Free Ain't It Time We Said Goodbye by Robert Greenfield

individual independence, and also the easiest way to pretend you were someone you were not.
    Within the protective web that surrounded the Stones, you could get as high as you liked without ever worrying about where you had left your bag or how in the world you were going to get back to the hotel at four in the morning in a city where all the public transport had long since shut down for the night. Being high around the Stones only reinforced the feeling of youthful invincibility that was then the essence of rock ’n’ roll. So long as you were with the band, nothing bad could ever happen to you. Or so it seemed to me back then.

    In Brighton, the seaside resort where day-trippers from London have traveled by train to enjoy themselves by the sea for the past 130 years, the Stones are scheduled to play two shows in a 1920s dance hall that has been converted into an oversold, very smoky, and completely hellish ballroom called The Big Apple.
    For the first and only time on this tour, due to what no doubt must have been some kind of mistake on their part, Keith, Anita,Marlon, and Gram Parsons actually arrive at the gig on time only to find that the dressing room door is locked. Making matters just that much worse, no one seems to know where to find the key. Taking immediate charge of the situation, Marshall Chess sends off a variety of envoys to locate the hapless local promoter.
    Trapped in a dark, dank corridor as deadly cold as only a corridor in England could then be, the Stones and all who travel with them wait for someone to come unlock the door. As they stand there shifting impatiently from foot to foot with their breath forming steaming clouds in the freezing air, the minutes seem to pass like hours. That the Rolling Stones cannot even get into their own dressing room before the show is an outrage that Keith Richards soon chooses to take completely personally.
    As he has already proven on this tour, Keith is not just a consummate musician onstage but also a world-class performance artist who at a moment’s notice is perfectly willing to transform any situation that does not meet his needs into high drama. Cradling baby Marlon in his arms, Keith says, “The bloody nerve. Making us wait out here. Who do these people think they are?”
    That no one can answer this question only seems to make Keith even angrier. What has been just another minor moment of annoyance on the road suddenly becomes something else again when Marlon starts to cough. Although the child still seems to be as healthy as a horse, the wheels in Keith’s brain begin spinning even faster than before.
    In his mind, poor Marlon has now suddenly become a waif, a poor and pitiful orphan of the storm whom much like Tiny Tim will be lucky to get a hard crust of bread to eat on Christmas Eve. Exposed to these conditions, poor little Marlon’s cough could suddenly become the croup. And then simply because some promoterhas forgotten where he put the key to the dressing room door, Keith’s beloved baby boy could expire right in his arms. Not that this is going to happen. But it could. And so when Marshall tells Keith that everyone is still waiting for the promoter to appear, Keith says, “Sod the bloody promoter. The filthy lout. Who do these people think they are?”
    Working the scene for all he is worth, Keith stomps angrily back and forth across the narrow corridor a few times while continuing his diatribe. Finally deciding to take action, he hands Marlon to Anita and launches a full frontal assault on the door. Rattle-rattle goes the knob in his hand. Bam-bam-bam goes the flat of his palm against the frame.
    Realizing this door is not just most definitely locked but also so sturdy that it is not about to give way, Keith reaches into his pocket for the single tool he is never without. Producing a knife, he promptly starts going to work with the tip of the blade on the screws that hold the hinges of the door in place. Although I have yet to exchange a single