British Prime Minster Tony Blair, however, was a huge fan of the band, especially Mick. According to the memoir of Peter Mandelson, a former British Labor Party politician, Blair once approached the singer a party in 1997, saying, “I just want to say how much you’ve always meant to me.” Insiders say the Stones frontman had inspired the PM’s schoolboy dreams of becoming a rock star. On numerous occasions Blair urged the Queen to consider knighting him, but she was adamant in her refusal. No wonder Mick often referred to her as “Chief Witch.”

To Her Majesty, Mick represented a hedonistic, rebellious lifestyle. He had been fined for public urination in 1965, was arrested for drug possession in 1967 and 1968, and was charged by police for allegedly assaulting a photographer in 1972. He was clearly NOT an asset to British culture in her mind. On top of that, he did little charity work and avoided paying U.K. taxes by living abroad.

But what really ticked her off was his long-time friendship — and rumored romantic liaison — with her sister, Princess Margaret (pictured), a drinking, smoking, partying free spirit. Despite her marriage to Lord Snowdon, she flirted shamelessly, particularly with younger men. The Princess chatted with Mick on the phone for hours and invited him to lots of posh events. Once, at a party in London celebrating the arrival of poet Allen Ginsburg, she, along with Mick and assorted pillars of British society, snacked on brownies that had been laced to the max with hashish. Margaret became so sick she ended up being rushed to the hospital.

According to Harold Brooks-Baker, publisher of Burke’s Peerage, “The Queen could tolerate the Beatles because they were clean-cut and sort of sweet — at least, that was their reputation at the time. The Stones were an entirely different matter.”

But, given the Stones’ huge international appeal as the second greatest British rock act of all time, she could no longer avoid the inevitable, and eventually approved his knighthood. And Mick had the gall to postpone the ceremony numerous times!

By then, the Queen wanted nothing to do with the event. She decided to have elective surgery on her left knee that day, to make sure she was as far away from Buckingham Palace as possible.

So, Prince Charles ended up doing the honors on December 12, 2003. Did Mick feel snubbed by Her Majesty?  Maybe, but in the end, he had her under his thumb. He snubbed her by being the only member of the rock knights society – which includes Paul McCartney, Elton John, Cliff Richard, and Tom Jones – who didn’t perform for the Queen at the Golden Jubilee pop concert that marked her 50 years on the throne.

And how did Mick’s fellow Stones regard the knighthood? Said low-keyed drummer Charlie Watts in his memoir According to the Rolling Stones, “Anybody else would be lynched: 18 wives and 20 children and he’s knighted, fantastic!”

But it was guitarist Keith Richards who came down the hardest on his long-time mate. He called the knighthood a “paltry honour,” and said he did not want to occupy a stage with someone wearing a “coronet and sporting the old ermine.” [Hey, Mick could easily pull off that look.]

According to one source, an exchange between the so-called Glimmer Twins went something like this:

Keith: What the f**k would you want with that? That’s not what we’re about.
Mick: Paul has one, and Elton. It’s not really the kind of thing you turn down, is it?
Keith: You can turn down anything you like, pal. Tell them to stick it up their ass.

Here’s what Sir Mick and scoundrel Keith had to say to reporters on the subject. If the anti-establishment John Lennon had lived, I can imagine him having a similar reaction to Paul’s knighthood! 

© Dana Spiardi, Dec 12, 2014

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My parody of Mick Jagger’s much criticized put-down song, “Some Girls,” refers to his one-time lover (and reputedly the inspiration for the song “Brown Sugar”) Marsha Hunt. On this date in 2012, a set of 10 love letters the Monkey Man wrote to her in 1969 were auctioned off for  £187,250 ($305,929).

Hunt, a singer, novelist, and model who appeared in the original London production of Hair, met Mick in 1969. The couple secretly dated and produced a love child – Karis – born in 1970.

In his letters, Mick tells Hunt of the various literature he’s enjoying (the diaries of dancer and choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky and the poems of Emily Dickinson, whom he referes to ad “Dix”) and mentions the moon landing. Hunt said she’ll use the money from the auctioned letters to pay her electric bill and fund home repairs.

