Rose Petals and Revolution

When the Rolling Stones made their first U.S. tour in 1964, a British politician warned that relations with the States were bound to deteriorate. Mick Jagger and his pals never had quite that effect on Anglo-American affairs, but everybody soon knew what that politician was talking about. From the first, the Stones refused to play the performing game: they were scruffy, wore outrageous clothes, flashed no toothy smiles. Brazenly, they thumbed their noses at the adult world—and still rode the crest of a fantastic success. Ever since, the Stones' career has seemed a demonstration of how to be bad and make good.

In the past 15 months, though, the fun has seemed a bit convulsive. A year ago August, German Actress Anita Pallenberg, a former girl friend of Brian Jones', gave birth to Keith Richard's child. Actress-Singer Marianne Faithfull, not yet divorced from her first husband, became pregnant by Jagger. Both she and Jagger said marriage was not for them. "I am going to be a father, but I will not get married," Mick announced. "I don't give a damn about convention." Three months later, Marianne had a miscarriage. In January, Jagger and Keith Richard were kicked out of a hotel in Lima because of their unconventional dress, or undress, or both. Bill Wyman, at 32, oldest of the Stones, was divorced from his wife of ten years, with both sides admitting adultery. Brian Jones quit the group, and a month later was found drowned in his own swimming pool under the influence of drugs and alcohol.

Demonic Strain. Such a string of disasters and scandals might well have sunk a less vital group. But last week, midway through a triumphal U.S. tour—their first in three years—Jagger and company were busy proving just how well they thrive on adversity. Selling out the Chicago International Amphitheatre twice in one night with its inimitable brand of gritty, Negro-derived blues, the group re-established itself as one of the most durable and original forces in rock. As usual, the music tapped the dark, demonic strain in human emotions, and as usual, the central figure was Jagger, gaunt in black jersey, jeweled belt, red scarf around the neck, black pants with buttons down the side, and Indian moccasins for easy leaping.

"Jagger is slight, almost frail," wrote TIME Correspondent David Whiting, "and in a howling, Dixie-rag voice he calls out, 'Hi, y'aaalll.' The crowd erupts. The Stones launch into Jumpin' Jack Flash, the guitars driving. Jagger stretching out the syllables, howling notes much like the old Bob Dylan. At the end he cries, 'Are you having a good time?' The bad guy trying to please. Then Carol, bop-bop-bop-bop, a great oldie, good times at the record hop all over again. Jagger leaps about the stage, smirking, jerking, prancing, shooting pelvic thrusts straight at the crowd.

"And such a crowd. Twelve-year-olds. 40-year-olds, cab drivers and long-haired toughs. A girl in the front row waves throughout the performance, crying, 'Mick, I love you!' Some real sex now. Jagger sits on the stage, the mike stuck between his legs, singing his new song. Midnight Rambler, a raw rhapsody to rape by an intruder:

I'm going to smash down all your plate-glass windows.

Put a fist through your steel-plate door . . .

I'll stick my knife right down your throat,

Baby. And it hurts.