Article from the Telegraph - case for the defence, case for the prosecution - be sure and add your comments!
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Rolling Stones: Should the Stones jack it in?
Last Updated: 12:01am BST 23/08/2007Page 1 of 3
After more than 40 years, the wrinkly rockers are still at it. Two Telegraph writers debate whether it's time to stop
YES says Lesley Thomas:
You've got to hand it to them – a combined age of 253 and still able to jump around stages like McFly. The trouble is, we’ve been handing it to the Rolling Stones – this award for being able to tour around the world with sellout shows – for about 20 years now.
The Rolling Stones are the oldest swingers in town
There are a thousand polite ways to put this, but the trouble with the Stones is that they are so old. They are so old that even jokes about them being old are old. They haven’t been called the Strolling Bones for about 10 years.
It’s important to fight the tyranny of youth in our culture, but for the Stones it may be counterproductive. Couldn’t someone younger fight it? Someone merely pushing 50? Prince, perhaps, or even Bono.
I saw the Stones on stage on Tuesday night and I speak as a fan (Mum used to play their records) when I say that I hope this is their last tour. If they want to be remembered as the greatest rock band of all time – and this is difficult to dispute – they need to hang up their drainpipes now.
Their songs have stood time’s test. Jagger can still dance. Charlie Watts still artfully keeps time. Wood’s and Richards’s solos are still jaw-dropping. Yet, in 2007, what impresses most about them is that they are still going.
The Kooks, a supporting act on Tuesday and stars of the indie scene, are young enough to be their grandchildren. The audience, bless them, a sea of grey heads in those “lick” T-shirts, wouldn’t know a Kook if one tried to help them cross the road.
Watching Jagger fill the stage with his trademark arm-waving, jiggling his bony little bottom, you can see he takes his health and fitness seriously. His body and posture speak of macrobiotic diets, armies of personal trainers, ginseng, goji berries and whatever it is that keeps his hair so ludicrously abundant. Jagger, I believe, is some kind of human anomaly and really could keep going until he pops his cowboy boots.
But what about the others? Poor old Keith Richards – or Jack Sparrow’s dad as younger people know him and a man we instinctively love just for managing still to be alive – shuffled on to the stage looking like a hunched old man going to a fancy-dress party. As Keith Richards. His hair dyed and backcombed to within an inch of its life, his eyes so small only his signature black guyliner gave a clue to their existence.
Jo Wood, Ronnie’s wife, could be seen backstage with a rail of clean tops for Ronnie to change into between numbers. I’m sure it had nothing to do with Jagger’s legendary tightfistedness that this wasn’t a salaried person’s role: when you get to 60 – Ronnie is the baby of the band – only the missus knows exactly how you like your cropped tops and ripped T-shirts to be pressed.
Watts looked quite the rebel with his undyed hair and sixtysomething dress code. When my daughter asked me what I got up to on Tuesday night, I told her I’d been to see a band from the olden days that granny used to like.
Being the oldest swingers in town is already the Stones’ legacy for two generations of rock fans. If they go for a hat trick, they will be remembered for little else.
NO says Andrew Perry:
One thing's certain: the Stones are old enough to defend their corner. Mick Jagger, 64, and Keith Richards, 63, have been fielding accusations that they're too superannuated to rock and roll ever since I can remember.
I was born on the day Get Off of My Cloud went to number one, and fell for their charms circa 1981's Tattoo You. By that time, the most earth-shattering entries in their song-book had all been written.
Since then, their work has essentially been to broadcast that repertoire globally from the live stage. Having missed their early days at the Crawdaddy club and their Hyde Park gig in 1969, I feel fortunate at least to have witnessed them in action in later years - most recently, two days ago, in the comparatively bijou setting of the O2 Arena.
On a purely business level, the Stones' continued existence is simple to justify: their tours make more money than anybody else's.
The "creative" case against the Stones is generally made by people who haven't seen them perform for years, if at all. It is unlikely any paying customer can have left Greenwich dissatisfied on Tuesday. Even at £150 a ticket, the Stones are terrific value. In the flesh, their music is impossible to resist.
