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The Rolling Stones: Still Outlaws (1978)

Intermission. Half an hour of serious party, capped by a gushing speech by Mister Scher, the proud parent of this event, on how this was the culmination of six years of work. The man can be excused for bubbling over, for to him this very obviously meant something. I doubt that this tour will start a trend of superstars giving up megagigs for the Capitol or for theaters in general, but this was a beautiful gesture by the Stones. As John Scher wrapped up that short talk by introducing “the greatest rock and roll band in the world, The Rolling Stones,” his voice cracked with the purest joy.

What can I possibly say about the Rolling Stones live onstage that others haven’t said better before me? John called it right introducing them: they’re the greatest. There they were, trotting out as the lights dropped, led by a dapper Jagger done up all in white jacket, pants and hat. It could have been a movie if it hadn’t been so incredibly real. In a timeless instant five Stones were in place, augmented by an old Marquee Club crony, Ian Stewart, on grand piano, and another chap (whose name escapes me) on electric piano. Silence for just a second, and then this mind shatter rock and roll band thundered into “Let It Rock,” in a solid Chuck Berry groove. The territory was established; the pace set. Whatever gut level the Stones had for this song in 1962 they still retain. Only thirty seconds into their set, the Rolling Stones had already passed the first test of great rock and roll: the music had gone straight for my lower gut. My mind wouldn’t grasp it for a minute or two more, and would never quite catch up to my pelvis. The song over, Mick made a little speech about how everybody was gonna have a good time. He wouldn’t have time to draw breath between songs for ten minutes more. Then it was “All down the line, a blast of energy from Exile on Main Street, that sleazed right into “Honky Tonk Women.” The ammunition was coming out early in the set; the Stones puling no punches. Still without a break, they were blasting out “Star Star” (more properly known as “Starfucker”). Somewhere in that tune the energy level plateaued out, but not before the Stones managed to draw the last of three thousand temporarily lobotomized lumps to his feet to chug along with the music.

After four old favorites, the Stones really had the electricity crackling. Their first real peak was where they chose to break out seven new songs in a row. Though all but “Faraway Eyes” were uptempo, they were still quite new. For a wonder, that three thousand head monster sank back in its chairs to listen. Great stuff. While Ronnie Wood was replacing his rhythm guitar with a pedal steel for “Faraway Eyes,” Jagger actually had the gall to call New Jersey the country. For that tune, the tempo slowed to less than breakneck rocking. That was followed by a slower one still, a heart rending delivery of “Love In Vain.” This was the blues as it should always be played, torn between craftsmanship and passion, Keith Richards wringing the highest notes imaginable from his guitar.

No more mournful blues or weepy country after that; the rest of the set was steadily escalating rock and roll. “Shattered,” the funniest song on Some Girls, started the energy cycling, only to take the set back once again to Chuck Berry. Mick talked a bit more: “I guess we haven’t got too many girls here who are sixteen, but I’d like to do one for them anyway. This one I learned back in kindergarden. I might’ve forgotten the words but Keith’ll help me.” And the song was “Sweet Little Sixteen.” The Stones never stray too far from their roots, and so can play a twenty year old tune with more enthusiasm than anyone else on the planet. Though the energy couldn’t have gone up from there, somehow it did, as the Rolling Stones crashed home into “Tumbling Dice.” The briefest of pauses followed, and then Keith got to sing “Happy,” swaying in rhythm into Mick’s microphone. Jagger had taken off his cap a tune or two before; as Keith started to sing he went into a whirl, arms extended, and was soon without his jacket as well, showing off his t-shirt.

Keith’s tune over, there was a pause just long enough for Jagger and Ron Wood to blow some smoke in each other’s faces, and then like a dervish Jagger was leaping back to the mic. It was time for the final assault. All the hall lights flashed on at once, washing the theater in sheets of light; the decibel count rose to inconceivable heights; the song was “Brown Sugar.” Again, then, the merest of pauses, long enough for Jagger to skin off his shirt and wrap it round his neck. All lights still on and coming down to the wire, “Jumping Jack Flash” was a gas.

A parting shot from the singer: “New York! See you next year,” and the band was gone. Next year, I thought, but what about next Sunday?

The hall and stage lights glared down on an empty stage. Every man and woman of the audience was on their feet (in truth, most of them had been there since “Love In Vain”). Some were by now close to levitation. Pandemonium.

Suddenly, from nowhere the opening riffs of “Street Fighting Man.” The stage still empty. Then the Stones again, trotting from behind the amps to position, the guitarists already playing. And Jagger, throwing away the shirt he’s wrapped around his neck; throwing a bucket of water over the front few rows as if to cool them down; howling and growling about the time being right for a disturbance; mouth gaping open; leaping around the stage; his 34 years showing only in the lines on his face, the dancer’s body bare from the waist up and lean as ever. Another 15 minutes of showtime and he might have been naked. And Keith Richards, his grimly perfect counterpart; the very picture of an outlaw as he attached his guitar a few feet to the rear; vest, long hair, glazed gleam in his eye, and incredible lead lines; ducking forward to deliver the occasional vocal. And Charlie Watts; old skinhead; pounding away on his drums for all he was worth. And Bill Wyman; off to the side; as always the quietest Stone; still enough to be forgotten if not for his bass licks. Two vital parts of this thing there. And last, Ron Wood; the newest Stone; a hard working rhythm guitarist, but one with an unkillable streak of slapstick in his soul; a bit of a clown.

Fifteen minutes short of midnight, “Street Fighting Man” reached its final crescendo; with one last surge of power the Stones ended it, and split. By my watch the set had been a hair over ninety minutes. Nobody believed me. It seemed it had been going on for hours. For an hour and a half we had been lost in never-never land, our bodies seized by an irresistible rock and roll experience.

The above does but poor justice to my powers of description, and less justice still to the Stones, but I can find no better words. Whatever the trip was, it was the ultimate.

Whatever it was, I hope it comes my way again soon.

The greatest rock and roll band in the world is also a pallid description. In sixteen years the Rolling Stones have gathered no moss; instead they’ve learned the art of totally commanding a crowd. Any band that plays shows like that as regularly as they do deserves any praised heaped upon them.

My body didn’t pass totally back into my control till hours after the show was over. Forty five minutes after the show, as we came to the Lincoln tunnel, my ass was still trying to dance in the car seat.