Stop the Week 16

Well shine a light, Lord love us, Gorblimey guv’nor… it’s the Rolling Stones.

Over the course of four or five lunches this last industrious week, I watched Martin Scorse’s film of the venerable Stones in instalments. I still have a soft spot for the OAPs of rock, even though I rather lost interest in their musical offerings after Let it Bleed – which means that I’m an Exile on Main Street agnostic.

The soft spot inevitably goes back to my musical youth (‘I say, pass the dutchie on the left-hand side would you, Winston…’). After the first flush of Beatledom had subsided, inevitably there came along the Stones. The Fabulous pin-ups covered my wall and into my embryonic record collection came High Tide and Green Grass, their first greatest hits retrospective. In fact, ‘Not Fade Away’, was the first single I ever pur-chased – by dint of the fact that The Gramophone Shop in Wellington Place, Belfast, had run out of Millie’s ‘My Boy Lollipop’.

Bill 'Pint Size' Wyman

The wonderful, bashful Charlie Watts was and has faithfully remained my favourite Stone. I remember my mother professed to be enamoured of his extraordinary cheekbones and wanted him to sit for a portrait. It was never to be. Meanwhile, although I have always managed a half-decent impersonation of Sir Michael over the years, Jagger has always managed to make me cringe with embarrassment every time he opens his mockney marf. And Keef might have the most impeccable taste in black American music, but really…

I read and enjoyed Bill Wyman’s chatty autobiography a few years ago and actually met the wee fella a couple of summers ago in Cahors. A close friend of ours with a fascinating past from these parts got us free tickets with back-stage passes to go and see Bill’s Rhythm Kings as part of the annual Cahors Blues Festival.

It was probably everything that a Rolling Stones concert isn’t – and all the more enjoyable for that. Low profile, no king-size egos, just sheer love of the music, typified by the delightful Albert Lee, a guitarist’s guitarist, who played with a wide smile on his face all evening long, as if truly delighted to be there. Gary Brooker of Procol Harum, who has a holiday house in the area, put in a guest appearance on keyboards and sung (inevitably) ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ in a duet with the ever-wonderful Georgie Fame.

Backstage, it was a shock to see just how small Bill Wyman is. No wonder he played a vertical bass. Charming and unassuming, you could pick him up and put him in your pocket. Nearly 70 at the time, he didn’t seem to have changed over the years. I plucked up the courage to go and talk to Georgie Fame and we chatted for half an hour or so about BeBop and his mentor, the jazz vocalist, Jon Hendricks. I’ve been boring friends and family about this close encounter with a legend ever since.

But I digress, as the saying goes. The film and the concert seemed a surprisingly lacklustre affair and only seemed to warm up once Buddy Guy had done his guest spot. Nevertheless, it underlined how fit and what a remarkable performer Mick Jagger is. For all the ludicrous posturing, the man is a born entertainer. There was, though, a strong impression that the only one of the quartet to have grown up since the days of High Tide is that self-effacing drummer of theirs.

Otherwise… it has been a desperate week for Arsenal, following their casual and careless disposal of the Carling Cup Final. To be beaten by Barcelona was no disgrace, but to lose – again – to Manchester United will probably represent the last nail in this season’s coffin. I spoke to my father about it this morning. He has followed the Gunners all his life and he had an interesting take on all the disappointments. At least he didn’t have to watch them play any more this season, he told me. Yes, it’s a stressful and frustrating business, watching a team you follow over a full 90 minutes with some realistic expectations of success. We both agreed that Monsieur Wenger should sell Fabregas to Barcelona for as many millions as he can muster and spend the money on a few older heads to steady the youthful good ship Arsenal.

Hey-ho! ‘It’s a life,’ to quote a Liverpudlian friend of mine.