(London)
Yeah, no question, the Rolling Stones are crucial -- one of the all-time top bands, yeah? -- but their first few albums really aren't essential. Part of the reason for this is illustrated nicely by the U.S. version of their debut, which is all self-conscious "raw" R&B that the group really isn't all that great at presenting, then suddenly they wrap themselves around their own composition, a mournful and dramatic ballad, and it's a revelation. The Stones' story is truly of a band pretending, and a band somewhat (but not always) in denial of their own skill set. That's not to say that they aren't perfectly serviceable at presenting the balls-out rock & roll of their black American heroes, just that they really digest and reformulate it for a different audience, the same way Pat Boone did; the more familiar you are with the original performances, the less likely you are to find much about the Stones' reconstructions that isn't just dull. Face it: the Beatles were more exciting, the Kinks were more genuinely raw. The Stones' mastery would come later.
But what of the constant Beatles vs. Stones arguments? What is the meaning of this meaningless conflict? Everything about it is half-baked except the important distinction between the two bands -- whereas the Beatles, from the Hamburg days on, were devoted wholly to precision as a concept, methodology, and livelihood, the Rolling Stones are about rock music that falls together, that seems to spontaneously be, giving the constant illusion (from the very first notes of "Not Fade Away" on this package) of being somehow off the cuff, therefore seeming real in a way the other British Invasion bands didn't necessarily. It's a neat trick, and it's already happening here. The band's interplay seems intriguingly deep-rooted, they're dedicated and tight and enthusiastic, but Mick Jagger isn't ready yet. He can't keep up. The way Buddy Holly chirped and hollered suggestively on the masterful original "Not Fade Away," Jagger just kind of barks and sneers the words out, as though he's singing them just to sing them and not because he wants something, namely you.
They were a big deal from the start; not only did they help usher in the rejuvenated worldwide ideal of London, they sold for the first time ever an image of rock & roll as a vehicle of attitude -- that was what it was, more than sex or kicks or anything else. They probably didn't give a shit, themselves; all evidence suggests that they, Brian Jones most of all, just wanted to bang out some songs and enjoy the ride, at least early on. Magic did happen in here, though; by the end of 1964, they'd be holding their own sharing a stage with James Brown. No doubt you can hear the roots of that talent and what was to come afterward here.
All the same, it remains a curious hybrid of remarkable innovation and stale posturing; call it prep school punk rock. The Stones' conception of R&B is so excessively polite, especially compared to the Beatles' outlandish guttings of pop songs in the same period, it's a wonder they don't get mentioned in a breath with the Tremeloes. The band does their best with what they're given on the hand-me-down "Little by Little" and try to give a tune-up to the staid "Route 66," but they can't really win; when the taste in cover material improves, their versions come across as all but pointless. They add nothing whatever to Chuck Berry's "Carol" or Marvin Gaye's "Can I Get a Witness," but perhaps they play well to folks who never really listened to the real songs.
Andrew Loog Oldham manipulated and coiffed the Stones to suit a marketplace's need, anyway, the same way Brian Epstein cleaned up the Beatles -- leading to a permanent misconception about the two bands. The Stones were the good kids, the bright and well cared-for young men whose lives were destined to be charmed with or without this boon. The Beatles were complicated fuckups, running with gangsters and hookers in Hamburg, getting into serious leather-jacketed trouble, falling in with avant garde scenes and brutal murderous teddy boys. Musically this doesn't amount to much, but it makes it laughable when people regard the early Beatles as cute stuffed animals. Compare John Lennon's impassioned and sensual mauling of the sweet-natured mild Motown "Please Mr. Postman" or, fuck, even Dave Davies' feverishly impulsive "Milk Cow Blues" to Mick Jagger's ridiculous "I'm a King Bee" and almost innocently rote "I Just Want to Make Love to You" and the issue here is obvious: as much as has been written to the contrary, the Stones were not a great R&B outfit and never would be.
But then there's "Tell Me," the sort of thing people never really talk about when discussing the early Stones. It's difficult to believe it dates from such an early point -- it bears all the hallmarks of a 1966-67 45 with even a hint of baroque psychedelia, encompassing even the four-minute runtime. None of the clean-cut theater of the rest of the album matters here; Jagger sounds felt and pained and completely in the moment, the band sounds somber and vaguely apocalyptic, and suddenly we seem to advance to a higher plane of some kind. Like magic, for these few moments they become not a cut-rate covers band but the Rolling Stones, and that's why we're here.
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