Live Review: The Rolling Stones

20 November 2014 | 9:52 am | Steve Bell

The Stones prove they've more than still got it in Brisbane.

More The Rolling Stones More The Rolling Stones

There’s no support acts on this school night – no need for mucking around as The Rolling Stones’ lauded ’14 On Fire tour finally rolls into Brisbane, following the false start earlier this year when the scheduled April appearance was postponed due to tragic private circumstances.

It’s certainly been a strange week in the Queensland capital with so many dignitaries deigning us with their presence (smoke from the G20 spectacle is still lingering), and this shows no sign of abating as thousands of eager punters excitedly make their way into the cavernous Entertainment Centre, a disparate flotsam and jetsam of humanity united solely by their love of this classic rock institution.

The scheduled starting time has come and gone, and we’re all waiting in our seats long after those annoying loud-speaker messages have warned us that we’re about to miss the start of something special. A slight wave of restlessness starts to manifest and this soon transfers into waves of the Mexican variety as impatience builds, but it gives us time to check out the stage configuration – there’s a massive catwalk stretching into the crowd in the shape of the Stones’ classic tongue logo, surrounding a section right in front of the action which is crammed with lucky (or well-organised) punters who certainly can’t get much closer to their heroes. Abruptly, without warning, the lights dim and there’s a wash of flashing bright red lights and the production is jawdropping already and we haven’t even started – it’s immense and classy but (unlike some previous Stones tours) isn’t distracting, leaving the band and their music front and centre (as it should be) – and suddenly the band are there too and the riffs to Jumpin’ Jack Flash fill every nook and cranny of the entire space and people are losing their shit everywhere you look. The iconic song sounds incredibly pristine, matching the remarkable energy of the band members (given their vintage) who back this up with typical sartorial elegance; frontman Mick Jagger is rocking a burgundy dinner jacket and exhorts the crowd to give more back (as if they need it), legendary hedonist (and part-time guitar slinger) Keith Richards is debonair in his now trademark pirate chic ensemble (he’d look cool in anything and knows it), drummer Charlie Watts is typically understated in a simple yellow short-sleeved shirt while axeman Ronnie Wood is sporting more traditional rock’n’roll attire in the form of leather jacket, jeans and coloured sneakers (although somehow it looks like his combined outfit would cost a mint). As they move onto It’s Only Rock’N’Roll (But I Like It) Jagger is disrobing already, discarding his jacket to free him up for his now well-practiced stage routine, and the fans are in raptures everywhere – watching people lose their shit watching their fave band never gets old (whether you dig the music or not).

