Monday, September 10, 2018

The band hadn’t been rehearsing enough and there was a gig coming up. I wondered if I’d even remember how to play all these songs, whether I’d have to improvise my parts. C. W. did always say we played great after a bad rehearsal, I thought.

I was listening to “Satisfaction,” how this was the beginning of Keith playing like Keith plays, the double-guitar riffing thing, except it wasn’t, really. Only in my dream. At the end of the tune Charlie played repeated accents on his snare, and I knew they were coming: Yeah the twister comes, here comes the twister, bang-bang-bang, except that’s not a Rolling Stones song at all, is it?

The Stones were now playing behind a gauzy curtain to the side of an arena, and I was sitting in a floor seat. I craned my head to the right to watch their familiar shadows: Mick prancing, Keith and Ronnie doing what they do. It’s not clear why they chose to be shrouded.

We were on a bus tour through Central Europe. We were advised to look out for the anti-semitic relics on one particular street, signs or messages from a darker time. Except why were they still there, I wondered. For the tourists?