SONG SUNG BLUE
SONG SUNG BLUE is a documentary feature film that tells the alternately inspiring and tragic love story of Lightning & Thunder, a homegrown Milwaukee husband and wife singing duo who pay tribute to the music of Neil Diamond. Filmmaker Greg Kohs goes backstage into the personal lives with this brave couple - from their humble beginnings over 20 years ago to the threshold of fame, from disaster to rebirth through to the most dramatic chapters in the lives of these authentic American dreamers. ​
- GOOSEBUMPS -
It was a hot August night in 1977 when my parents took me to my first rock concert—Neil Diamond. A week later, I remember feeling a sense of pride as I donned my "Diamond" concert t-shirt for the first day of sixth grade. This was truly a rite of passage and, perhaps, the seed that would later sprout into my Song Sung Blue journey nearly two decades later.​
I first encountered Lightning & Thunder in the early '90s while directing a documentary for Harley-Davidson. There they were, perched atop a sticky outdoor bar at the Wisconsin State Fair grounds, belting out Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" to a crowd of leather-clad bikers dancing their chaps off. It gave me goosebumps, and I felt compelled to share them with others.
My filmmaking journey kicked off after college when I got the chance to work with the legendary Steve Sabol at NFL Films. During my job interview, Steve asked, "Why do you want to work here, kid?" I replied, "I want to learn to make goosebumps." As a young filmmaker, my dream was to direct dramatic Hollywood movies, but I had no clue how I would get there. Learning to capture and create goosebump moments felt like a solid skill that could help me on my filmmaking journey.
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While working at NFL Films, I kept tabs on Lightning & Thunder back in Milwaukee. I discovered that a bizarre gardening accident had turned their lives upside down, but despite the struggle, they kept their eyes on the prize, determined to one day entertain folks in Vegas, Branson, or somewhere in between. I wanted to help them out.
I figured maybe I could help them chase their dream while going after my own. So, I pieced together old VHS footage of Lightning and Thunder's bar gigs, along with newsreel recordings from the gardening accident, and created a proof-of-concept reel for a scripted "Hollywood" feature film. I shared the reel with some industry producers, but they thought I was crazy for pursuing a scripted Hollywood version of this story. They said that Lightning & Thunder's story was stranger-than-fiction, and nobody would believe it. Plus, even if they did, no one would finance it because I was a first-time director. They suggested making a documentary instead, though they warned that Neil Diamond would likely never allow the rights to his music for this bizarre story by an unknown filmmaker.
At the time, my wife and I lived near Philadelphia with our three young kids. The idea of traveling back and forth to Milwaukee to film Lightning & Thunder, on top of spending every weekend filming NFL games across the country, seemed completely unfeasible.
Then, my phone rang— a gruff, grumpy old man's voice said, "Greeeeg Kooooooohs!" It was Adam Sandler. I had recently directed a music video for his Springsteen-esque song called "The Lonesome Kicker," which poked fun at NFL kickers. Adam and I hit it off, and he was calling because he thought I'd be perfect to direct a film he was producing for his friend David. He would send me the script overnight and wanted me to fly to Los Angeles as soon as possible to meet the studio heads.
I was psyched when the FedEx guy handed me the script. But by page three, my hopes of directing my first Hollywood feature film went up in smoke. Deep down, I knew I couldn't bring myself to direct a film where the main character lights a cow's flatulence on fire. So, after reading the entire script for Joe Dirt, I politely turned down the offer—a decision my now-adult children still tease me about. At the time, I knew this opportunity was a fork in the road: one direction leading to a rockstar's quick rise to the top, the other to a slow and steady journey toward an uncertain destination.
