I remember the day that I realized Mick Jagger was older than the President of the United States, Bill Clinton. I marveled at this compact, Dionysian figure of lean, confident sexuality who without question was still the world's greatest rock ‘n’ roll frontman.
It was the night I saw 100 Keith Richardses at the Viper Room on Sunset Boulevard, wearing their girlfriends’ mascara on their Oxycontin eyes -- bandanas self-consciously buried in jet-black bangs, shuffling en masse to the bar in vintage high-heeled boots, squeezed into the tightest trousers ever made while nonchalantly knocking back another shot of Jack Daniels with skull rings flashing a beacon for all to see.
At the clubs, "Brown Sugar" was played by innumerable musicians, eyes closed in a Babylonian trance. It was a Rolling Stone reverie, both making love to Marianne Faithfull and smoking a spliff with Keef in his Jamaican getaway whilst carousing with Ronnie Wood and some Eastern European green-eyed teenage model/waitress in Paris -- playing guitar and kneeling in front of Charlie Watts’ bass drum as Mick's sweat flew over the first few lucky rows.
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