I catch the first cab I see; it is the one that nearly hit me coming our of the Garden onto Causeway St. The cab driver is a trifle taken back, but once he knows where I've come from, he warms up considerably. "What about that Jagger fella? Y'know I usta get sing in a band, a ways back. Usta get laid twenty times a night." The proprietors of the flowers shop are helpful. Particularly when it becomes apparent that six or eight dozen flowers wouldn't be nearly enough. I decide to spend the whole thirty dollars, and come away with a beautiful assortment of blue and yellow daisies, as well as the carnations and the roses, and some interesting glances as I make my way past the cops and back into the Garden.
Impressions: from the front of the Garden, the first thing you see in the middle of a show is that the haze climbs halfway to the roof and then stops. Before Bill disappeared, we toured the lobby; people were still coming in, they seemed quite ordinary, subjected to two ticket screenings, by the cops, the ticket takers, and further scrutiny at each section entrance. There was a painted Jagger look alike in the east corridor, with two ladies near a popcorn counter. People had reformed the same knots as they had before the show, union men here, roadies over by the stage, Charlie Daniels, Jane and Charlie's lady on an equipment trunk by the Stones dressing room. The whole area quieted considerably; there was an air of business as usual, and rock and roll was pushed into the background.
An audacious 12 year old, claiming "Stevie knows me," had just successfully talked his way into the Wonderlove dressing room. He was Jane's charge; Jane, it seems, has a fatal weakness for children, she made sure he was taken into the dressing room personally.
Out front, the place looked like the Stanley Cups. Banners, some claiming that Chestnut Hill loves Mick were draped over balcony walls, and somebody's mother's good sheets had been emblazoned with the bold crudity of the Rolling Stones' tongue logo. The front row had purposely been placed within three feet of a six foot stage. It was apparent that no one there would see anything, but the theory was to cut off potential space for crowding right in front of the stage. I also elected to make friends with the five people seated directly in front of me. They'd make a dandy obstacle.
The aisles began to fill between sets. And the cops cleared them hydraulically, by simply pushing on the front two people in the aisle until everybody had begun to move back. People were remarkably cooperative, as we cruised the aisles afterward suggesting that people go back to their seats, and not linger in the aisles. I ran into one kid quite obviously on the wrong end of some Seconal who wanted to tell me that he, personally, was going to try for the stage.
Once the delay got noticeable, I wandered over to Roger to suggest that somebody say something to the people, as they were beginning to get restless. (A general rule to thumb: the natives are restless when they start that rhythmic clapping.) He'd thought precisely the same thing and was on his way to get Chip Monck, who, admirably, elected to tell the truth, or most of it, at the time.
What had happened is known now. I can verify its effectiveness. The credit goes to whoever asked the Mayor to make a personal plea for cooperation.
As the combination of events--the bust of the group, and the problems in the South End--began to register, I felt a momentary feeling of claustrophobia, the knowledge that the whole city was falling apart, and here I was to see the Rolling Stones; the insulation was frightening. At any rate, Chip Monck's near-continuous status reports--NASA style--were instrumental in keeping a possibly nasty crowd occupied.
My friends in the first row typified most of the crowd--patient, and for the most party happy to be in the Garden for such an historic event. They'd been assured the band was coming, and they believed. What became a three hours wait, seemed so much shorter.
At 12:45 the Stones hit the stage, and thinking became instinct. I had an aisle with four others, and we'd immediately made friends with the first layer of people in the aisle: they became a civilian buffer zone. There was no need to push them, just brace an arm or a foot on the stage, and hold your ground. Because there was no pushing, only the jostling of 100 people, packed in a space for 20, trying to get some air. There was friendly camaraderie all the way around, and I was happy because I could see the show.
My seconal freak turned up in mid-set. He'd done some more and could hardly stand up. I couldn't quite keep my body between him and the stage, and he made his first jump, while simultaneously passing out. Doug took him out, talked to him, and brought him back, "Humor him, he's really wrecked, and he's not going to hurt anybody." Fifteen minutes later, he had called me everything he could think of, had tried to get a boost onto the stage, and been pulled back, had tried to punch me out, and had altogether made a nuisance of himself. Once he grabbed my midsection, I suggested we take him out, but we humored him until he tried to punch out two very large people next to him. Then we took him out, four of us because he was heavy. The only thing I regret was that we gave him to the police. He was our only problem, except smashed toes.
Images: from the stage, there are only remembered pictures, the knowledge that Jagger pads his crotch: the star on his forehead, virtually invisible; a smiling Don Law, basking in a successful how, as I passed through the backstage area with a case of the dry heaves from the heat in front of the stage; the Jagger-Richard duets; quick glances around the Garden, with the balcony looking like another, calmer, world removed from the chaos downstairs; a rear stage view, with Chip Monck's arm slashes cueing the crew in the split second of a chord change.
There are final impressions, the girls who fainted during the second song, and missed the rest of the show; Mick Taylor playing slashing leads without breaking expression; the complete imperturbability, or musicians, a fire-cracker went off not thirty feet from the stage, not a chord missed; finally, a last image of Jagger's complete exhaustion at the concert's end.
I got home at four o'clock Wednesday morning. The exhilaration had just started to wear off. A letter from our mutual friend, Anne, was waiting on my bed, and the Rolling Stones were singing "Happy" on the radio