Joe Dirt went on to gross millions of dollars, and I eventually left NFL Films to begin directing television commercials around the world. This was a wonderful opportunity to work with actors and add that skill to my directing tool belt. While the commerce of being a commercial director helped us save for college tuitions and put plenty of food on the table, my soul was still craving creative nourishment, and I couldn't get Lighting & Thunder out of my head. My wife finally said, “Stop talking about them, and just do it. Go to Milwaukee!”​
So, I traded the luxurious comforts of the Four Seasons for a Motel 6 room key, embarking on a ten-year odyssey to Milwaukee. Amidst directing commercials for high-profile clients like Nike, MasterCard, McDonald's, and Titleist, I set out to create my first feature film, Song Sung Blue—a self-financed documentary exploring the love story of Lightning & Thunder.​
- THE FLY -
Many people have asked me, "Why Lightning & Thunder?" Like so many others I met during my journey, I simply wanted to help them succeed. I hoped that if I ever finished the film and people watched it, Lightning & Thunder would benefit from more bookings, bigger gigs, and a wider reputation. Deep down, I was hoping they'd catch the attention of Letterman or Conan, or maybe even Neil Diamond himself. By introducing Lightning & Thunder to a broader audience, I believed I could help make their lives a little more comfortable
During my first visit to Milwaukee, I went above and beyond to assist Lightning & Thunder. I helped them load in and out of venues, bought them dinners, and even drove them home in the early morning hours from a gig in Chicago. However, upon reviewing the footage, I realized that my involvement had hindered the honest portrayal of their story. My "help" had become a distraction.
On my next visit, I explained that I would no longer be “helping”. From that point forward, I would become a fly-on-the-wall. The change wouldn't be easy, but it was essential if I were to accurately capture the authenticity and soul of their story. As if to symbolize this new direction, a peculiar little incident occurred during one of our visits. It was late evening, and we had just finished filming in Lightning & Thunder’s TV room where they spent most of their time smoking and watching the Game Show Network. As I prepared to leave, I felt a tug on the back of my head—my hair had been caught by a strip of flypaper hanging from the ceiling. In that moment, I was reminded that I had literally become what I knew I must: a fly-on-the-wall.
- THE FORCE FIELD -
Silicon Valley icon Reid Hoffman once said, "Entrepreneurship is like jumping off a cliff and building your plane on the way down." Although I've never founded a start-up company, this sentiment definitely resonated with me during the making of Song Sung Blue—a journey made possible by the passion and dedication of film professionals like Chris, Jimmy, Nick, Vince, Tim, and countless others who took the leap with me. Our pursuit was not driven by financial gain, but rather the desire to create something soulful, profound, and emotionally resonant—goosebumps.​
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After filming Lightning & Thunder for eight years, finding the right editor for Song Sung Blue proved challenging. Talented editors I knew from the television commercial world showed interest but couldn't commit to a six to eight month passion project. Eventually, I found a talented editor in NYC who embraced the challenge and the modest budget. I drove to NYC, handed off my editing system and hard drives, and he began reviewing the footage.
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Then, my phone rang— It was the editor. I stepped off the set of the H&R Block commercial shoot I was directing, and he told me that after four weeks of working on the film, he couldn't continue. He explained that he didn't like Lightning and thought audiences wouldn't either. Furthermore, he believed it was unwise to proceed without securing Neil Diamond's music rights. While he made a valid point about the music, I knew from the beginning that Neil would only approve the use of his music if he felt it within the film. Despite the risk, I needed to be bold and make the film. After thanking the editor for his honesty, I regrouped. Although disheartened, I doubled down on my resolve to finish the film and help Lightning & Thunder. However, I still needed an editor who believed in the mission.
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My wife suggested trying Craigslist, and while I was initially skeptical—viewing it more as a place to find a used Lazy Boy than a film editor—I eventually posted an ad. To my surprise, I found Nick, a talented, hungry young editor working out of a barn in rural Virginia. Nick believed in the mission, so we agreed to meet at the Maryland House rest stop between Virginia and Philadelphia to exchange my editing system and hard drives. I arrived early, opened the tailgate of my minivan, and prepared for the handoff when a trucker approached me, asking how much I was selling the equipment for. Nick showed up a few minutes later, marking the beginning of a 12-month editing journey.
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Then, my phone rang— It was Thunder, calling to let me know that Lightning was in a coma in the ICU, and it didn't look good. I immediately flew to Milwaukee and met Thunder and her kids at the hospital. At the time of Thunder's phone call, we had a rough cut of the film nearly ready to send out to festivals. However, at that moment, I realized our film wasn't finished. There would likely be one final scene to capture.