Jagger is the master of the stadium, but, at the O2, freed of his usual atheletic duties - sprinting along 100-yard runways and so on - he proved what a peerless and committed vocalist he is. Often stigmatised for the studied indifference of his youth, he palpably put everything into his singing.
During Rocks Off - the song from 1972's Exile on Main Street that pretty much epitomises that insouciance - it dawned on me just how good he is: appearing effortless, channelling all the attitude and sexuality and freedom that the Stones embody, and yet hardly ever hitting a bum note. Musically, physically, he's in fabulous shape.
Lately, there have been ructions, most acutely after Richards barrelled on stage plastered in Helsinki, and Jagger had to rescue him from falling into the crowd. But the tension between Jagger's poise and Richards's abandonment creates the band's energy and in-fighting means there are things to fight for.
The weary accusation that the Stones are merely going through the motions is ludicrous. Tuesday's set included Can't You Hear Me Knockin', replete with an extended exploration of its jazzy coda, as well as the most urgent version of Satisfaction that this writer has ever heard. Their music is still risky, edgy, very much a living organism.
During Tumbling Dice, Richards - the fans' favourite, who received a standing ovation for lighting up a cigarette (he probably didn't even know about the smoking ban) - delivered a solo possibly from another song, or maybe another galaxy. It sounded amazing. He's still way out there.
Their recent disagreements may have thrown their future into question, but, in the here and now, the Stones remain simply unbeatable.
One thing's for certain: the Rolling Stones are old enough to defend their own corner. Mick Jagger (64) and Keith Richards (63) have been fielding accusations that they're too superannuated to rock & roll ever since I can remember.
I was born on the day that Get Off Of My Cloud went to Number One, and only fell for their lascivious charms circa 1981's Tattoo You. By that time, undeniably, the most earth-shattering entries in their song-book had all been written.
Since then, their work has essentially been to share that repertoire, to broadcast it globally from the live stage. Having missed their early days at the Crawdaddy club, the Hyde Park gig in 1969, etc, I feel genuinely fortunate at least to have witnessed them in action in later years - most recently, two days ago, in the comparatively bijou environment of the O2 Arena.
On a purely business level, the Stones's continued existence is simple to justify: their tours make more money than anybody else's.
The "creative" case against the Stones is generally made by people who haven't seen them perform for years, if at all. It is virtually impossible that any paying customer can have left Greenwich dissatisfied on Tuesday. Even at £150 a ticket, the Stones are terrific value. Theirs is an unashamedly carnal music. In the flesh, it's impossible to resist.
Jagger is the undisputed master of stadium performance, but, at the O2, freed of his usual atheletic duties - sprinting along 100-yard runways, etc - he proved what a peerless and committed vocalist he is. Often stigmatized for the studied indifference of his youth, he palpably put everything into his singing.
During Rocks Off - the song from 1972's Exile on Main Street which pretty much epitomizes that insouciance - it dawned on me just how good he is: appearing nonchalant and effortless, channelling all the attitude and sexuality and freedom that the Stones embody, and yet hardly ever hitting a bum note. Musically, physically, sickeningly, he's in fabulous shape.
Lately, there have been ructions within the band, most acutely after Richards barrelled onstage plastered at a gig in Helsinki, and Jagger had to rescue him from falling into the crowd. The tension between Jagger's poise and Richards's abandonment is, of course, the band's core energy. In-fighting, then, is a good sign - it means there are still things to fight for.
The weary accusation that the Stones are going through the motions, grinding out the hits by rote, is preposterous. Tuesday's set included Can You Hear Me Knockin', replete with an extended exploration of its jazzy coda, as well as the most urgent version of Satisfaction that this writer has ever heard. Their music is still risky, edgy, very much a living organism.
During Tumblin' Dice, Richards - the fans' favourite, who received a standing ovation merely for lighting up a cigarette (he probably didn't even know about the smoking ban) - delivered a solo possibly from another song, maybe even another galaxy. It sounded amazing. He's still way out there.
Their recent disagreements may have thrown their future into question, but, in the here and now, the Stones remain simply unbeatable.