ROUGH JUSTICE:

My Night With the Rolling Stones

        Mick Jagger has finally agreed to see me.
      

Being that he is Mick Jagger, he sets the terms.  First, I must give him 100 of my hard-earned dollars.  He also insists that I sit in the 300-level at Detroit's Comerica Park.  He promises to look at me at least once.  Or not.  He may or may not be able to recognize me at my vantage point 250 yards away from the stage.
      

The first record I ever bought was the Rolling Stones' "Hot Rocks."   Nearly three-and-a-half decades later, I am seeing them for the first time.
      

Certainly, there were other opportunities.  Thirty years ago, a high school friend came up with some choice seats the night before a show at Cobo Hall.  Unfortunately, there was this meeting a few months earlier with myself, some orange vodka and 7-Up; a marijuana cigarette, and one of Saginaw's finest law enforcement officials.  This incident would cloud my mother's judgment for months when it came to any activity involving me leaving the house.
     

Other times, it was too expensive, the venue stunk (the Silverdome); the crowds were too wild, filled with bikers having their way with innocent women (my imagination). 
      

Others stole my heart - the Who, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan.  The Stones moved down the list, especially when they had that ridiculous run of substandard product in the early and mid-80's.
 

My hearing started to go, the same night I spent ten feet away from the speakers at a Black Sabbath concert.  For years, I'd hold out for someone I had to see, saving the headaches and what would eventually become a textbook example of tinnitus, that ringing in your ears that won't go away until you're dead for six years.
 

Thirty years ago, all you had was the record and the odd article in "Rolling Stone."  Today, the group has released nearly ten live albums, plus various performance DVD's, and the mystery of what a concert could portend isn't so mysterious anymore.
 

And I would've missed this time around too.  Instead, my wife surprised me with tickets as a Father's Day/Birthday/Anniversary gift.  The most I'd previously paid for a concert ticket was nearly $90.00 for a Springsteen solo concert earlier this year.  But Bruce is a deity - Mick, Keith Richards and the boys are just legends.
 

As the concert approaches, I find myself almost too sedate.  In the past, I would have dreams about the performer before and after the show.  Nocturnally, I have seen the Who play at my high school; I've rescued Springsteen from quitting a show, only to have him return and do gymnastics instead of "Born to Run;" I became chums with Dylan, writing songs and strumming guitars in tandem as if we were old friends from Hibbing.
 

The day of the concert is here. 
 

My wife, having seen my driving "skills" improve to the point where we both resemble the Earnhardt family, lets me take the wheel.  She was most impressed when I recently went 85 miles an hour in a 65 zone - just to get out of the way of someone else.
 

As we approach Comerica Park, I hear the strains of Maroon 5, a fairly new group that is opening the evening.  I recently saw them on television for a bit - a few bars into it; I decided it would be a good time to go to the bathroom.  Or tonight, it's a good time to spend a half-hour waiting in line for overpriced baubles bearing the infamous Stones "tongue" logo. 
 

There's a t-shirt each for me and my wife, a cap for me that smartly transposes a baseball at the end of the tongue, and Rolling Stones boxer shorts for our absent son.  My credit card does not come up "declined."  The other issue - does the shirt fit my fat ass? - will wait until tomorrow.
 

It takes over an hour to get from our car to our seats - section 336, row 18.  The Maroon boys finished twenty minutes ago.  The stage is huge, stretching to and from the corners of the outfield.  Long ramps will take Mick Jagger as far into the crowd as space will allow, giving the proletariat a somewhat better look that still just doesn't justify ticket prices that begin at $400.

 

It is hot and stuffy near the top of section 336.  My wife and I wore long pants in anticipation of a cool evening, but the humidity is not cooperating.  My wife is sweating buckets; I am perspiring less - Slurpee Cups, maybe.  As a bonus, section 336, row 17 has a mother-daughter celebrating their union by sharing a joint.  Only in America.  And Amsterdam.
 

This concert needs to start. 
 

The Stones run out to "Start Me Up," which is the cue for the young man sitting next to me to start a conversation.  I learn how he was raised on hip-hop but now loves the Beatles and the Stones, how all his friends think he's an idiot, and some other trivial garbage that I can't remember.
 

The band starts sloppy, missing at least one cue in the opening song and another three or four before the concert is 15 minutes old.  Those seated around us are talking as if they're in a lounge in Onaway and the music is coming from a jukebox.
 

This is not fun.  This is sweaty detachment - I could've taken my hundred dollars, bought a half-dozen Stones CD's I don't have and listened while sitting on my deck.  At least no one behind me would be talking or blowing weed.
 

We need to move out of this area - and soon, or this evening will be a waste of time and money.  From our balcony seat, my wife and I determine an area just right of the stage will be our destination.   It looks as though we may be slightly behind the performers, but there's a nearby video screen to remind us who we're here to see. 
 