When I arrived in Milwaukee, I broke all the rules I had set for myself at the outset of the project about 'helping'. I drove Thunder and her kids, Rachel and Dana, back and forth to the hospital, picked up groceries, and listened more than I filmed as they all came to grips with the purple Do Not Resuscitate wristband Lightning wore while hooked up to the ventilator.
I had never experienced death up close. A couple of my grandparents had passed away, but I was a kid at the time and only remembered the dry aroma of the floral arrangements, and chalky make-up on their cheeks at the funeral homes. I hadn't actually gone through the trauma of death.
On the second day of my visit, Thunder and her kids loaded into the minivan, and we headed to the hospital. The family had decided that today, they would honor Lightning's wishes.
When it became clear that Lightning wouldn't be with us much longer, I called my wife, Andrea, in tears, unsure of what to do. “Was it wrong to film at the hospital?” I was struggling with how I would film a man who was larger than life, barely clinging to it? How would I capture this solemn occasion while still respecting Lighting's dignity and the sanctity of the final chapter in his life?
Andrea and I had met at a Sports Illustrated photography workshop in Minneapolis. At the time, she was an award-winning photojournalist at the Philadelphia Daily News and had documented her share of trauma, death, and grief on a regular basis while on assignments, so I trusted her advice. She encouraged me, "Film now and edit later. It's better to have the footage and not use it than to not have it at all. Don't overthink it. You'll know what to do."
During my time at the University of Notre Dame, I found joy in shooting football games from the sidelines rather than being a fan in the student body section. The outcome of the game didn't matter as much as making great shots. The camera served as a force field that shielded me from experiencing deep emotions.
When I walked into Lightning's ICU room, the sounds in the room were eerie: the ventilator hissing in and out like a raspy mechanical dragon and the ominous sound of Lightning's heart monitor beeping as if counting down to zero. I pulled my camera out of my backpack, turned up the gain on the microphone, and filmed a variety of compositions that I would likely never use in the film but knew the sounds I would. There was one poignant image that captured Lightning & Thunder’s love story. I zoomed in on a close-up of Lightning's wrist, with his purple wristband visible as Thunder stroked his hand and said her goodbye.
When the chaplain stepped into Lightning's room, I put away my camera, and together with Thunder, Rachel, and Dana, I allowed myself to feel—to cry, pray, and embrace the raw emotions of the moment.
- THE RIDE -
After Lightning's death, with the filming complete, and film festival deadlines looming, I faced two choices: submit the cut to film festivals as is, or continue refining the edit to ensure it honored Lightning & Thunder's life together and avoided being 10 minutes too long—a common issue I had noticed in many feature films.
As I pondered my decision, I found myself reflecting on a moment in Chicago, where I was sandwiched between a keytar and a bag of sequin vests in the back of Lightning & Thunder's minivan. They were caught in rush-hour traffic en route to a gig. Thunder was applying eyeliner in the sun visor's mirror when she urged Lightning to drive faster, fearing they would be late. Lightning took a long drag from his Marlboro and replied calmly in his gravelly, drawn-out voice, "Relaaaaax, we'll get there faster going slower."
After nearly eight years working on Song Sung Blue, I set up a makeshift edit bay in our basement, using an old door held up by two sawhorses. Each night after Andrea and the kids went to bed, I would descend to the basement and work on the film, emerging the next morning for breakfast with a progress report. "Three frames shorter," "8 frames more," and one crazy night, "23 frames!" As Michael Moore once said, "When in doubt, cut it out." For nearly 10 months, that's exactly what I did, one frame at a time, until finally, I felt the film was ready. It was time to set Song Sung Blue free and submit it to film festivals.
Without an agent, manager, or big names, there were limited avenues to showcase independent films. Streaming services did not exist yet, and film festivals provided a platform for filmmakers to share their work and find their audience. Positive responses from festival audiences would attract distributors, ultimately leading films to movie theaters or TV. However, securing a spot in a festival among the tens of thousands of annual entries was a challenge.
With the film now finally completed, It was time to secure festival licenses for the music publishing rights to all 12 of Neil's songs featured in the film. I enlisted the help of a music supervisor, who sent a screener of the film to the publishers so Neil could 'feel' the film.
