Playing the Indian Card

Thursday, July 04, 2013

Brian Jones and the Day the Music Died

I was never a special fan of the Rolling Stones back in the 60's or 70's. I liked the Stones; everyone I hung out with did. But they were not really my cup of tea. I was a folkie.

Now, they fascinate me. I do not think this is only because they are a still-surviving, seemingly timeless, part of my youth. Though this is certainly part of it. I read a piece recently that suggested they should retire, fergodsake, that they looked ridiculous strutting and rocking at their age. I thought, good God, no, their age is an important part of their coolness. It is part of their rebellion that they still refuse to "act grown up." They refuse to get over simple rock and roll.

And they are right. I have come to believe that there is something timeless about rock and roll. The thing about a good rock song is that once it gets going, it sounds like it could go forever. And it never really wears thin.

The Stones have become the emblem of that.

And there is something else. I discover I have never really gotten over the death of Brian Jones. The death of Brian Jones may have been what really killed the Sixties. If it wasn't Altamont, five months later, in which the Stones were also, literally, at centre stage.

It seems obvious to me that Brian Jones had what we call "manic depression," or "bipolar disorder." Undiagnosed and, of course, untreated.

So what? Well, besides anguishing over what Jones must have gone through, good as the Stones are, I still feel that somehow Jones made them much better. His musical inventiveness on a wide variety of instruments was really something special.

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