Pleased to meet you… A trip to Paris to see the Stones

It was 11am on a Saturday morning as we sat watching the cogs of the city begin to turn.
Many of the Parisian stereotypes turned out to be true enough. The stuff of the movies seemed to be the stuff of reality in the French capital.

Young bohemians smoked and whinged beneath stripy coffee-shop awnings. Haggard existentialists sipped morning beers and contemplated the passing city. And well-groomed men of fine-build flitted through the streets, baguettes slung over their shoulders.

I was surprised by the overwhelming Frenchness of the place. Everyone else was surprised by my surprise.

“France is wile French,” they mocked. “No way…”

As we watched the urban morning unfold, an overly-attentive waiter attempted to chase a wasp from our breakfast table, and, in doing so, inadvertently managed to make far more of a nuisance than any lone insect could ever aspire to make.

Eventually, conceding that the wasp was not for going, this weirdly servile waiter went and grabbed our grub.

A rather rank plate of undercooked eggs, processed ham and stale-ish bread was placed in front of us. In a fashion antithetical to the culinary culture of the city in which we were sat, we choked down our food like the proverbial pigs at the trough. We needed fuel.

We were in Paris to see The Rolling Stones. Myself, my brother, father and mother were on a trip to see one of the greatest bands perform in the country where they recorded one of the greatest albums (Exile on Main St). This was nothing short of epic.

The question of how we would spend the five-or-so hours preceding our 5pm taxi to the Hippodrome de Longchamp racecourse was rightly raised.

Several cultural excursions were tabled, debated and, with due appreciation to the limited time we had, dismissed. After minutes of intense discussions it was decided that we would ready ourselves by imbibing a few very small, strong, expensive glasses of beer.

We grabbed a seat outside a sleepy pub. A round was bought.

“No pints?” said the auld boy, aghast at the diminutive capacity of the vessel I had handed him.

“You’re not in Tyrone now, boy,” I reminded him.

We sat in the continental sunshine constructing a shared vision of what was to come.

We discussed which songs would definitely be played, what songs we hoped would be played, what songs would be played that shouldn’t be played, and what insane acts we might be liable to commit if a song we wanted to be played but didn’t think would be played was in fact played. Throw a lock of beers in the mix and such a conversation can burn a right few hours – five to be precise. Taxi time.

Having lost the great Charlie Watts earlier this year, I hesitate to say that The Stones are still going strong – because one of them most definitely isn’t.

Charlie was always the calm at centre of the Stones’ chaos. Both temperamentally and musically, Charlie seemed like the one whose arms were wrapped around the band, keeping everything from spilling all over the place. Would The Stones still be The Stones in the absence of Charlie’s cool. We’d find out.

The taxi threw us out about a couple of mile from the ‘Gold Circle’, where we would finally come to relax. We joined the sweaty, swaying hordes as they snaked along the dusty trail toward the stage.

This gig was part of a European tour marking 60 years since Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Brian Jones, Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts became one under the banner of The Rolling Stones.

The last time they played Longchamp it was July 1, 1995. Thirty years on and the boys are all about to hit the 80 mark. The baby of the group, Ronnie Wood, is 75.

The sun beat down on the indifferent crowd as the warm-up act failed to inspire.

“I doubt most people must be here to see The Rolling Stones,” said someone sardonically. The warm up act obliged and fizzled out without trace.

Then bang! It was on.

Pictures of Charlie exploded on screens around the field. Dignified, gentle, and cool as they come, stills of the legend drew throat-tearing cheers from the crowd. Then emerged the ever-sophisticated Jagger speaking French (of course). Ron and Keith rose from backstage like immortal rock n’roll deities.

The gig began with a punch straight in the teeth, starting with ‘Street Fighting Man’ before plunging into ‘19th Nervous Breakdown’ and then ‘Tumbling Dice’.

Any fears over whether The Stones were still The Stones were quickly thrown on the floor and stamped out.

The frenetic energy they set out with landed like a violent rebuke to those who dared to doubt.

As Mick sang the Bob-borrowed ‘Like a Rolling Stone’, you couldn’t help but wonder how it really does feel to have spent a lifetime as part of one of the biggest bands of all time.

Things just kept getting better – bar maybe the inclusion of ‘Living in a Ghost Town’.

Mick went backstage for some alone time with his oxygen tank, while Keith sang ‘You Got the Silver’ (one of the best tunes of the night) and ‘Happy’.

‘Honky Tonk Woman’, ‘Start Me Up’, ‘Paint it Back’, ‘Gimmie Shelter’, ‘Sympathy for the Devil’…. I could go on and on and every tune would only serve to intensify your jealousy.

In summation: It was a savage concert, there appears to be zero signs of The Stones wilting, and, with Satan’s blessing, I will be back to see them again.