Karis is the first of seven children that Mick fathered with four different women. Interestingly, he’s always taken an active role in Karis’s life. How does he find the time for all these family affairs?

© Dana Spiardi, Dec 13, 2013

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RCA Victor – Progressive Piano, 1952

MONK: Thelonious Monk with Sonny Rollins and Frank Foster, 1954

Count Basie, 1955

The Velvet Underground & Nico, 1967

The Rolling Stones – Love You Live, 1977

John Lennon – Menlove Ave, 1986 (released posthumously)

The Smiths – Rough Trade, 1984

Billy Squier – Emotions in Motion, 1982

Aretha Franklin – Aretha, 1986

John Cale – The Academy in Peril, 1972

And – I’ve saved the best and most intricate for last: The Rolling Stones – Sticky Fingers, 1971
Here’s the original, which I’m lucky to own. The cover featured an actual working zipper; when pulled down, it revealed a flap printed with Andy’s name on white undies. People complained that the zipper damaged the adjacent album in the record cabinet! My LP is framed and hanging on my wall. The back cover is just as interesting. But who’s the model? My money’s on “Little Joe” D’Allesandro. But then…he never once gave it away.

The sleeve for the Stones’ Brown Sugar/Bitch single featured them covering their private parts with the album.

© Dana Spiardi, Aug 6, 2015

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How’s that for a teaser? Now that I have your attention, please allow me to introduce my midnight ramble about The Rolling Stones’ June 18 concert in Philadelphia, and — more specifically — the enduring appeal of the band’s strangely sexy frontman.

This year The Stones have been hanging fire all across North America with their 50 & Counting Tour. Fifty, as in 50 years of belting out what is arguably the most organic, unadulterated rock and roll ever to emerge from American blues, R&B, and country-honk tradition.

Musically, these borderline septuagenarians haven’t aged one iota. They skillfully jammed half a century’s worth of essential rock into a two hour show – rough edges and all – much to my eternal delight. And here’s just one indication of how much the 20,000 spectators savored every second: In my 37 years of attending rock concerts, this is the first time I witnessed NO ONE getting up for a pee break or beer run — not even during the show’s quietist number, “You Got The Silver.”

Hmmm…what song would open the show? I had refused to look at set lists from previous concerts, preferring to be surprised. So I’m betting “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” with that insane buzz-saw power riff. No, instead they hit the stage with a tame rendition of “Get Off Of My Cloud” – not exactly a powerhouse opener. But by the fourth song, “Gimme Shelter,” the thunder was rolling out of control, and it never stopped till the house lights came up. My favorite numbers? The harmonica infused “Midnight Rambler,” made all the more menacing by the grungy licks of former Stones guitarist Mick Taylor…the hip-grinding “Brown Sugar,” which featured the brilliant Bobby Keys blowing a spine-chilling sax solo…a Dante’s Inferno version of “Gimme Shelter,” with Lisa Fischer’s siren-like voice announcing the apocalypse…Mick, emerging from the shadows in a floor-length fur coat, imploring us to have some sympathy for his tail-twitching devil. Even Brad Paisley, the country artist who released the moronic “Accidental Racist,” rocked the house, credibly upping the cowboy quotient of “Dead Flowers.”

Would I have rather heard “Beast of Burden” than “Miss You”? Of course. Would I have chosen “Street Fighting Man” over “Start Me Up”; “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?” over “Emotional Rescue”? Absolutely. I’m never a big fan of catchy, mainstream hits. But, I’m not complaining. Nobody but The Stones can make decades-old Top 40 hits sound as vital as the day they first hit heavy rotation.