I also sent screeners of Song Sung Blue to the Sundance and Slamdance film festivals. Sundance represented one of the most prestigious platforms to premiere an independent film, while Slamdance was like its rebellious, punk rock sibling. One was a Gucci loafer, the other a Doc Martin, and both took place at the same time in Park City, Utah.
I was incredibly nervous shipping the screeners. It felt similar to dropping off one of my kids for their first day of school. Would the film be able to stand on its own? Would it resonate with audiences? Would it be well-received? As a filmmaker, I don't think I had ever felt as vulnerable as I did that day.
Then, my phone rang— "Greg Kohs? This is the Slamdance Film Festival. We love your film and want to include it in our lineup. We need your decision within the next 48 hours." I was ecstatic. Someone believed in Song Sung Blue.
I immediately reached out to Sundance, explained my situation, and asked if they had made a decision regarding my film. They told me that while they liked Song Sung Blue, they had chosen another music-themed documentary whose protagonist had not passed away.
To this day, I know Slamdance was the perfect festival to celebrate the world premiere of Song Sung Blue and I am forever grateful they believed in the film.​
I arrived in snow-covered Park City and received my credentials and a complementary pair of Doc Martens (for real) at the filmmaker check-in. I also received word from the music supervisor that our music licensing request was going up the flagpole at the music publisher and screening the film at the festival would not be a problem.
With the world premiere just three days away and friends, family, and crew members scheduled to arrive in Utah, Nick, the editor, and I met at a coffee shop on Main Street in Park City to design DIY promotional postcards for the screening. While we were working, a man approached us and inquired about our project. As it turned out, he was a writer for The Desert News, a Salt Lake newspaper, and our conversation resulted in a feature story in that weekend's paper. Two days before its world premiere, Song Sung Blue was already generating buzz.
Then, my phone rang— it was the music supervisor from NYC, sounding distressed. She had just received a cease and desist letter for Song Sung Blue from the music publisher.
Standing at the top of Main Street, with snow falling and both my iPhone battery and hopefulness nearing zero percent, I found myself on a conference call with three high-profile music copyright attorneys from NYC. They explained that screening Song Sung Blue at its world premiere on Sunday night, without proper licensing, could potentially result in copyright infringement penalties of up to $250,000 per song featured in the film. The attorneys genuinely wanted to assist me and inquired about the source of the cease and desist letter. I told them who sent it. Suddenly, the line fell silent. I checked my iPhone, thinking the battery might have died, but it hadn't. One of the attorneys then uttered, "Shit! We're so sorry, Greg. Unfortunately, they're one of our clients, so we can't help you. Off the record, your only hope is to reach Neil directly. Good luck."
When I informed the Slamdance organizers about the situation, they were unfazed, assuring me that they fully supported whatever decision I made and were willing to screen the film if I chose to proceed. While I appreciated their rebel spirit, I understood that screening Song Sung Blue without Neil's permission would lead to its demise, resulting in three million dollars in fines and, more importantly, the loss of any chance to secure Neil's approval in the future. I decided to postpone the screening, and as I walked back to my hotel, Lightning's voice echoed in my mind, saying, "Relaaaax, we'll get there faster going slower."
Once I returned to my room, I wished I had a camera to shield me from the overwhelming emotions. I contemplated jumping off my balcony, but it was pointless, given that I was only on the second floor and there was ten feet of fresh snow below. Dozens of people were scheduled to arrive the next morning, anticipating the world premiere of Song Sung Blue that weekend—a premiere that would no longer take place. With that thought in mind, I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my contacts, searching for "EV."
One of the highlights of Lightning & Thunder's career was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to perform with Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder at Milwaukee's Summerfest. Eddie had noticed the duo performing on the Piggly Wiggly stage during the annual music festival and invited them to perform a song with him during Pearl Jam's Summerfest show. While searching for archival footage of that moment for the film, I stumbled upon a phone number I was told might be Eddie's mobile number. In the build-up to the festival, Andrea had suggested I try the number and invite Eddie to the premiere, but I chose not to. I'm not sure why—I just didn't call it.