When we get there, the view is almost perfect.  Save for Charlie Watts tucked behind his drums, we can see everyone just fine.  The Stones play "Beast of Burden," sending my wife on a nostalgic trip back to high school.  She begins to dance and sing along, her mood brightened considerably after our exodus from Section 336.  I am relieved; I want her to have fun more than I want me to have fun.  Now the concert can truly begin.
 

Maybe it's the change in seats.  Maybe it's because we're now sweating from dancing, bouncing around to the beat, singing along with every word.  But the evening begins to take off.
 

Next up, Mick says they must pay tribute to Motown, and launch into their version of the Temptations' "Ain't Too Proud to Beg."  The Stones were built on blues and soul covers - hell, their name comes from Muddy Waters' "Rolling Stone Blues."  Motown appreciates the tribute.
"Night Time is the Right Time" throws things into overdrive and sends us careening into the stars.  Another cover version, the song was first done by Ray Charles and gained some notoriety when featured in a "Cosby Show" episode.  Mick starts and is joined shortly thereafter by Lisa Fischer.
 

Ms. Fischer is no stranger to this band - she has been part of the backing group for every Stones tour for over 15 years.  She's made several solo records and worked with a variety of performers, most notably Luther Vandross. As Lisa Fischer takes the vocal from Mick, a lightning bolt goes through the crowd.  This woman is easily the hottest singer - in looks and in voice - to ever share a stage with Sir Mick.  Yes, including Tina Turner.
 

The Stones always have had an element of sexual frenzy about them.  As Mick and Lisa slink around the stage, the vibrations threaten to melt Comerica Park.  When Lisa Fischer takes her vocal turn, every woman in the crowd bows her soul in wonder.  Every man in the crowd salivates.
      

I am in love with Lisa Fischer.  Wait - I am in lust with Lisa Fischer.
The band overcomes its earlier missteps and swings into high gear.  Charlie Watts is simply the best timekeeper in the world.  He looks extremely healthy, showing no adverse effects from last year's bout with throat cancer.  Watts was born to play in this band, his tight and subtle style a perfect offset to the shenanigans of Mick Jagger.
 

Keith Richards will always be one of my favorite musicians, if for no other reason than our shared affectation for Chuck Berry.  Not many bands have their very own pirate - Johnny Depp modeled his "Pirates of the Caribbean" character in part after Keith.  The projections screens show Keith in black and white during his vocal on "The Worst," his dark, beady eyes peering from within the face of a thousand points of line.  At that moment, he invokes the image of the "Pirates" dead buccaneers who come to life and wreak havoc on Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley. 

 

Keith Richards is the reason why the Rolling Stones slog on 43 years after their inception.  Mick Jagger has his interests in film production, fine wines, and Brazilian models.  All Keith has is rock and roll. 

When I see him at the end of the stage, kneeling as he picks out a solo near the show's end, sweat dripping from the creases of his face, it dawns on me - modern medicine did not save Keith from the ravages of heroin and countless bottles of Rebel Yell bourbon.  The ghosts of Howlin' Wolf, Elvis, and Robert Johnson did.
 

Ron Wood, on the other hand, has about as much purpose at this show as a bag of turnips.  He should thank the Lord every day for his friendship with Keith - as the show progresses, his uselessness is obvious.  A lame guitar solo here and there, and that's about it.  Since Keith and Charlie have always driven the band, maybe that's all Wood needs to do.  Nice work if you can get it.  I would like to shake Ron Wood's hand - then kick him in the balls.
 

Mick Jagger, James Brown, Elvis, and Sinatra.  They steer a crowd up, down, and sideways like no others.  Mick is the all-time champ, strictly on the basis of longevity.  He is in superb physical condition, and still makes the girls swoon with a simple shake of his hips.  Most of the girls are now middle-aged housewives, but no matter. Mick's father is still pressing on at age 92, so who knows how long the Stones will keep this up?
 

I wished in high school that I was Mick Jagger.  There's a small part of me that still does.
The final third of the show is a greatest hits medley - even I have to get up and dance, and I boogie about as well as a man with no legs.  Comerica Park is crumbling at its girders - if the Tigers could bring this much energy every night, they'd win the World Series. 
 

A woman who looks like my ninth grade-typing teacher is ten feet to my right, whooping and hollering without a care in the world.  A few rows ahead, a man about my age is totally enraptured with the evening's affairs.  He is flinging himself into a state where only a hard sedative or a straitjacket will contain him.  I am sure that he is still in traction today. 
 

Old hippies trying to hold on to the last vestiges of the '60's.  Big spenders who may only know a couple tunes, but are here just so they can tell their employees they paid over a grand to see the Stones.  Kids in their teens and 20's, seeing perhaps for the first time what real rock and roll is all about - hope the boys from Maroon 5 were watching. 
 

Me and the wife - all feeling the same thing - as one.  I waited 30 years to see Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, and the rest testify in the only way they know how - the way they do it better than anyone before or since.
 

I am writing this five days after the show, still on a buzz that isn't waning in the least.  Not the greatest concert I've ever seen, but solidly in my top ten - maybe even the top five. 
 

The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World?
After that night, no doubt.