… If I could stick my pen in my heartAnd spill it all over the stageWould it satisfy ya, would it slide on by yaWould you think the boy is strange?Ain’t he strange?
The call unexpectedly blasted in like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky. My old neighbor Tom was on the line, offering me a golden ticket to what could very well be the last ride of the Rolling Stones. I couldn’t believe it. Mick Jagger, the indestructible frontman, was still kicking at 80—teetering on the edge of oblivion, and here I was, getting a front-row seat to watch him and the gang do their final dance with the devil. The man’s been dodging the reaper for years, and who am I to not give him a proper send-off?
Everyone has their own twisted love affair with the Stones. Mine began in the ’70s, rocking out at school dances, cranking up the stereo, and butchering Keith Richards’ open G riffs in some godforsaken garage band. Fifty years later, those riffs are still etched into my brain, like the names of old girlfriends. The idea of watching these grizzled bastards haul their ancient bones across the stage one last time was too good to pass up. But would Mick pull it off? Or would he butcher the sacred standards of my rock and roll youth? As the song goes, Would it satisfy me, would it slide on by me, or would I think that Mick was strange. Ain’t he strange?
Tom’s entourage was a ragtag crew of old comrades—Jon, Michael, and myself. Back in the day, we were the guitar and vocal core of the neighborhood Christmas party. That was over a decade ago, when we still had hair and our livers weren’t yet pickled in bourbon. I decided to bring my guitar to the tailgate, because what’s a rock concert without a little pre-show chaos?
Tailgating is an essential part of the rock ‘n’ roll ritual. It’s been years since I last pre-partied with the boys before a concert, but this was a special occasion. The tickets were a generous gift from Tom—expensive enough to make a grown man weep—and I wanted to return the favor. Tom’s birthday was just around the corner, as was Mick’s. So instead of the usual cocktail of drugs and hard liquor, I decided to class things up with a catered tray of Korean fried wings and appetizers from Bonchon. Michael brought the beer—a selection of craft brews for a more “mature” experience.
The last time I drove in and out of Levi’s Stadium, it was a goddamn nightmare. A 49ers game had turned the parking lot into a labyrinthine hellscape of angry drunks and honking horns. But this time, we rolled into Blue Lot 1 like kings. $175 for a parking spot—a bargain, really. The only problem was the “no tailgating” sign that greeted us. Nonsense! I wasn’t about to let a little thing like stadium rules ruin our fun. I had Jon, our lawyer friend, along for the ride, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past 50 years, it’s how to “beat the rap…”
We weren’t the only aging rockers out there with tailgating on our minds. A row of silver-haired warriors had set up shop along the fence line, sipping Chardonnay instead of taking bong hits, nibbling on hors d’oeuvres instead of munchies. We set up our chairs, cracked open the beers, and settled into the rhythm of BBQ wings and old ‘70s rock tunes. The guitar passed around like a peace pipe, and before long, a chorus of friendly gray hairs joined in, belting out refrains from the good old days and some new beautiful stuff from Tom , I was among my people.
Time slipped away, and soon enough, we made our way into the arena, ready to witness what might be our last chance to see the Stones in the flesh. These guys have lived harder than most of us, but they’ve aged like fine wine—or maybe more like well-preserved fossils. Either way, they’re still here, defying the odds, while the rest of us limp along with heart issues and hearing aids. The crowd was a wild mix of young and old, united by the timeless appeal of rock ‘n’ roll. We found our way to our club seats, prime real estate with easy access to the bathroom and beer stands. Let the madness begin!
The opening act was a girl band called The Beaches. A curious name for a Canadian girl band that sounded alittle like the Bangles. Perhaps they liked names that start with B or enjoyed surfing or fishing, but they didn’t look like that and they were from Canada not known for beaches, only rocks and that name was taken by the other band. Maybe they were making a cheeky play on words, or maybe they just liked the sound of it. Either way, they rocked the hell out of that stage.
Then came the main event. The Stones kicked off with “Start Me Up,” and just like that, I was 16 years old again. They played until 11:00, rolling out hit after hit like they’d stepped out of a time machine. The new stuff didn’t quite hit the same, but that’s just me being a grumpy old man, stuck in my ways. Classic rock is sacred—untouchable, immutable. And for one glorious night, the Stones made me believe that maybe, just maybe, the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle isn’t completely at odds with a long, happy life.
So, here’s to Tom and Mary Lou—thank you for the ticket, but more importantly, thank you for the years of friendship. It’s been one hell of a ride, and there’s no better way to cap it off than with a little rock ‘n’ roll.