With the world premiere only two nights away, that Friday night in Park City, I scrolled through my contacts until I reached "EV." I figured this was my only chance to reach Neil. A rock & roll Hail Mary. I called the number and got an automated message telling me to leave a voicemail. It was at that moment I lost it emotionally. While trying to hold my shit together, I explained who I was and why I was calling. I requested help getting my film in front of Neil Diamond so I could share Lightning & Thunder's love story with the world. Not knowing for sure who I had just called, I hung up and went to bed.
Then my phone rang— it was 1 a.m. when I picked up. It was Eddie Vedder. He apologized for calling so late but said he had spoken to his manager, and they would do what they could to get to Neil Diamond and have him watch the film. He mentioned how important it was for artists to get out in front of the industry machine, and that there was no guarantee they could reach Neil. Still, they would try.
From the start, I knew getting Neil's permission would be difficult, and I did everything by the book to clear the rights once the film was completed. Perhaps anticipating something like this could arise, is why I unknowingly never called the contact labeled "EV" in my phone until that night.
The following morning, Slamdance postpone the world premiere until later in the week. I then requested that the music supervisor inform the music publisher of my decision: I would not screen the film with Neil's music without his explicit permission.
Meanwhile, I asked the film's audio mixer back in Philly to prepare a mix of the film with all of Neil’s music removed, resulting in portions of the film being completely silent. Viewers would still see Lightning & Thunder's joyous performances on stage, but they wouldn't hear them.
The night of the rescheduled world premiere arrived, and I had two digital masters of the film ready to go—the original version and the new version without Neil's music.
Family, friends, and crew gathered at a ski bum bar across the street from Slamdance's screening rooms for a pre-screening celebration. The gathering had a bittersweet vibe as Thunder sang Song Sung Blue with Tony Dekker from the Great Lake Swimmers, who wrote the film's score.
Then, my phone rang— the bartender tapped me on the shoulder and said I had a call on line two behind the bar. I picked up the phone, and a smooth, silky baritone voice said, "Greg Kohs? This is Neil Diamond. I'm currently in the studio recording my new album, and I wanted to let you know how much I loved—loved—loved your movie and am honored to have my music included in it." I was a mess—goosebumps and tears all at once. He asked to speak to Thunder, and I told him she was on stage singing and would call him when she was done. So, when Thunder came off stage, we ducked into a quiet storage room behind the bar and called him back. Neil thanked Thunder and Lightning for paying tribute to his music and wanted to meet her on his next visit to Milwaukee. Holy cow!
We all bundled up and headed across the street to screen the original version of Song Sung Blue. I remember how beautiful the backlit snowflakes looked as they fell out of the night sky past the orange glow of the streetlights.
Then, my phone rang— "Greeeeeg, it's Eddie! I just heard that Neil watched your film and loved it!" I said, "I know, Neil just called me!" And Eddie yelled, "NO FUCKING WAY!" And then I said, and why I said it I have no idea, "You're a fucking rock star, Eddie!" I went on to thank Eddie for his help, and before he hung up, he said, "Greg, enjoy the ride."
Song Sung Blue went on to win the Jury and Audience Awards for Best Documentary at the 2008 Slamdance Film Festival.
- THUMBS UP -
Following Slamdance, we shared Song Sung Blue at every festival that requested it, regardless of size. Our mission was simple: to share Lightning & Thunder's love story with as many people as possible and hopefully find a distributor who would acquire the film so we could share it with the world. Among the festivals, Roger Ebert's was one of the most rewarding experiences. Roger wrote a favorable review of Song Sung Blue, and he and his wife Chaz invited Thunder and myself to screen the film at Ebertfest in Champaign, Illinois. Roger mentioned that the Lighting & Thunder’s struggle with health hardships resonated with him and his wife. How Roger had discovered Song Sung Blue was a mystery to me until I found a question and answer posting with Roger on his website shortly after his review was published:
READER: Why would you torture me by reviewing a documentary that can’t yet be seen? “Song Sung Blue” is so right up my alley, so much grist for my mill, so much my bailiwick — and you say I can’t see it. I guess I should thank you for informing me of the film’s existence, but I’m not gonna.
- Jason Ellison, Cincinnati
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ROGER: The film played on opening night at the Chicago Underground Film Festival. They sent me a DVD, which slid out of sight under my chair. When I belatedly found it, I thought, “There’s a film that needs a break.” When I saw it, I felt so even more strongly. Now I hope a distributor gives it one.
