It’s heresy, I know. But, to me, going to see the Stones at this point in our lives is much like going to see an Old Timer’s Baseball Game—guys trot out in the old uniforms and with a little support and imagination they remake their glory days. By the way, aren't most Old Timers' games played for charity?
In their prime they were arguably the best. No band captured the here and now like the Stones; today, their here and now is long past. The main players are still on hand, Mick prancing in his 60s, Keith still churning rock’s seminal rhythm licks, but now outsiders roam the stage; anonymous dudes on keyboards, a stranger plays bass, and back up singers and horn players all mask and re-arrange and slickify the performance. The song list may be the same but they’re not the same songs, for me anyway.
I’ve seen the Stones a handful of times. The best time was the first time. The bill was B.B. King, Terry Reid, and the Stones in Detroit’s hallowed, historic, hockey barn, The Olympia. We sat in the 26th row not far behind Detroit’s Rock and Roll glamerati--the MC5, Iggy, Dick Wagner, Bob Seeger, and their entourages. Chip Monck, the famous baritone MC of Woodstock introduced the bands. The time was electric, and the Detroit crowd, which, regardless of the event, was always just inches away from meltdown, was in full fashion and fury. Between the Terry Reid and B.B. King sets, Monck came to the stage and baritoned “Mick says hello,” through the PA. The crowd roared in anticipation.
It was time for boys to come on stage, and the venerable, three-tiered Olympia was rocking and swaying As the lights dropped, the decibels rose. Offstage Monck intoned matter-of-factly, “ladies and gentleman, the Rolling Stones.” The first chords of Jumpin’ Jack Flash rang out. The crowd exploded with the greatest roar I’ve ever heard (to this day, I am not sure how the building withstood the sonic bomb). Mick strutted on stage in his black body suit with the omega symbol on the chest, he was waiving a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam top hat. The crowd thundered on, you couldn’t hear much of music, all you could hear was the roar. I was paralyzed with laughter. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, all I could do was laugh. It was my sublime rock moment.
They played most of Let It Bleed and a mitt full of their prior tunes. Mick and Keith did an acoustic set, which was something bands who played Detroit often regretted. Detroit fans wanted Rock and Roll--lots of loud rock and roll. Acoustic music wasn’t rock. The Stones got a pass because they were The Stones. We heard tunes from their best days, their early days. In the years since Let It Bleed, the Stones’ Exile on Main Street and parts of Some Girls are worth a listen, the rest of their stuff since then is slurry.
The last time I saw the Stones, I left the show before it was over. The songs don’t have the same edge. The playing is more manufactured. Their shows are caricatures of their early shows. It was evident that rock's sublime moments were long gone.
There’s a classic rock radio station in town that boasts that they “understand” the Stones. Understand the Stones? What’s to understand? That was the beauty of the Stones. They didn’t hide anything. It was all front-and-center. And that was decades ago. Get out of my face with the undertanding the Stones hogwash.
My favorite Stones albums in no particular order:
12X5
Beggar’s Banquet
Exile on Main Street
Let It Bleed
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