If it wasn’t for the odd close-up on the big screens you’d never be able to tell that these guys are so old (the key players are all in their seventies or thereabouts, for fuck’s sake) such is their vitality and unabashed enthusiasm for the music they’re still playing after all these years. At this juncture inveterate back-up singers Lisa Fischer and Bernard Fowler join the fray (both have been touring with the Stones for 25 years now) on stage left and add massive heft to You Got Me Rocking – the soul quotient rising exponentially – before Jagger strips off another shirt as they segue smoothly into Tumbling Dice, the singer running out onto the tongue catwalk and instantly transforming the crowd before him into a sea of phone screens as everyone vies for a memory. Two sax players (Tim Reis and Karl Denson, sadly stalwart Bobby Keys was too ill to make the trip Down Under) take up their positions on stage right’s extremity and immediately fill out the sound wonderfully, the arrangement bulbous and pulsating but with perfect sonic separation. Bass player Daryl Jones (another guy who’s racked up two decades now touring the world as part of this crew) seems content to take a back seat and let his huge bottom end do the talking, while keyboardist Chuck Leavell is more flamboyant and happy to bring the party to proceedings (also adding a lot with his backing vocals throughout the evening). Jagger takes the opportunity at the song’s conclusion to address the crowd, faux-mocking the Brisbane-ites for their civil behavior during the G20 summit, a mention of Tony Abbott prompting the now-expected boos even amidst the frivolity, before Brisbane’s sole song selection (each city was given four songs to vote on to give some ownership of the set-list) Silver Train is announced as the winner; when Jagger labels the task, “a bit of an ask” and says they’ll, “try to remember the arrangement” he’s not kidding, as until they dusted off the track from 1973’s Goat Head Soup earlier this year it hadn’t graced a Stones live set since 1973! It’s solid without being spectacular and is mainly notable for introducing former Stones guitarist Mick Taylor to proceedings – he’s heavier on his feet these days but still nimble of fingers, although he seems slightly agitated about the onstage sound – while Jagger gets his harmonica out and Wood lights a cigarette in clear contravention of BEC guidelines (there’s got to be some perks to being a Stone). Soon the well-worn intro to Bitch reinstates some familiarity – it’s slicker than the ubiquitous studio version but still sounds marvellous – and Jagger shows off more of those familiar stage moves, a man born to strut if ever there weas one (I hope I can get around like that when I reach his heady age). Richards takes the spotlight for the eastern coda introducing Paint It Black, Wood sparking another ciggie, and the inherent ‘60s sound of this track is notably sparser (it’s great that they don’t try to spruik it up). Weirdly the song has become so synonymous with the Vietnam War (after years of syncing in movies and TV shows) that it seems to evoke a tinge of sadness, but suddenly Leavell is banging on cow bells (who doesn’t love cow bells?) and the mood instantly lifts a notch as they power into the evergreen Honky Tonk Women (complete with semi-NSFW cartoon behind them of a gigantic bikini-clad babe playing the traditional King Kong role atop a skyscraper, instantly subverting years of anti-simian stereotypes in the process) – Leavell’s role shifts (but doesn’t lessen) as his keys dominate the songs raucous outro.

Don't miss a beat with our FREE daily newsletter

At this stage Sir Mick takes time out to pose with a large toy koala before introducing the band (Fischer gets gifted the koala) and then disappearing into the backstage recesses, leaving his old mate Keith to take over the vocal reins for a while (clearly to give Jagger’s voice a break in an attempt to manage the soreness which caused them to cancel the Hanging Rock gig a week or so back). Richards also lights a ciggie and has a quick chat before he and Wood run through blues standard You Got The Silver, then the rest of the band rejoins them for Before They Make Me Run and then an excellent take on Happy (with Wood happily having another

dart as he sits and wrings notes from the steel guitar which gives the song its heart). Keith seems to relish this extra responsibility (purportedly this is only the third time ever that he’s been afforded a three-song stanza during a Stones concert) and it gives a bit of a break from the intensity which has typified the gig to date. It occurs that it’s great just knowing that Richards is still out there doing his thing, as if the world will be a lesser place when he’s gone just because he won’t be in it breaking all the rules.

