Sandwiched within the flattering confines of Jake Sumner’s documentary, “Ron Delsener Presents,” is a catch-as-catch-can history of the last 60 years of popular music as seen through the machinations, promulgations, and full-steam-ahead chutzpah of Ron Delsener. New Yorkers of a certain age will recall the ubiquity of the name: “Ron Delsener Presents” was emblazoned at the top of more concert posters than any reasonable person should have to enumerate.

Can Mr. Delsener remember every concert he’s had a hand in organizing? As is admitted in Mr. Sumner’s picture, the 86-year-old’s memory is getting creaky. But there are all those clippings, ticket stubs, memorabilia, and related ephemera cluttering his Long Island home. His wife of many decades, Ellen, reminds him that we live in the age of the internet, and cutting and saving notices out of the newspaper is an antiquated pursuit. Mr. Delsener nods, picks up a pair of scissors, and continues to cull items of interest from whatever print media is on hand.

The line-up of notables who agreed to give the erstwhile concert promoter his props is staggering. Bruce Springsteen and Steven Van Zandt, comfortably ensconced on a sectional sofa, speak of all things Delsener, as do Billy Joel, Paul Simon, Art Garfunkel, Bette Midler, Verdine White of Earth, Wind & Fire fame, Patti Smith, and Jon Bon Jovi. Sundry industry professionals chip in at length, as does a shaggy-maned oddball by the name of “Concert Joe,” who claims to have seen more concerts in one year than seems humanly possible.

Were David Bowie still with us, he may well have added his two cents. Back when Ziggy Stardust was an unknown quantity on these shores, Mr. Delsener took a chance on the androgynous performer and booked a gig for him at Carnegie Hall. Not that the concert promoter found it easy sailing: The booking agent at the esteemed music venue was a “tough Romanian,” referred to as Mrs. Sedeski. She took one look at Bowie’s glam raiment and gave him a thumb’s down.

Mr. Delsener has a hard time accepting the word “no.” He went on to extol the “theatrical” nature of Bowie’s stage show to Mrs. Sedeski. She paused, blinked, and agreed to book the British musician. Once the concert started, Mrs. Sedeski, “probably from Transylvania with the sharp teeth,” gave Mr. Delsener the nod. The Carnegie Hall concert did much to establish Bowie’s popularity in the United States. 

Mr. Delsener also took a risk on a cadre of New York musicians who were garnering an enthusiastic audience — if not in their hometown, then in flyover territory. More theatrics with this new batch of fellas, what with their absurd platform shoes, kabuki make-up, S&M accoutrement, flame throwing, and thudding hard rock. Kiss went on to score big, and frontmen Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons offer their gratitude to the man who helped to hondle their way into the big time.

There’s more. The Beatles at Shea Stadium back in the day? A 20-something Ron Delsener had his hand in that venture, as well as the reunion of Simon and Garfunkel for their 1981 concert in Central Park. Ike and Tina Turner, with the exuberant help of the Ikettes, are seen shimmying, shaking, and show-stopping at their prime. There are film clips and photos of acts with whom Mr. Delsener had truck: Louis Armstrong, Barbra Streisand, Harry Belafonte, Ray Charles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, the Clash, and Jimmy Buffet. And the hits keep coming.

Sidebars include a glancing overview of New York City politics (Mayors Linday and Koch make appearances); a home life sustained by a patient wife and a forgiving daughter; and the often thuggish corporatization of a musical genre predicated on rebellion. Is Mr. Delsenver bummed that a business he sought to make affordable became a haven for billionaires? A bit, but a comfortable life is its own reward. In the meantime, Mr. Delsener continues to work notwithstanding having announced his retirement. Mr. Sumner’s cinematic valentine is an enjoyable diversion.