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Salient.Victoria University of Wellington Students' Newspaper. Volume 32, No. 17 July 23, 1969

Obituary

Obituary

Mick Jagger, Keith Richard, Bill Wyman, Charlie Watts. And—Mick Taylor. There was a time when the second name would have been "Brian Jones" and Mick Jagger would have been the outlawed guitarist in John Mayall's latest group, but suddenly the incredible split and harpist, guitarist and latterly multi-instrumental Jones tells the Press that "my music and the Stones' music are no longer the same."

And a week or two later he's found face downwards in his regulation star's private swimming pool, doped to the eyebrows with "asthma tablets', we are told discreetly, very dead. I can think of no more appropriate or ironic end for an unsure, unwilling star.

The story of the Rolling Stones is basically a familiar one. It started with Brian Jones' band playing hard, uncompromising, R. and B. at a time when everyone else joined him, they made a couple of singles, an L.P. and became the top British group. Just like that. The mixture of an undiluted musical style and total rebellion against authority was an unbeatable one for the displaced mods and rockers of 1964. They were more than a group, exulted producer Andrew Long Oldham, sacrificing originality for enthusiasm, they were a way of life. And for once this tired old cliche was reasonably appropriate. They wore their hair long, they dressed scruffly, they made no concessions to "respectable society" when they played, they were just what was happening. Mick loved it. Keith got a perverse sarcastic pleasure out of it. Bill got married. Charlie ignored it. And Brian coasted for a while.

From the start Brian's interest was purely in his music and the cult thing was acceptable only so far as it was related to the blues. He was a curious mixture of rebel and conformist—he wouldn't be told what to do, but he wanted to be left alone to do it. He and Mick were always the most intelligent ones in the group, but while Mick's press releases were more often than not exuberant "look at me's", Brian was happier talking quietly and articulately in a low Kent accent about his music—"look at us". As well as the hectic strain of travelling and playing night after night, there were the dual pressures on pop stars—the older people insisting the Rolling Stones lead exemplary lives; the younger people insisting the Rolling Stories lead their fans.

Either way the group would be constantly in the public eye and what they did would he news, supported by one generation, decried by another. There was a paternity suit against Brian by the mother of a young "groupie" which he didn't defend, drug stories began to appear and the music became wilder and wilder. By 1965 the Stones were writing their own material more or less exclusively and harmonica was used more and more sparingly. Brian began to diversify, playing sitar on Paint It Black, marimbas on Under My Thumb, harpischord on Play With Fire and lately saxophone, but he was only average on them. The sound was becoming increasingly dominated by the other four with Brian filling in with a new sound where required, and he was beginning to feel insecure as to where the Stones' music was going.

He told the Press the Stones were moving away from Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley toward Paul McCartney, the Moody Blues and San Francisco, and he was becoming increasingly nervous. At the beginning he was always the most talkative of the group when it came to music, but over the last two or three years he became taciturn, moody, and insecure. He took drugs now as a necessity not as a kick, and when he was tried for possessing marihuana, he was acquitted awaiting a psychiatrist's report. He had only felt really alive, he said, playing to a responsive audience and exchanging mutual vibrations—this was two years before everyone from the Maharishi and Yoko Ono to the latest Bubble-gum group hacked the word to death. Now the Stones played so rarely that he coufld only really enjoy himself when he was recording. What he really wanted was to go back to playing in dingy little clubs as a relative untknown, go back to playing blues, but the others were happy in their number two group status. He broke from them on an impulse, and suddenly realised the truth of the "never go home" homily.

He go drunk, stayed drunk and had a three-day party. And died of the symbols of a life he chose but didn't want.

It's easy to over-sentimentalise over the classic pop tragedy, and easy to understand how he died. It's easy to sec his story in perspective now and realise that it is he, not the tough Mick Jaggers and John Lennons, not the sincere Cliff Richards, not the trite Mia Farrows, who represent his, our generation. He was not a hero, he was nothing but a poor bloke destroyed by his friends.

And two weeks ago there was a memorial concert, performed by Mick Jagger, Keith Richard, Bill Wyman, Charlie Watts.

And Mick Taylor.

Simon Morris