Friday, Sep 5, 2008
Sep 25, 1997 | At the kickoff for the Rolling Stones' long-awaited U.S. tour, Mick Jagger wiggled like a sperm cell and gesticulated like a traffic cop steering a five-way intersection at rush hour. He hip-shuffled his way back and forth across an enormous stage decorated like some ancient Babylonian whorehouse, whipping the 54,000 Stones fans gathered at Soldier Field in Chicago into a grade-A rock 'n' roll frenzy. Underneath the fireworks and the puffs of dry ice, between the blaring horn section and the buttery swell of backup singers, there were undeniable moments when the Stones broke through as themselves, soaring sloppy as a flopping fish, rattling loose as ball bearings in a glass jar, playing raw and simple rock 'n roll.
The pre-show hype was as incessant and inescapable as an ad campaign for a new triple-layer burrito at Taco Bell. DJ's prattled on, promising front row seats for the five thousandth caller and there were endless newspaper articles touting Mick's pre-show workout regimen, the band's roots in Chicago Blues and their new "genius" collaboration with the Dust Brothers. Then the Stones sightings began: a secret show at a local club sent fans scurrying to their cars; rumors of a sound check at Soldier Field had boats circling Lake Michigan along the shores near the arena. Stones Web sites began to download slower and slower as fans surfed into the wee hours trying to guess where the Stones might pop up next -- sitting in at a local blues club or sweater shopping at Henri Bendel?
Nobody seemed to care if the new CD was any good. The Stones were in town! The Stones! Even the mayor cashed in on the hype with a news brief reassuring the public that hazardous, fire-propelling propane tanks had been nixed from the show. Local news teased us with footage of Jagger stepping out of limos all over town. "Up next, another drive-by shooting and (tasteful pause) find out why the Stones can't get no satisfaction with city officials." Channel 7's jovial weatherman, standing in front of his five-day forecast, proclaimed, "Hey you, get offa my cloud. It looks like clear skies for the Stones!"
By show day, I was so queasy with Stones hype I felt like I'd eaten a three-pound bag of mini-Snickers bars. But the crowd pouring into Soldier Field was anything but jaded. The parking lot was a sea of screaming fans: "The greatest band on earth!" "Yeah, Stones rock!"
Still, we were a long way from Altamont. Long-haired freaks and bikers were the clear minority. We could have been queuing up for a Bears game or a Wisconsin craft show. Forty-something couples milled about in football sweatshirts buying nachos and light beer. Vendors hawked roses and Subway sandwiches. Even the women's bathroom line felt more like Marshall Fields than a rock show. Middle-aged women sporting Farrah flips whispered, "Pardon me" as they squeezed through to the stalls. One woman in neatly-faded jeans and rose lipstick addressed the line, "Does anyone have any ... feminine protection?" In unison, the ladies fumbled for their purses.
The show's start was electric. With a giant explosion, the band roared into "Satisfaction." Keith Richards came stumbling out in sunglasses and a long leopard-print coat. Ron Wood followed in bright red, and finally Jagger came strutting down a staircase in his standard clown/ TV pimp stage garb -- black tux and blue scarf with gold fringe fluttering in the wind. The video screen exploded with fast cuts -- Keith's skull ring as his fingers flayed into power chords, Mick's leathery face glistening with sweat, Charlie Watts stony and dignified, looking très Urban Outfitters in a collarless zip-up jacket, holding his drumsticks like a 19th century country gentleman loosely grasping the reins of his horse and buggy.
The band tore through the first half hour with a stream of dependable hits. The crowd roared along to familiar choruses: "Let's spend the night together ... It's only rock 'n' roll but I like it, like it, yes I do!"
Jagger marched across the vast stage with wild thrusting hips and flailing arms, his lips and chin jutting huge across the video monitor. He tore off coats and pulled on hats, stripping off his tuxedo jacket to a bright yellow overshirt then down to a blue rhinestone muscle shirt then whipping on black leather jackets, a red velvet long coat, a pullover sweater, a silver windbreaker and sundry scarves.
Richards played the rock 'n' roll fool. He strutted center stage for his sloppy, three-note solos, face pained and puzzled as his fingers bent strings. He wandered back and forth between Ron Wood and bassist Darryl Jones, facing them while he played as if begging help in figuring out the chords.
Wood kept to the side stage, trying to keep out of Jagger's way as he frantically whirled like 100 Stevie Nickses, playing the almighty rock dervish -- somewhere between a drag queen kick boxer and a first-grade music teacher, wildly hand-clapping to entice the crowd into singing along. Watts remained expressionless, refusing to crack a grin even when the video monitor splashed him in close-up.
The Stones definitely had their moments. There was the gritty "Honky Tonk Women," roaring with Richards' off-kilter guitar and his howling out-of-tune back-up on "Ruby Tuesday." And there were more poignant moments as well, like when the soft trombone glided into, "You Can't Always Get What You Want."
There was also an unfortunately high cheese factor. The horn section swelled up to cover many of Richards' charmingly simplistic guitar riffs and the trio of backup singers quickly roared in whenever Jagger's voice faltered. The videos exploding over the giant monitor descended into shots of women gyrating in corsets during the few new songs played as if in some desperate attempt to help the audience focus on the new material. During "Miss You," the videos flitted between dirty cartoons and shots of dead rock stars as if to keep the audience awake while eulogizing Lennon, Garcia, et al. When the band paused to call up their Web site on the giant monitor, choosing a song from a list voted on by fans on the Internet ( the winner, with a grand total of five tongues: "Under My Thumb"), it seemed more like a chance for Jagger to catch his breath than any real attempt at cyberspace excitement.
But, overall, it was hard not to love the Stones. They were clearly aiming to please -- which in itself is remarkable given their unshakable status as rock icons. There was an air of inclusiveness about the night. All of us, even the gray-haired man next to me in baseball cap and Dockers felt cool enough to join in when Jagger sang, "Brown sugar, how come you dance so good?"
There's a sense of genuineness to the Stones' hugeness, as if they refuse to feel the irony of stardom -- of being at once gray-haired and larger-than-life. They seem comfortable with the simple truth that many a rock star grapples with unsuccessfully: that their job title is not social commentator or dark prophet, but simply entertainer. "It's good to be back," Richards told the crowd. "It's good to be."
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