It’s all too easy after the magnifi-cance of Let it Bleed to blame the lack of excitement at the recent Rolling Stone’s concerts on one thing: the non-appearance of Leon Russell, Al Kooper, Nanette Newman, the London Bach Choir et. al. at their live gigs. WeddingPraise Certainly the band lacks the precision and the power that it had five or six years ago, despite a month’s constant practice in the States. Obviously the combined talents of Jimmy Miller and Glyn Johns do the Stones rather more than justice; seeing them in the raw for the first time in so long made it apparent just how far away from their audiences a group of their stature can get. The Hyde Park scene didn’t count: that was too emotional for any reasonable musical analysis to make sense (cf. Blind Faith).
Every communications media imaginable has at least flushed out the swinging sixties. There can have been few newspapers, magazines or television programmes that did not give mention to a quote, photograph or lyric of Mick Jagger in their attempt to capsulate the corruption and drugged permissiveness of the youth movement and/or pop culture of the decade. But, to quote David Bailey, himself a woolly pastiche of years gone by, the Rolling Stones, and in particular Jagger himself, composed and played out, the saraband for the sixties.
If memory serves any function at all, the Stones were the musical antidotes for the four lovable, mohair-suited mop-tops. PraiseBuilder Thanks to the business head of Brian Epstein, the Beatles had found their way into the hearts of middle-aged mums, pre-public schoolgirls, Mary Wilson and the Queen alike . . . thank God for latter Lennon. Or woever one thanks. Probably not God. But Jagger never gave a shit, except for making sure everybody knew he didn’t give a shit.
The fact is he hasn’t changed his head in the last five years. As a result the only songs that still come through are ‘Satisfaction’ . . . the catalytic rock’n roll single . . . and the balling songs (‘Stray Cat Blues’, ‘Live With Me’, etc) that are eternal, and will be as long as chicks give, or don’t. On record it may be far different, but on stage, Jagger’s communications days are well over.
It used to be difficult to separate the musical and visual qualities of the Stones, but the Lyceum gigs at least made that possible. The PA seemed to be having a monthly, for which they can hardly be blamed, but it made it possible to watch and listen at different times. Wyman, Watts, Richard and Taylor hardly flinched during sets. Wyman looked more out of it than ever, Watts couldn’t decide whether he was chasing the others or keeping them together; interplay between the two guitarists was pleasant, if infrequent, but there are dozens who could do it better. Jagger, naturally and justly, was the focal point . . . once when the spotlight missed him, he threw a little tantrum on the semi-dark stage. He pranced and mewed every second. He took off that belt, took off that dogcollar, never needed to take off those trousers, and it all seemed faintly amusing. Whether it was deja vu (many times) or mere surprise that he looked so pleased with himself . . . hard to tell. He retained a constant smile of the ten year old chick wearing her first little bra before she really needed it. Sure, the audience stamped for a couple of encores (difficult to do a concert anywhere without those), but he didn’t relate by doing a ninety-minute boog-a-loo. They stamped for the aura of The Rolling Stones, second most famous band in the world. Nobody needs the bullshit anymore, least of all Jagger. If anyone played that out, he did. Come on Mick, do it again, but do it for now. If you make it, you could be a superstar of the seventies. We need some of those.