Soon two Micks walk out of the shadows (not the start of a racist joke) – Taylor with his axe and Jagger with his trusty harmonica – and they kick into Midnight Rambler, the former soon launching into a scorching solo (with apparently no sound qualms this time). Jagger disposes of another jacket after whirling it around his head like a cowboy with a lasso, then dances the entire distance of the tongue – he’s lean and lithe and clearly in love with himself and his band and their music, maybe even us (although that matters little) – and then prompts an extended bout of audience participation; Jagger is like the undisputed king of showmen the way he so effortlessly works the crowd, somehow making even the most outlandishly garish and hackneyed stage conceits seem pure and uncontrived, as if this is just how singers are meant to carry on and cajole. They jam the song out for ages (enough to give this writer pause to consider how this great song inadvertently birthed another great tune in the form of Turbonegro’s Midnight NAMBLA, no doubt a conversation for another time) before it finally reaches its inevitable conclusion. Jagger grabs a guitar and poses the rhetorical question, “Feel like a sing?” to the doting mob before him, and they move into Miss You which finds the backing singers in their element during the high-pitched part of the chorus. The song’s slight disco-affectation allows Jones the chance to shine, and he shows off by dropping a big fat, funky bass solo before the saxophones kick in and the three main Stones hit the catwalk, Ronnie and Keith replete with axes and showering riffs over their delighted fans from ludicrously close range. Wood flicks guitar picks into the crowd at regular intervals and you get the impression that the whole band is genuinely happy – it’s hard to tell whether they’re happy to be here or just happy to be, but it’s infectious and lifts the mood even closer towards the stars. Jagger grabs maracas and soon we’re amidst the eerie intro to Gimme Shelter, anticipation enveloping the room as it builds and stretches until nuance takes over and the classy number flowers into bloom, the powerhouse Fischer taking her turn out on the tongue and unleashing those incredible lungs – in this band even the side-players are showstoppers – her and Sir Mick belting vocals at each other as if nothing else in the world even exists. The riffs at the opening of Start Me Up seem to be the biggest riffs ever known to man – echoing through the whole body, prompting a mini-existential crisis – and Wood shows why cordless guitars rule by skittering a lap of the tongue in full flight. It’s captivating to the extreme – for the most part the magnificent productions on the big screens behind them are virtually redundant, such is the visual magnetism of the band themselves – and the genuine cavalcade of gold continues as the venue is bathed in virtual flames and Jagger emerges sporting a strange cape of red-feathered plumage and they unveil the iconic Sympathy For The Devil, prompting a lap of the tongue from Richards this time (for the lucky punters inside the tongue it must be like being surrounded by circling sharks, what an experience).

Next nugget on offer is Brown Sugar and we’re by now running low on superlatives – indeed it’s becoming quite befuddling trying to comprehend how this one tiny unit of people was responsible for so much of the music which has become ingrained in (and integral to) the cultural fabric of our society, to the point where one must say ‘fuck it’ and continue to dance – and the crowd and band are belting the refrain at each other in the complete spirit of joie de vivre and then suddenly it’s over: someone sprouts, “Goodnight Brisbane!” and the players exit, leaving the arena bathed in both silence and darkness.

Even the most casual of concert goers here tonight is aware that there’s more to come, accordingly it’s a patient rather than ravenous reception that greets the black-clad choir which shuffles onto either extremity of the enormous stage and offers the haunting refrain of You Can’t Always Get What You Want. A golden French horn sounds the intro to the classic song and Jagger enters the fray with an acoustic guitar and an entire new outfit, his voice full and strong and hitting the inflections perfectly (he doesn’t drop a nuance let alone a note). The audience gets a turn and acquits itself well (although it would be hard to fuck up singing, “you can’t always get what you want”, it comes pretty naturally) and then Mick gets his own jazz hands going and the tempo lifts and it all closes with a resounding chorale farewell (the members of the Vibrancy choir from the Cuskelly College of Music no doubt relishing their six or seven minutes of fame). Soon they’re into (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction and the older devotees in our midst are going crazy for their generational anthem, and it’s mayhem aplenty – Richards doing a lap of the tongue, Taylor amidst the onstage reverie saying goodbye, Watts up the back in his typically nonchalant manner, Jagger still dancing that inimitable dance – and then it’s over once more. They gather mid-stage this time and take a group bow, someone passing Keith a flag of some description which he drags backstage, and then after a few minutes of teasing darkness (could they do another encore? Do they have any songs left?) the lights come up and we’re done.

It’s hard to articulate the majesty and sheer joy of this performance. I last saw the Stones on the Voodoo Lounge tour back in 1995 and thought that the experience would never be topped, that they’d be soon too old to pull off a performance of that magnitude, but here we were the best part of twenty years later and they’ve still got it. More than still got it, they’re delivering imperial shows which one can barely even contemplate being bettered by anyone. An incomparable catalogue of impossibly cool classics being delivered with complete love, reverence and conviction before an ocean of devoted acolytes – rock’n’roll nirvana.