When I was growing up Thanksgiving was the one holiday more than any other I looked forward to all year long. Hanukkah parties, New Year’s Eve, Passover Seders, Fourth of July, and even Halloween could take place somewhere else, but Thanksgiving was the exclusive domain of our house. Mom and Dad would be up early to fight over what should go in the stuffing, whose turn it is to baste the bird, how much juice to add to the cranberry relish, and whether or not we needed both sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes. Amazingly, everything came out perfect every time. Peggy, Neil and I gathered in front of the TV so as not to miss a minute of the Macy Parade. Aunts, uncles, and cousins poured in to sit around the ping pong table running the length of the living room draped with a sheet since they didn’t make tablecloths long enough to cover it. Many years there were more than twenty people gathered for the feast with each family taking home some of the leftovers. My family ruled the day. We were master hosts. Thanksgiving was our day. That’s why looking back it’s hard to reconcile choosing this highly significant day to be the target of confrontation. But, then again, it was the Rolling Stones. Of course, at that time they were just another band following the Beatles across the Atlantic to steal the minds, hearts and souls of good American kids. On the other hand, after hearing Tell Me, the only Jaggers/Richards song on their debut album, which few recall, I thought their musical genius could rival John, Paul, George and Ringo. One might wonder why they chose to play a concert on Thanksgiving, but then they were from England and maybe their producer forgot to mention it, or they just figured it was Milwaukee and who was going to show up anyway. Besides Ron already had the tickets, his parents were letting him go, and the show didn’t start until the evening after everybody would have gone home. I’m not sure the last part was true, but when you are rationalizing with parents one has to go with whatever seems plausible. Our seats were up in the highest tier, but the crowd was so sparse everyone made their way to within twenty rows of the stage. They started out playing their early hits, Carol by Chuck Berry and Not Fade Away by Buddy Holly. Then, they played songs they had written; Tell Me, Heart of Stone and some songs from albums to be released in the new year. One was called Play With Fire and an upbeat number called I Can’t Get No Satisfaction. Right away I knew the strong beat and the double negative would push it to the top of the charts. They finished with what was their current hit Time Is On My Side written by Norman Meade. Still the music is only a small part of the reason one goes to a concert. More than musicians, more than performers, the Rolling Stones were showmen. Bill Wyman was the stoic bass player moving his hands up and down the neck of his guitar without flinching another muscle. Brian Jones with his silky blonde hair forming a flawless mushroom around his head wore bright orange knit bellbottoms with a white mohair turtleneck. Charlie Watts beat the drums into submission while barely moving his head up and down, similar to how Ron responded to the event. Where as I was jumping up and down like the screaming girls next to us. They weren’t the ones who threw their panties on stage, which Keith Richards picked up and wore as an armband when he went over and started singing in the mike held by Mick. Mick Jagger, not fazed in the least, continued to strut across the stage with a long length of cord following him wherever he went. In stark contrast to Wyman, Mick, who had come out wearing an open sport coat and open shirt both of which he took off, rolled up and tossed to the screaming crowd, moved around the stage in his sleeveless t-shirt pointing at his band mates and audience alike with his head jerking like a proud peacock. What a concert. What a night. What a Thanksgiving.
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