Concert logic works like this: The smaller the venue, the better the show.
Has to be, right? It's why every kinda Stones nut is all worked up about
tonight's gig at the Wiltern Theatre, for which some surely would sell their
children into slavery to attend.
Forget the inherent rarity factor, that this could be the night they play
(insert favorite relic you've been waiting 25 years to witness live here).
Concert logic works more fundamentally than that. It dictates that even if the
Stones played the exact same set they offered Saturday night before 45,000-plus
at Edison International Field of Anaheim, it automatically would be a better
experience at the Wiltern.
Reason: Every fan would be within shouting distance of the band, thus the
symbiosis between artists and audience would have to be more electrifying. How
can freezing in the uppermost of the upper decks behind home plate compare with
rubbing shoulders with fewer than 2,500, all of whom can probably smell whatever
funk is emanating from Keith Richards' indescribable wardrobe?
Right?
Rubbish.
Ponder this one: What does it mean that the Stones were better at the Big Ed
than they were at Staples on Halloween? I don't mean slightly. I mean remarkably
better — and, mind you, that first show outdid any extravaganza they had
brought to town in the past decade.
What it means, I think, is that like everything else about this ambitious
Licks Tour, the Stones are once again bucking the odds, defying logic for the
first time since, what, "Some Girls" proved punk hadn't killed them?
There's an inspired vitality to these geezers now, a sincere exuberance, a
determination, perhaps fueled by the sort of deep-seated devil- may-care
attitude that only comes with age — something that barely could be detected
amid the gloss of the Bridges to Babylon and Voodoo Lounge outings. Maybe it's
because this time they aren't peddling anything but their storied legacy. And
maybe that kicked them into overdrive: They realize we will no longer tolerate
meager rehashes of classics as certainly as they know we'll politely stand for
another airing of that limp new single "Don't Stop."
They have no choice but to damn expectations, prove that the Stones at 60 are
as musically important as, oh, Muddy Waters or John Lee Hooker at 70. More so,
actually: Those giants were constricted by genre, first of all, but more
obviously, they wouldn't have had the first clue what to do with a stadium crowd.
What the Stones did for this sea of screamers, many twinkling in the dark via
$10 flashing tongue pins, went well beyond requirements. They brought more
spectacle than at Staples, sure — bigger video screens and vibrant backdrops
on a stage wide enough to consume the outfield — but never so much that it
overwhelmed the basics on stage. More Mick get-ups, that's a given, but none
were outlandish, and everything he put on wound up ripped off in a moment of
passion.
More hits, too, but also as much variety: Who expected three more "Exile"
cuts, including a horn-blasted "All Down the Line" and a regal,
raise-your-poison rendition of "Sweet Virginia"? At the stadium show?
Then again, more than half of the set list changed. Among the songs new to
this SoCal stretch: a hard-charging "When the Whip Comes Down," a
steamy and seamy "Little Red Rooster" and their rich redo of Dylan's
"Like a Rolling Stone," all small-stage selections; "Angie,"
utterly lovely; "Sympathy for the Devil," replete with sky-searing
fireballs and Jagger at his most theatrical; two different Keith choices, the
self-deprecation of "The Worst" (a little too quiet to connect) and a
grinning "Happy."
Far and away the highlight, though, was a majestic take on "You Can't
Always Get What You Want," its glory glowing, leading into an unerring,
instinctively muscular tear through "Midnight Rambler" that zapped
Mick like he was a shocked monkey. I'd stack it against any version you've got
in your bootleg collection.
Very little of the 22-song show missed, one great performance tumbling into
another. In fact, the only predictable aspects were the opening ("Brown
Sugar" into "It's Only Rock 'n' Roll" into "Start Me
Up") and the finish ("Honky Tonk Women," abetted by Sheryl Crow,
into "Street Fighting Man" into "Jumping Jack Flash" into
"Satisfaction," with an Angels-praising "You Got Me Rocking"
tossed in for good measure). Yet all of those tunes were delivered with more
zest and punch — and, on Mick's part, sharper singing — than at Staples.
That, naturally, conforms to Stones logic, which is like no other in rock:
They are larger than life, so of course they would burn hottest when at their
most enormous. The setting makes them stronger, a wizened, done-it-all bunch
empowered by the youthfulness of a band half its age. Ron Wood said before this
tour began that they're playing better than they have in years. For once, that
wasn't just hyperbole to help sell tickets.
Edison Field, Los Angeles,
California
