MY FIGHT WITH THE ROLLING STONES

I’ve told this story once or twice before but never imagined I’d be telling it again so many years after the stirring events described below – and that the Stones would still be rolling. 

In 1965 they visited Ireland for the second time, to play the Adelphi cinema in Middle Abbey Street, Dublin. It was then a big auditorium seating some 2,000 people. These touring shows would have several other artists on the bill, with the headline act coming on at the end for a mere thirty minutes or so. “Pop” tours, as they were called then, invariably used the cinema chains in Britain and Ireland, as these were the biggest indoor venues available, and things had not reached the stage of having huge outdoor concerts. For one thing, the technology was not there: even in the cinema gigs, the performers used the venue’s public address system for the vocals, and quite puny (by today’s standards) amplifiers for the guitars. 

So you had to have good ears to hear the songs above the audience screams, especially if the headliners were of the stature of the Stones or the Beatles. Mention of the Liverpudlians brings us to a crucial element of this tale. (Elderly raconteur pauses for coughing fit and takes sip of  reviving barley water before resuming). In those far off days, children, one was either a Stones fan or a Beatles fan: you could not be both. I was definitely of the Beatle persuasion; I simply liked their clever way with words. Also, they wrote their own songs, while the arriviste Londoners were still doing “cover versions” (their first two singles after all were written by the Beatles, while their third, “Not Fade Away” had been a ‘fifties hit by Buddy Holly and the Crickets. (You see? I’m getting partisan all over again).  

Shortly before the Stones’ second coming I had begun work with Hugh McLaughlin’s “Creation” magazine group. It was a small operation then, based in Grafton Street (where Creation arcade still stands). I was Editorial Assistant (and tea-maker). “Creation” magazine was a glossy fashion publication edited by the proprietor’s wife, Nuala. They had also recently launched the more downmarket  Woman’s Way magazine with some success, and then decided it was time to target the teen market. Someone thought it was a brilliant idea to call this new magazine Miss (this was long before the sisterhood invented “Ms”, which used to be short for manuscript). As the youngest member of the staff, I pointed out that “Miss” was the opposite of “Hit”. Nobody listened, and the magazine all too soon lived up to its title. 

But while it was still alive, the Stones revisited Dublin. Before their arrival I wrote a piece about them for Miss magazine, strongly making out the case that the Beatles were of an entirely superior order to these upstarts. The Stones had quite successfully managed their early publicity to portray them as the “bad boys” of the music business. They were not quite the anti-Christ, but they were definitely the anti-Beatles (who, paradoxically had been quite a rough lot before Brian Epstein put them in suits and mop-top hairstyles). The British tabloids loved to seize any opportunity to show the Rolling Stones in a bad light. The group (not a band) under the influence of their then manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, were happy to oblige: it kept them on the front pages, upset the adults and endeared them to the rebellious teenagers of both sexes. My article naturally recycled most of these stories (I think one accused two of them of urinating on a wall at the back of a motorway petrol station: really shocking stuff). 

On the day of the Adelphi concert, the Rolling Stones were ensconced in the Intercontinental Hotel (later Jurys) in Ballsbridge. They were not available for interviews, and in any event, Irish papers had little interest in the doings of rock groups, either on or off stage. But we gung-ho journos  in Miss Magazine (photographer Val Sheehan and the present writer) decided to breach the citadel.  

Our secret weapon was a chap who had recently returned from London where he had made the acquaintance of  Andrew Loog Oldham. Our friend joined us in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel and persuaded the receptionist to make a phone call to the Stones’ manager on the top floor. At first the response was “no interviews”, but our friend had earlier sent a copy of  Miss Magazine (with my anti-Stone diatribe) to Oldham, and when he heard that the author was downstairs we were invited up. 

Okay, I didn’t quite have a “fight” with the Rolling Stones, but it came close at one stage. I grinned manfully as they launched sarcastic barbs at my journalistic effort. Among other things, I had opined that Mick Jagger could not sing, and I stuck to that in his presence. Brian Jones (that’s how long ago this was) came into the room looking quite dapper. He grinned and agreed with me, but perhaps he was just stirring things (or could this have been the very beginnings of the rift between Brian and the other boys). I did tell Mick that on their records his voice was virtually inaudible behind the guitars and drums. He jested that this was to make people buy the records so they could learn the words. Charlie Watts merely looked hurt; Bill Wyman said little that I recall, but Keith Richard was another matter.

Part of my article claimed that their previous show in the Adelphi had been a very tame affair compared to the Beatles show there in November 1963. This seemed to particularly provoke the great guitar man. I had impugned their reputation by suggesting that the girls had screamed and wept louder for the Liverpudlian outfit. He advanced towards me with the words (engraved on my memory): “I’ve a good mind to give you a bust in the snot”. But the others restrained him. Instead of busting my snot, he then said, “I suppose you think the Beatles are saints.” Before I could demur he launched into an impersonation of John Lennon. Pressing a finger to the tip of his nose to make it resemble the lattter’s acquiline proboscis, he lurched, stiff-legged around the room, demanding in pure scouse: “Have you got a joint? If you haven’t, you can fuck off.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. I remember being vaguely puzzled as to why he thought John Lennon would get so worked up about a rib roast or any cut of meat for that matter. Shortly thereafter I made my excuses and left, unbowed and fortunately unbloodied, too.

I never did become a Stones fan, and I’ve never gone to another of their gigs. I’d be afraid Keith might spot me in the crowd.

Éanna Brophy (copyright)