https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R3rnxQBizoU
As ever with a famous band like The Rolling Stones, context — nearly 45 years later — is next to impossible. I understand the Vietnam War-era sentiments; I understand the constant use in Martin Scorsese films; I understand the international U.S./U.K. politics (or, rather, understand that I totally don't). These are not what I want to focus on.
Two things of note about this song: One, it is forever tied to a night last June when I drove back from High School graduation through TriBeCa as the sun set, furious at high school for being done when I wasn't done with it yet, and, Two, that the female vocalist, Merry Clayton, suffered a miscarriage from hitting the high note at 3:01 in the above video.
The Rolling Stones are before my time; they reflect a rebellious proto-punk spirit which I do not embody. They are foreign, literally and metaphorically. But I am an eighteen-year-old, and The Stones have become more-or-less a rite of passage for post-puberty and young adulthood. They are angry and horny and disillusioned; they are sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and best of all, they are free of context.
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