What Becomes a Music Legend
Harbingers, Easter Eggs, & premonitions … the Devil’s in the micro detail
There’s a chilling moment in the documentary Gimme Shelter, about the pivotal 1969 Altamont Freeway music festival, that defines and confirms Mick Jagger’s legacy for all time.
Jagger is center stage, singing Sympathy for the Devil. Off to his right, maybe six feet away, one of the Hells Angels takes a break from directing the ultra-violence against the 300,000 concert attendees and fixes Jagger with a stare. It’s a look of absolute contempt, of hatred – a look that lingers. This is a stare I saw in South London pubs in the eighties (that’s why I left). It’s the stare that says, ‘I want to hurt you, bad – give me an excuse.’
What does Jagger do?
Jagger gives one of the greatest performances not just of his life, but of rock music history. He’s either completely oblivious to the very real threat or, more likely — and given the violence and insanity on display throughout that day – he’s fearless, choosing to ignore it. His performance is simply on a different plane, rising above the Hieronymous Bosch nightmare surrounding him.
Jagger (foreground) at Altamont: legend
Jimi Hendrix had his own ‘blink-and-you-miss-it’ moment – a microscopic detail confirming his everlasting greatness – two years earlier, in 1967, at a show in London.
It’s not the fact that he chose to perform the title track from the Beatles’ ‘Sgt. Pepper’s’ album live just three days after its release, nor the fact that he totally killed it.
Hendrix takes the stage smoking a cigarette. He starts the song, the tune emerging between ululating howls of feedback, and just as he’s about to start singing he throws the fag away and, with it, his pick.
Hendrix doesn’t panic or seem phased, at all; never mind he’s playing the Beatles’ new song live in front of, well, the Beatles (and another guitar player, called Clapton… no pressure, right?)
No, he just finishes singing the verse, playing the song open hand, wanders over to the roadie sitting behind the amps and says (not shouts, not screams) ’hey, give me a pick, man’ and then segues effortlessly into an ad hoc face-melting solo.
Jimi puts the tea on: legend
These moments are Jagger and Hendrix’s warrants, their imprimaturs – the eternal proof that they are true music legends. And it is the fact that they’re accidentally captured on celluloid that is their seal of authenticity.
There’s a hierarchy to these Easter Eggs (unlike the Highlander, an artist is allowed more than one). Jagger’s Altamont performance is an apex moment in music, and thus, it over-rules all the other moments which would otherwise count against Mick’s legend status, such as getting caught begging then-Prince Charles for a Knighthood (I’ve got the schmooze like Jagger) or his unintentionally risible dance routine with Bowie on Dancing in the Street. They simply don’t factor. He can do what he wants because: we’ll always have Altamont.
Ah, but that word, ‘legend’… it’s a term that gets bandied around a lot these days. To quote comedian Gary Delaney, it’s sad that the definition has been devalued from pulling a sword from a stone to someone unexpectedly returning from the shop with crisps.
Which is why music Easter eggs are so important. Unscripted, unapproved, these extemporaneous moments of truth are the true indicator of legendary status.
And, they can work against the artist’s legacy, too.
Such is the case with Tony Kiedis and the Rapey Bunch, AKA The Red Hot Chile Peppers.
Their Easter Egg moment of truth happened live on late night television in the UK in 1990 when they sexually assaulted actress Cleo Rocos on the set of The James Whale Show. I remember watching this pissed up with my mates after getting back from the Cross Keys pub on a rainy Saturday night in West London. Unlike the band in the studio, no one laughed. It made uncomfortable viewing then, and time hasn’t improved it (Google away, friendo, if you want to feel sick, and never listen to those mischievous Pepper boys the same way again).
It didn’t do any damage to the band’s reputation at the time, and Kiedis has since boasted about raping a fourteen a year old in his autobiography (and penned a truly dreadful celebratory song about it: Catholic School Girls Rule, an absolute shitter of a tune).
Kiddy rape didn’t put a damper on his career, either. In fact, these days you’re as likely to find him sitting in his $20 million Malibu house talking pretentious shit with Olivia Wilde or giving an Eddie ‘Private Jet’ Veder-style peak hypocrisy lecture on environmental issues to Rolling Stone.
Do you see now, gentle reader, how important these video bon mots from the past can be? In this case, what the Easter Egg proves is not just that Kiedis isn’t a rock music legend. It’s that he’s a child rapist and a fucking cunt.
Antony Kiedis: Cunt
The 21st Century presents a paradox to legend hunters: there has never been more video about musicians available, and it has never contained less truth. Everything now is first run through a video pasteurization machine. This is the age of public relations pop, of “safe” music made by neutered musicians picked by multinational corporate marketing committees. It’s an industry ecosystem that churns out the effluvia inflicted on us from artists like Taylor Swift and Maroon 5.
Where are their legendary moments? Tay-Tay arguing with a Hollywood elite about getting her sweater back? Hardly. (And the only legendary thing I can think of about Adam Levine is that his tattoo artist managed to fit that much ink on a turd).
Adam Levine: ink-covered turd
In this age of PR-approved rock and pap pop it’s never been more important that we recognize the true legends and piss all over the wannabes from a great height…
This isn’t as important as finding out the true nature of our political leaders. It’s more important. In ten or so years, after democracy has completed its death throws and morphed directly into committee-led totalitarian feudalism, the only thing we’ll still have is our music.
They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our bangin’ toons…
True music legends, assemble!
By Butch Dante (…they say you are what you eat, but I don’t rem