A Day in the Life

The Rolling Stones were back in America for the first time since Altamont 2 1/2 years ago, and their concerts had sold out within hours in Vancouver, Seattle, San Francisco and Los Angeles. Recognizing that the group is a very special talisman for the cultural breakaways who have built their lifestyles around them, TIME's Tim Tyler sought out a typical Stones freak last week and went with him to San Francisco's Winterland. Tyler's report:

It was 6 p.m. in an average, slightly seedy apartment in Oakland, Calif. The Rolling Stones' new album, Exile on Main St., was playing on the stereo, the shower was running, and out of the steam came a croaky voice singing Tumbling Dice. Then out of the shower, into his underpants, and out into the big bright kitchen came Dick Miller, 23, home after a long day clerking at the art-supplies store. "Three hours till we hear the greatest rock-'n'-roll band in the world," Miller yelled out the window to no one in particular.

"How can I eat? A-iiii-eee!" he screamed, subsiding into a chair. He ate, fortifying himself for the night with hamburger, raw peas, milk, oatmeal cookies, Almaden chablis and several joints of marijuana.

Miller had been in this state since May 14, the day (and night) he had sat on the sidewalk in front of the Sears on Telegraph Avenue for 22 hours in order to buy tickets for the concert. "I missed the Stones in '65, when they came through my home town in New York. They only did one song because everybody went bananas and started a riot. I missed 'em again in '69, when I was in college, but this time . . ."

Sucking on a new joint: "You know, my parents' ideal is a house in the country, two cars, a swimming pool. They're strangers to me--no communication. Well, this concert is my house in the country. For me there's nothing more important in life than going to see the Rolling Stones."

He tried to explain why, told me how he had been a Stones fan for nine years, how after graduating from college, a year ago he had been unable to settle down; how two months ago he had moved to California to look for a job. With all his other roots severed, Miller clung to his membership in the fraternity of rock 'n' roll, which seemed to give his life a focus. Naturally, records were not enough. He had to see the Stones.

Finally we were at Winterland. Jagger appeared and it was a shock; he looked frail and innocent for a man of 28 trailing a history of fights, drug busts and death. Pouty child in glittery eye makeup, strutting and singing, posturing like a crane with his skeletal legs draped in clinging white jersey pants, squeaking around on little white sneakers. Jagger is half the show; the tight, excellent rock 'n' roll of the augmented quartet behind him is easy to miss if you get mesmerized.

As the songs roll on, Jagger wiggles his flanks in Guitarist Keith Richard's face. Singing the frantic Gimmie Shelter, Jagger stands fey in the middle of it, bouncing time with one scarecrow leg, left hand inverted on his hip like an artist balancing before his easel. For Tumbling Dice, he strips off his denim jacket to reveal a sheer white jersey shirt that matches the clinging pants. And then Mick dances around Bassist Bill Wyman standing stiff and still in his new suit, sips on a Coors between choruses, trades vocal lines with Richard.

Dick Miller, perched in the balcony, is going out of his mind, playing an imaginary guitar and dancing at the same time, emitting a more or less constant scream. He is not standing on his seat like everybody else, including the girl dancing naked to the waist on our right; he is standing up on the arms of his seat, doing a boogie and moaning, on the verge of falling. When they come to Jumpin' Jack Flash, it is too much for Miller; he is down off his perch, dancing in the aisle.

After 14 songs it is over. The applause is more painful than the amplified music. It was all there, the beat, the volume and the rebellious raunchiness of the Stones' music. And Miller was right: the Stones are the best rock-'n'-roll band in the world. But the crowd looks dazed, unfulfilled.

The Stones did nothing wrong. It was just that no act could have fulfilled the frenzy of expectation that had grown up around the tour--the waiting, the camping out, the riots for tickets. The legend had outstripped itself.

"Well, I guess it'll take the experience a few days to sink in," Miller said hopefully, but he was silent and down driving back across the Bay Bridge to Oakland. His four-week high finally at an end, he drank a glass of milk and went to bed.

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