- NEIL -
Almost one year after the world premiere of Song Sung Blue, Neil Diamond’s tour rolled through Milwaukee, and true to his world, Neil invited Thunder to be his special guest. Thunder had VIP seats with Neil's wife Katie, and met Neil after the show. Something tells me Lighting was up there smiling.
- HOLLYWOOD-
At the end of Song Sung Blue's festival run, we received no offers from distributors, so I produced DIY DVDs and for nearly 14 years, nothing gave me more satisfaction as a filmmaker than packaging a DVD, walking it to the corner mailbox, and sharing Lightning & Thunder's love story with another viewer somewhere in the world.
Then an email arrived— it was from Director Craig Brewer of Hustle & Flow fame. He had seen Song Sung Blue at the Memphis Independent Film Festival 15 years prior and wanted to know if I would be interested in optioning the remake rights for a dramatic, scripted Hollywood feature based on the documentary. I sat on this email without responding for a very long time. Then a follow-up email arrived, and then another.
I finally spoke with Craig and trusted that he would maintain the integrity of the story I had told. He assured me that he and his producers would take good care of Thunder, Rachel, and Dana, both creatively and financially. The deals were made, and two years passed without any updates.
Then my phone rang— Craig again. Calling to share that Universal Pictures had picked up the Song Sung Blue script he wrote, and Hugh Jackman was signed on to play Lightning. Holly holy cow! Hugh-friggin-Jackman was going to portray Lightning in a Hollywood movie.​
​Then the phone rang— Craig again. This time, he shared that Kate Hudson had just signed on to play Thunder. What!? The thought of Kate-friggin-Hudson as Thunder singing Patsy Cline's Crazy was — crazy cool!
- LETTING GO -
When I learned that Song Sung Blue had secured an amazing cast and was about to begin principle photography, I became a bit emotional. My wife might argue that 'a bit emotional' is a bit of an understatement. I was ecstatic for Thunder, Rachel and Dana, and for the memory of Lightning. I also felt relief that after nearly 25 years, I had finally fulfilled my desire to help Lightning and Thunder.
As the initial excitement surrounding Song Sung Blue's transformation into a scripted Hollywood feature film began to fade, a sense of melancholy crept in. Maybe this bittersweet feeling is what I had been trying to avoid when I hesitated to respond to Craig's outreach; deep down, I knew that letting go might be on the horizon, and I wasn't sure how I'd handle it.
Letting go of Song Sung Blue has proven to be every bit as emotionally challenging as I had anticipated. After pouring my heart, energy, and passion into the project, it had become an integral part of my identity. Now, as it evolves into a new form, I feel a profound sense of loss.
I've found myself wondering if screenwriters and authors experience similar emotions when they relinquish their work, allowing it to be reinterpreted as a movie or play. It seems like it might be easier if that were the intention from the start, but that was never the case for me.
My mission was always to help Lightning & Thunder find a broader audience and live more comfortably. I take comfort in knowing that their story will continue to inspire others, even as it takes on a new life.
- LANCE -
With my goal of helping Lightning & Thunder find a broader audience now accomplished, I'm reminded of a powerful moment I captured on film during one of their family dinners at Denny's. With gigs difficult to come by, Thunder asked Lightning why he didn't try something other than entertaining. Lightning paused for a long time before responding, "I've got my eyes on the prize—and the goal."
Those words inspire me now more than ever as I set my sights on the goal of directing my first scripted feature. Much like Lightning & Thunder’s story of persistence in the face of adversity, I've chosen to focus on Lance Mackey, a complicated and fearless individual that braved cancer to become a 4-time Iditarod champion. This is a film that I've yearned to make as a scripted feature but knew the challenges would be immense— so just like the story of Lightning & Thunder, I made an award-winning documentary called The Great Alone as a proof of concept.
As Song Sung Blue embarks on its new adventure, The Great Alone sets sail. With an amazing script in hand penned by John Sayles, and based on my documentary, I now venture into the turbulent seas to lock in an investor and lead actor to play Lance. It's been a long road and I am sure it will be even longer, but as someone I once knew said, ”Relaaaaax, you’ll get there faster going slower.”
Goosebumps!​​​​