My dream of being close enough to the stage to see every vertical pleat on their leathery mugs was fully realized – thanks to my no-holds-barred approach to ticket buying. Mick was at his simian best, in shiny metallic jackets and pants so form-fitting that I wondered where he could have possibly stowed his stash — even if it is, according to Keith Richards, rather small. And speaking of Keef, he looked his usual bad boy self in his trademark gypsy-pirate head wrap, flashing his shiny New Millenium teeth. The Riff Master was having the time of his life staggering bent-kneed around the Tongue Pit, where disciples prayed to catch one of his flying guitar picks. Axeman Ronnie Wood, with his dyed-black 70s shag and skeletal frame, played with steely intensity; 8 stints in rehab haven’t numbed his chops one bit. Drummer Charlie Watts, the oldest member at 72, remains the zen master of this crew: ethereal, steadfast, and always elegant – even in a plain orange t-shirt. And bassist Darryl Jones kept the rhythm thumping, letting loose with an impromptu solo when Mick seemed to forget some lyrics to “Miss You.”

So, what’s the dope about me and Mick in that fountain? Well, in my senior year of high school I was in full-tilt Stones mania. Mick had always intrigued me. I loved to crank up the volume on “Sticky Fingers” and Jagger-dance in front of the mirror of my bedroom/rock shrine. I pored over photos of him in music mags: there he was, pouty-lipped, looking absolutely fetching in mascara, wispy bangs, scarves, and bare midriff tops. And that tiny butt, shimmying in slinky size 0 pants. Those of you too young or too old to experience this Jagger zeitgeist can’t possibly comprehend his appeal. You’re thinking he looks like a skinny old prune, but once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away…lots of us rock chicks were sleeping with Mick in our minds.

When the Stones were first starting out, a producer from England’s Thank Your Lucky Stars TV show told the band’s manager Andrew Loog Oldham: “Get rid of that vile-looking lead singer with the tire-tread lips.” Oh, if he only knew that janitors in dance clubs all across the U.K. were mopping teenybopper piss off the floor after concerts, cursing the monkey-boy singer who caused all this mayhem. Mick knew exactly what he was doing. Just listen to “Stray Cat Blues”: I bet your mama don’t know you scream like that…I bet your mother don’t know that you scratch like that.

Nobody writes about the erotic vibe of Mick and The Stones quite like rocker-poet Patti Smith. She first saw them perform on The Ed Sullivan Show, sitting in the living room with her dad, who was “cussing his brains out.” Here’s part of a famous rant she penned for the January 1973 issue of Creem magazine, titled “jag-arr of the jungle”:

That was my introduction to the Rolling Stones. they did Time is on my side, my brain froze. I was doing all my thinking between my legs. I got shook. light broke. they were gone and I cliff-hanging. like jerking off without coming. Pa snapped off the tv. but he was too late. they put the touch on me. I was blushing jelly. this was no mamas boy music. it was alchemical. I couldn’t fathom the recipe but I was ready. blind love for my father was the first thing I sacrificed to Mick Jagger.

Mick-lust often defies logic. Like the case with Princess Margaret, the libertine sister of England’s Queen Elizabeth II. It’s long been rumored that she had a fling with Mick in the 1970s. This is why it’s all the more remarkable that Her Majesty knighted him. Ah, but Queenie’s a shrewdie. She knows that Brit rockers have done more to swell her empire’s coffers than any number of old soldiers and scribes.

But decades before he became Sir Mick he was already on the path to high celebrity, rubbing elbows with various glitterati and titterati at pleasure domes like Studio 54. I would always love the greatest frontman of all time, but eventually my tastes would run along a darker line, and I would worship at the altar of Keith. His anti-authority, fame-eschewing persona is as sexy to me as any of Mick’s gyrations. And his riffs just slay me. Today I count him as one of my greatest rock-n-roll heroes — even if he can’t manage to color-coordinate his outfits. He just doesn’t give a shit.

So what makes these guys wanna hit the road for another tour — their 41st since 1963? Some say they’re only in it for the money. Well, I suppose Mick can always use another cool million to support his large brood of seven kiddies – which includes the illegitimate ones he’s always taken care of. But really, money doesn’t enter into the picture. What matters to them, and to us, is pure rock and roll. No gimmicks, no politics. Like the mighty cockroach, the music of The Rolling Stones will survive plague, nuclear war, and alien invasions. To end this tale, just call me mesmerized. I’m in need of some restraint.

Mick wishes Philly a happy birthday, thanks the mayor for declaring “Rolling Stones Week,” and presents his own little Liberty Bell.

© Dana Spiardi, June 26, 2013