Review: The Rolling Stones, Cardiff Millenium Stadium, 29th August 2006
You cannot come away from a gig like this and not be overwhelmed by clichés. It is nice to be reminded of the power of rock n roll. It is astonishing to see how old these men look. You can see why journalists are often too easily prone to the same old platitudes whenever the Stones are in town. Stadium rock is still the haven of the well-to-do middle classes who left dark cellar bars behind with their mid-twenties. They now think our generations’ Rock to be crass and look down their noses at Pete Doherty as grand wizard corruptor of the youth whilst having hazy nostalgic warmth for the band that brought us Cocksucker Blues. All of this is right there in your face when seeing the Stones live. A gentleman in his greying years sat next to me looked in astonishment when realising I knew the names of the band members. “You weren’t even born when these started making records.” He gushed, half in offence that my generation has hijacked his music and half in pride that all along his generation had it right after all. “That’s right,” I said, “I’ve heard there was a war with Germany and black and White TVs as well.” I would have said had I not been enjoying the gig so much and he not seemed a genuinely nice chap. But at least it made me realise that the Stones have endured not just because they make great music but also because they really have made very similar journeys to their original fans. Once rebels, true rockers, they are now wincingly wealthy and just as guilty of capitalist whoredom as the most straight-laced Tory. The Stones bring this baggage with them. They are playing records that are, on the whole, at least twenty years old. But they really have made some very good records since Miss You. But I doubt the corporate blazers at Coca-Cola bought any of them. I must admit I have a slightly difficult time with the fact that what is (proved to me tonight) the greatest band touring in the world at the moment cannot let their truly awe inspiring back catalogue and deific stage presence carry the show. They need fireworks, streamers, moving stage parts and costume changes to impress, to really make the audience feel like they have spent their money well. From a band that have carried the Rhythm and Blues flag for longer than any other since the form was invented in black America, they seemed to lean toward grandiose prog rock theatrics rather than gutsy sincerity. To see them, these slight figures on this enormous stage in front of some sixty-thousand people, makes you wonder how they would fare should they be asked to play the Marquee any time soon. Such intimacy, a trademark of their classic recordings, would probably kill them off once and for all. But you cannot deny that these people filled the stadium. You cannot deny Jagger exhausted me with his antics on the stage and looked as though he could have gone on for a few more hours. (But you did have to wonder – all that eye-rolling lazy journalism aside – how long can they really go on when you see how much energy these boys need in order to put on a show. The human body really does have its limits, after all.)
For all of my cynicisms, I have to say that this band was something very special. Richards and Wood defined cool, standing behind Jagger like the silent deadly henchmen they clearly are. The hit record after hit record fell out of the speakers and anyone who needed reminding this is one of the most important acts in the history of music could not escape the fact. Sympathy for the Devil followed by Paint it Black may very well, with time, prove to be the greatest twelve minutes of my musical life. And for that I thank the greatest band in the world. But I don’t think stadium rock is really where the future of British music lies. It was a hideous beast created by rocks first millionaires in the Seventies and carried on to the MTV generation in the eighties. The only people that go to them now are people who don’t buy records and people that don’t buy records made after 1976 (or made by anyone under 55). Music has to be significant to progress and survive. Shows sponsored by McDonalds could not be less relevant to music lovers. This was a show, a tribute to genius and legend, not a cutting edge musical experience. Although one of the finest nights of entertainment and awe of my life, when old and talking of the greatest gigs I ever saw it will probably not even occur to me, where the likes of Billy Bragg, The Raveonettes and Hammel on Trial will trip off my tongue, along with the few other hundred people who saw them with me.