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Rolling Stones
Listen to Rolling Stones:
London, England in the late ‘50s was awash with a music scene that was referred to as trad jazz. Inspired by the New Orleans jazz tradition of the American South, trad jazz was derivative and strict, thriving on pointless rules regarding style, play, and appropriate material. It became obsessed with purity while completely ignoring the fact that there really wasn’t anything pure about white, English people playing African-American jazz. The imposed limitations of trad jazz exerted a stranglehold on the British music scene until a counter-movement developed to challenge this restrictive style. The counter-movement was another form of African-American music: the blues. Between trad jazz and the blues, the English obsession with the musical styles of the American Negro was consummate.
Whether it came from Texas, Chicago, or the Mississippi Delta, the blues was essentially black in its heritage; most white Americans ignored or knew almost nothing about the blues. But in England, particularly London, American blues singers were being elevated to the point of hero worship. Although initially small in number, English blues fans were fanatical purists who spurned trad jazz purists, and vice versa. Since trad jazz was firmly ensconced in the London club scene, blues bands were usually not welcome to perform in these venues. Initially, it was fans of the less stringent skiffle scene who found a certain compatibility with this style. Blues Incorporated was an incipient conglomeration of musicians who became enamored with the blues. Members included Alexis Korner (guitar), Cyril Davies (harmonica), Jack Bruce (yes, that Jack Bruce, on bass), and Charlie Watts (drums) among others. From this seed sprouted an English blues scene that would eventually grow so large it would overshadow the beat group scene and dominate Western popular music well into the ‘70s.
As legend has it, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were previous acquaintances who crossed paths at a train station while commuting from their respective schools. Richards, an avid Chuck Berry fan, couldn’t help but notice the brand new record albums that Jagger had ordered direct from Chess Records and was carrying home with him. A friendship developed, and for fun they began to rehearse off-the-record versions of their favorite songs, along with a mutual friend named Dick Taylor (later of the Pretty Things) and some others. One night the three novice musicians ventured to the Ealing Jazz Club (a venue that broke down and allowed blues music), where they saw Brian Jones sitting in and playing slide guitar under the pseudonym of Elmo Lewis. Later on, they also met a square-jawed blues enthusiast named Ian Stewart (“Stu”), who played a mean barrelhouse piano. It should be stressed that the attraction between these various characters was somewhat obvious-the blues scene was in its infancy and they all felt as though they shared a passion for something that still was generally unknown. Jones was intent on forming his own band so he brought these sundry characters together for rehearsals.
Jagger, meanwhile, had submitted an audition tape to Blues Incorporated and was accepted as a part-time member. Soon afterward, the BBC offered that band a prestigious radio appearance but would only allow six members into the studio. Jagger, being number seven, volunteered to stand down and cover their usual slot at London’s Marquee Club with his other group. The lineup of Jones, Jagger, Richards, Taylor, Stewart, and Mick Avory (later of the Kinks) took the stage that night with a name that Jones chose: “The Rollin’ Stones.” The evening was mostly uneventful, except for some controversy that was provoked by Jagger’s daringly effeminate stage presence. When Taylor quit the group, they hired Bill Wyman, for his excellent equipment as much as for his bass playing. All that was left to complete the classic lineup was Charlie Watts. Watts also had belonged to Blues Incorporated but quit when he lost interest in playing drums professionally. He was replaced by Ginger Baker. The Stones, aware of his availability and tired of the ineptitude of their other drummers, offered him the drum slot. In a move that he felt displayed a complete lack of common sense, he said yes.
Georgio Gomelsky, a garrulous Russian immigrant, befriended the Rolling Stones and actively began to promote them through appearances at his nightclubs and advertisements in music magazines. Their popularity was increasing steadily when nineteen-year-old impresario Andrew Loog Oldham and his business partner, Eric Easton, convinced the Rolling Stones to sign them on as managers. Gomelsky felt betrayed since he had a verbal agreement with the band, but without documentation he could lay no claim and would have to satisfy himself with his other discovery, the Yardbirds. Oldham immediately took charge of creative matters and focused on the group’s image. The Rolling Stones were the most frighteningly sloppy and rude bunch of curs he ever had the pleasure to meet, but he felt that Stewart just didn’t look radical enough for his vision of the band. Oldham sacked him offhandedly, then threw him a bone by allowing him to remain on as chief roadie and occasional studio musician. Next, he pitched the band to Dick Rowe, the infamous Decca Records talent scout who had become famous as “the man who turned down the Beatles.” Eager not to make the same mistake twice, Rowe was an easy target and immediately signed the band. The Stones released Chuck Berry’s “Come On” as their first single in June 1963 and dented the British charts at #20. Using Berry and Chess Records’ sound as their firmament, they kicked off what was to become the lengthiest career of any group in all of rock-and-roll.
The universality of the blues songs the Rolling Stones covered stood in marked contrast to the divisive parochialism of their own material. “Satisfaction” placed them squarely in the center ring of the rock-and-roll circus by mocking convention. “Get Off of My Cloud” did the same. Thematically, it closely followed the rage of its predecessor, but sonically, it resembled a wall of mud. As the song goes on, the verses degenerate into a series of disconnected and often inaudible vignettes that are tenaciously held together by the chorus. The Stones’ sound, particularly in their early days, was always rough and crude (some would say inept), but it still had a certain authenticity. “Get Off of My Cloud” turned crudity from a liability into a virtue by capitalizing on the vagueness of the material while defining its grit. It wasn’t a traditional blues song, yet it somehow qualified. It was a white, privileged, perhaps more refined blues tune of the Martin Mull variety. Mull’s blues went, “I woke up this afternoon, I saw both cars were gone (repeat two times). I felt so lowdown deep inside, I threw my drink across the lawn.” It isn’t much of a reach to imagine Jagger singing those words. The Stones’ version goes, “Hey, you! Get off of my cloud!” There you have it: even middle class white kids sometimes get the blues.
 
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