act, from Bowie to Blondie to Coldplay.

So yes, Bingenheimer has his rock and roll credentials down, but does that mean he's a compelling enough character to base a 94-minute documentary around? Damn right he is, and director George Hickenlooper (Hearts of Darkness) has done an absolutely brilliant job of conveying the enigma that is first-class weirdo Bingenheimer on screen. Speaking as somebody who's rubbed shoulders with the man on many occasions and whose records Rodney generously promoted when no other commercial L.A radio station would, let me state that the Rodney profiled in Mayor of the Sunset Strip is as accurate a representation of the dude as one could possibly hope for.

Through priceless interviews with the countless celebs Rodney's befriended over the years and several surprisingly personal revelations from the man himself, Mayor tells the intensely bittersweet story of a shy, bullied, suburban teenager, who at age 16 was literally abandoned outside Connie Stevens' home by his celebrity obsessed mother, but went on to become a genuine Hollywood icon.

But Hickenlooper has accomplished much more here than simply recounting Bingenheimer's biography. Mayor is also an exploration of the concept of fame and the allure of celebrity itself. Rodney's story is not a happy one. An arguable relic whose once hugely popular radio show has in recent years been relegated to the graveyard shift, in many ways his career serves as a metaphor for what's become of rock and roll itself. As his good pal Cher states at one point in the film, today's music business bears little resemblance to the one she and Sonny broke in to way back in the '60s. More cynical than ever, it's now exclusively about money, with the Jim Morrisons and Dee Dee Ramones having been replaced by the Britneys and the Blink 182s. In such an environment, the Rodneys of this world have largely become irrelevant. Much like the music itself.

Mayor of the Sunset Strip opens Friday, April 30

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