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WE dream
of control in modest morsels—a little cooperation from
the spouse here, a homework agreement from the teenage
kid there. Maybe full and uncontested rights to the
remote around March Madness time. But few of us get to
enjoy
Mick Jagger’s 24-7 command authority in that fusion
of personal and public existence he calls his life—the
one that includes the
Rolling Stones. Jagger’s superclout is on
fascinating display in Shine a Light, a vibrant, playful
documentary that captures the band’s backstage
machinations and onstage performances at New York City’s
Beacon Theatre in 2006. Spiritual leader and consigliere
of the group, he fusses over details of the stage set,
17 cameras and three stage runways that will be part of
the ambitious show. He expresses concern the audience
might be turned off by the show of machinery. And he
practically causes Shine director
Martin Scorsese to tear out his hair when the singer
refuses to relinquish the proposed song list until the
last minute.
“Can we
kinda know, if at all possible, what they’re gonna
play?” Scorsese demands in GoodFellas rapid-speak as the
movie crosscuts between him and Jagger, whom we see
poring over a legal pad, dividing Stones numbers into
three categories—the very well known, the well known and
the rarely performed. The message is crystal-clear:
Marty may be directing but Mick’s got the remote.
THE Oscar-winning director
Martin Scorsese with the legendary Rolling Stones
Even
Bill Clinton, who bought a block of seats for one of
the two shows, hobnobs obsequiously with the band before
the show. We can almost see the limelight handover, as
the former leader of the free world defers to the likes
of Jagger,
Keith Richards and the rest.
As the
psychodrama unfolds, it’s clear Scorsese is aware of the
compelling conflict—two celebrity silverbacks circling
each other, amid a snarl of mike stands, camera crews
and massive amplifiers. And he understands how a little
reality-show ego smack-down sets up the movie
beautifully for its primary purpose: a full-on
experience with the greatest rock-and-roll band in the
world.
Just as
he did in The Last Waltz, his brilliant 1978 documentary
about the Band, Scorsese lets the musicians dictate the
flow of action. There are 19 songs to be savored here,
most in their entirety. Aficionados of the Mick ’n’
Keith oeuvre will appreciate the obvious classics such
as “Honky Tonk Women” and “Brown Sugar,” but also
interesting selections from the vault, including “As
Tears Go By” and “Connection.” (Stones geeks will also
note that Jagger excises some of the most incendiary
lyrics from two songs—a reference to the Kennedy family
in “Sympathy for the Devil” and observations about black
women’s sexual appetites in “Some Girls.”)
The lure
of the Rolling Stones almost defies logic. After more
than 40 years of existence, what is it about these
well-weathered rockers that keeps them at the forefront
of pop? How do they keep strutting strong while youthful
sensations flare up and fade out?
The
answer is in the music—a simple equation of chords One,
Four and Five—that revels in the sheer joy of its own
paradigm. Their most telling song title? “It’s Only Rock
’n Roll (But I Like It).” And it’s also in the spectacle
of perpetual self-belief—a renewable tableau of
masterful musicians impervious to embarrassment,
self-consciousness or awareness of the passing decades.
Watch Jagger’s adolescent, perpetual motion and bravado,
as if he just stepped off the plane in 1962. See the way
Richards leans on bandmate
Ron Wood’s shoulder in midstrum, so relaxed you’d
think he was in his living room.
While
performing, they dwell inside a
Peter Pan-ish time bubble. And despite the ravages
of time on their faces, they make the case for bad-boy
immortality. Judging by the ecstatic enthusiasm of their
audiences, old and young, the fans get the picture.
There
are some musically assured guest appearances, too, from
Jack White,
Buddy Guy and
Christina Aguilera. These odd couplings attest to
the Stones’ perennial pull; it’s a heady experience to
watch Jagger and White performing an enthusiastic,
soulful “Loving Cup”—a song written before White was
born.
Shine a
Light is more than mere concert. Scorsese layers in some
terrific vintage footage of the Stones. There’s a young,
wrinkle-free Mick in the 1960s telling reporters: “We
never thought we’d do it for two years even....We’re
pretty well set for at least another year.” There’s
Richards, famous for a druggie past, explaining his
longevity: “My life hasn’t run out, I guess.”
Whether
we’re looking at the Stones then or now, it’s always
clear that Jagger’s been at the controls of the band
and, by extension, pop culture for close to a
half-century. His authority isn’t the kind we normally
associate with celebrity musicians—that sort of
perpetual sandbox privilege in which he (or she) does
whatever the inner child allows, while handlers, press
agents and bodyguards trip over one another to take care
of the ensuing mess. This is the Jagger, after all, who
would have finished his business studies at the London
School of Economics if the pop thing hadn’t worked out.
And the
band knows who’s boss. Richards may be the other half of
the songwriting brain trust but in the Stones family,
he’s the eldest kid, at best. (“Hey Clinton, I’m feeling
Bushed,” he jokes like a mischievous schoolboy to Wood,
as the former President hovers in the background.) So
long as the mystique continues, fans keep paying Super
Bowl prices for Rolling Stones tickets and people still
start up their air guitars to the sound of
“Satisfaction,” the Mick majesty will continue. n |
