Midnight Rambler
The bad behavior continues. Our client took us to the Rolling Stones "Bigger Bang" concert as a way of thanking us for our participation in his campaign. We went to dinner first at a decent restaurant in South Market in Fanuel Hall. Then we headed over to see Mick and the boys.
You can say what you want about the Stones and you can call them the Rolling Bones if you want, but you can’t say they can’t play. Jagger wound it up for two hours pushing his heart way into the red zone and giving the crowd everything he had. The band found its groove for “Midnight Rambler” which was particularly awe-inspiring.
Keith Richards can still play guitar, but he’s lost his ability to sing. Maybe his lungs can’t keep up. The fact that he’s even alive is amazing. It’s like the Devil let him play but took the singing away from him.
Charlie Watts on drums probably has the most dignity of all of them. He keeps the train running and does it with enthusiasm and intensity, but doesn’t feel compelled to shake his buttocks while he’s doing it.
As a tribute to Keith Richards, I had an evening of utter debauchery. One rum and coke, two cookies, a handful of M&M’s, I let it all hang out.
But by 11:00 pm, after the second encore, I knew I had to get the hell out of there because the alarm was going to go off the next morning, and the bike was going to need to be ridden, concert or no concert.
Walking down the streets of Boston, the amplifiers were still ringing in my ears. Went back to the agency, grabbed the computer, the backpack, and set off for my all day, half the night $10 parking lot.
The Explorer was still there and fugitives from justice were not, so I set out for home. Rain was falling.
In the sweet town of Hull, a light was starting to change from yellow to red and I went for it.
Naturally, I got pulled over. If the cop gave me a breathalizer, I think I would’ve plead guilty to cookie consumption, but since I had the rum and coke five hours ago, I would’ve been fine on the booze. Still, I hadn’t had a ticket in ten years.
The young officer was highly motivated. Thinking about the story where the cops shot a young kid, I decided to play it super conservative. I sat in the seat, eyes glued straight ahead, hands on the wheel, fingers extended straight up in the air.
“License and registration.”
First I looked in the glove box. Wasn’t there. Looked in the overhead compartment. Wasn’t there.
“I’m going to look in the center console, OK?
“Yeah.”
I slowly found the registration. Gave the officer that and the license and sat there without moving.
The officer came back and gave me the news. “I’m going to give you a written warning. Don’t try to beat the lights in the rain.”
Cool.
To celebrate, I stopped by the police station the next day with a $50 contribution to the local police charity. Hell, it was a lot cheaper than a ticket.
With the Stone’s amplifiers still ringing in my head, and the rain falling down, I headed out for a two and a half hour ride. I felt like crap. My head hurt, I was tired, my legs felt like lead, it was awful.
The rock star life is the opposite of the cyclist life. As a cyclist, you’re supposed to go to bed early, eat right, and live like a monk. One night of the Stones had put into a world of hurt. How the hell does Jagger do it?
He must train like a maniac. He’s exceedingly lean, no more than 140 pounds. I suspect he lives a very disciplined life while on tour. Between every song he drank water. He also disappeared for a couple of songs when Keith Richards did a song I didn’t recognize as well as “Happy.” I imagine Jagger backstage getting a massage, taking some oxygen, a shower, and a wardrobe change to keep him going.
While plenty of people criticize the Stones for still going after all these years, very few people take a good look at the fans, many of whom are half the age of the Stones and in far worse shape. There should be a rule somewhere that you can’t be a critic until you’ve accomplished something. Anyone can be a critic. What kind of accomplishment is that? To be a fault-finder, a pundit, a bushido artist. No shortage of them.
You can say what you want about the Stones and you can call them the Rolling Bones if you want, but you can’t say they can’t play. Jagger wound it up for two hours pushing his heart way into the red zone and giving the crowd everything he had. The band found its groove for “Midnight Rambler” which was particularly awe-inspiring.
Keith Richards can still play guitar, but he’s lost his ability to sing. Maybe his lungs can’t keep up. The fact that he’s even alive is amazing. It’s like the Devil let him play but took the singing away from him.
Charlie Watts on drums probably has the most dignity of all of them. He keeps the train running and does it with enthusiasm and intensity, but doesn’t feel compelled to shake his buttocks while he’s doing it.
As a tribute to Keith Richards, I had an evening of utter debauchery. One rum and coke, two cookies, a handful of M&M’s, I let it all hang out.
But by 11:00 pm, after the second encore, I knew I had to get the hell out of there because the alarm was going to go off the next morning, and the bike was going to need to be ridden, concert or no concert.
Walking down the streets of Boston, the amplifiers were still ringing in my ears. Went back to the agency, grabbed the computer, the backpack, and set off for my all day, half the night $10 parking lot.
The Explorer was still there and fugitives from justice were not, so I set out for home. Rain was falling.
In the sweet town of Hull, a light was starting to change from yellow to red and I went for it.
Naturally, I got pulled over. If the cop gave me a breathalizer, I think I would’ve plead guilty to cookie consumption, but since I had the rum and coke five hours ago, I would’ve been fine on the booze. Still, I hadn’t had a ticket in ten years.
The young officer was highly motivated. Thinking about the story where the cops shot a young kid, I decided to play it super conservative. I sat in the seat, eyes glued straight ahead, hands on the wheel, fingers extended straight up in the air.
“License and registration.”
First I looked in the glove box. Wasn’t there. Looked in the overhead compartment. Wasn’t there.
“I’m going to look in the center console, OK?
“Yeah.”
I slowly found the registration. Gave the officer that and the license and sat there without moving.
The officer came back and gave me the news. “I’m going to give you a written warning. Don’t try to beat the lights in the rain.”
Cool.
To celebrate, I stopped by the police station the next day with a $50 contribution to the local police charity. Hell, it was a lot cheaper than a ticket.
With the Stone’s amplifiers still ringing in my head, and the rain falling down, I headed out for a two and a half hour ride. I felt like crap. My head hurt, I was tired, my legs felt like lead, it was awful.
The rock star life is the opposite of the cyclist life. As a cyclist, you’re supposed to go to bed early, eat right, and live like a monk. One night of the Stones had put into a world of hurt. How the hell does Jagger do it?
He must train like a maniac. He’s exceedingly lean, no more than 140 pounds. I suspect he lives a very disciplined life while on tour. Between every song he drank water. He also disappeared for a couple of songs when Keith Richards did a song I didn’t recognize as well as “Happy.” I imagine Jagger backstage getting a massage, taking some oxygen, a shower, and a wardrobe change to keep him going.
While plenty of people criticize the Stones for still going after all these years, very few people take a good look at the fans, many of whom are half the age of the Stones and in far worse shape. There should be a rule somewhere that you can’t be a critic until you’ve accomplished something. Anyone can be a critic. What kind of accomplishment is that? To be a fault-finder, a pundit, a bushido artist. No shortage of them.
posted by joe berkeley at 7:49 AM
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