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The Rolling Stones in the press: ‘250.000 happy fans and just a handful of screamers’ (by Nick Logan)
Ten feet above Mick Jagger pouted, blew kisses, looked debauched, happy and sad, leapt skywards, sat down, sung, talked and generally entertained in the manner we haven’t seen for 14 months but immediately recognised and loved.
He also shook his bottom as is his wont and I, after six hours of earthly contact with Hyde Park, made the discovery that by pressing my palms to the grass I could lever mine a glorious inch above ground and for a brief moment alleviate the discomfort. If you are worried lest my posterior is to take precedence over the proceedings I am attempting to colour the scene for the 512,750,000 who couldn’t make it, to make the point that there were no groups and to explain the strange occurrence of more people roaring approval for the Stones than there were clapping. There were, of course, a few thousand who had spent double or treble the time I had on the grass, and after a while it became an effort to survive the heat and pain let alone bring two hands together and enthuse.
Electricity So it is as much a compliment to the crowd’s bravery as it is to the Stones’ electricity that the group generated the response they did, though I felt that when they rose on the stage at the end it was as if it was a communal sign of relief as well as to demonstrate their approval. The press enclosure would have had us believe that 98 per cent of our papers are represented by 16-year-olds with Brownie cameras, but that is by now a familiar scene at such events.
Then there were the Hell’s Angels full of menace in black sleeveless jackets and Nazi badges. It was nice to have them on our side if every five minutes you had to produce a blue pass or be hustled unceremoniously away. Third Ear Band first on, struck while the audience was still receptive, as did the excellent four-man King Crimson who sang of “20th Century Schizoid Man”, and did a Donovan song urging everyone to get stoned, taking great flights into jazz and getting the crowd on their feet.
From then on the music degenerated as my discomfort mounted. Screw, a five piece outfit, were naive “and pretentious though Beefheart’s “Gimme Dat Harp Boy” was mildly enjoyable. By now it was a bit hairy in the press pound, but the Angels marshalled by one called Helmet were displaying remarkable powers of persuasion to keep the barriers upright. “You push that £!!??£ barrier and I’ll smash your ’ead in, you £££.” Nice to know they were on our side. Without explanation, otherwise able MC Sam Cutler announced that the ladies in the press enclosure, with or without passes, would be asked to leave, which seemed grossly unfair. “Marsha Hunt is here and she’ll make an example by leaving.
And so to Alexis Korner, who sounded like a send up of Alexis Korner, and his new group who did “Polly Put The Kettle On” and other blues and had no drummer. Family were as always good, harder on stage than on record. Veins standing out in his neck Roger Chapman whipped himself into towel-flaying and mike-bashing spasms — a bit cruel to the mikes who were appearing free as well. One more to go: Blackhill’s own Battered Ornaments who failed to please the crowd and whose beat strangely corresponded with the throbbing pain in my backside.
Palm trees The massive stage decorated with plastic Palm trees was fast filling up, with people hanging from the scaffolding of the two film platforms. Marianne and so Neil (sic) plus Allan Klein and Julie Felix could be seen. From backstage came the story of the Stones arriving in an armoured car, and soon Mick Jagger was on stage led by a young girl in a white dress with matching flowers. It turned out to be Mick Jagger who announced his intention to read Shelley and listened in silence as the four-line fragment of “Adonais” floated unheard over the crowd. He opened his set in a fair opener accompanied by the audience’s steady hand fluttering to only the 75 minute act. “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” followed and then “Have Mercy,” the ties on Mick’s frock being released with each number to reveal a purple vest.
The sound was good and strong and among the best I thought were those from “Beggar’s Banquet”, namely “Stray Cat Blues,” story of a groupie, and the country blues “No Expectations.” Two new numbers suffered by being new and then came a chance for Mick Taylor, looking the height of innocence in contrast to the Jaggered one, to show his worth on the bluesy “Love In Vain,” another good one. Bill Wyman looked as cool as ever, a million miles removed from it all and likewise Keith Richard. Charlie Watts on the other hand set to like he’d never been away from the drums (I suppose he hasn’t) and the two Micks were exchanging glances and thoughts fascinating to guess at.
“Gimme Little Drink” was another new one, followed by “Honky Tonk Women” and then the exciting “Midnight Rambler,” hard and heavy with Taylor and Richard engaged in guitar dialogue and Jagger adding emphasis to his stuttering music by flaying the heavy metal belt whip-like onto the canvas. Great stuff. “Do You’d Better Move on,” suggested one optimist in the crowd. “This is the only old one,” announced Jagger before the classic “Satisfaction” (possibly the best pop number of all time). This was the signal for the crowd — many were already on their feet dancing — to rise en masse. Final was “Sympathy For The Devil” (second best of all time?) and the result was tremendous dust. The real story lies in the still-astonished looks of screamers to struggle to reach Mick while the rest just stood there soaking up the sound and wondering: could this be the best world rock and roll band in the world? Or any advance on quarter of a million?
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