Word: mick
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...struts Mick Jagger with a snigger, dressed entirely in black, a long pinkish scarf hanging from his neck, an Uncle Sam hat straight from Chappaqua on his head. The omega-like sign of Leo, fiery and domineering, the sign of a king, is printed on his chest. "Well alright," he shouts at the audience, looking the perverse offspring of a Rimbaud or a Wilde, and like a voodoo prince he pumps his hips twice and begins to dance. Pouting, leering, his fat lips flapping, his eyes hopped in derision, he is the shaman, the witch we have waited...
...band, is dead. Only he could fight Richard for control; with Jones gone the music is all Richard's show. Their new album, Let it Bleed, maintains much of the Stones instrumental excitement only because Richard does the important rhythm work himself in the Jones style. But Mick Taylor, who may be nice for John Mayall, can't hold his own, and the result is Richard's easy domination of many of the songs. All the live pieces that depended on twin guitar work-"Sympathy for the Devil," "Stray Cat Blues," and "Street Fighting Man" -were driving but instrumentally rather...
After "Carol" the band went into a sloppy "Sympathy for the Devil." Jagger introduced himself as the devil and the audience burst into applause in recognition of its own dreams of what Mick Jagger doing "Sympathy for the Devil" would be like, and sure enough, when I asked people later they could have sworn they heard calypso. Most disappointing about this particular song, and most of Jagger's vocal performance for that matter, was the absence, up until "Satisfaction," of any vocal improvisation. Much of the Stones' dynamic relies on Jagger's talent for splintering and then remaking the vocal...
Bathed in red light, he whirls it over his head, pretending he's about to throw it, but of course he isn't, though hundreds of hands, urged on by the very thought of Mick Jagger's belt to fondle and to hold, to prance around in, are outstretched in feverish anticipation...
...limp wrist are but touch-stones to the structure of our own imaginations. I don't know what happened in New York or the Boston Garden anymore and no one else does either. Perhaps this not knowing is the residue of all great theatre experiences, those that, like Mick Jagger, "invite the mind to share a delirium which exalts its energies...