The Rolling Stones

MUNICH OLYMPIAHALLE

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4, 2003

The first time Keith Richards appears on the giant video screen at the back of the Olympiahalle stage, people around me jump, like they’ve just been frightened by something looming unexpectedly out of a cupboard in a horror film. And you’ve got to admit, he does look like something that would be hard to kill in a John Carpenter movie, the kind of apparently indestructible life form that no amount of shooting, stabbing, burning or poking in the eye with a coat-hanger will bring to a halt, unstoppable in other words. Keith, up there, a face carved out of Delta loam, chipped house-brick and fused alabaster, looks like he’d keep coming at you whatever you threw at him?undead, determined to stay that way. A bit like the Stones themselves, astonishing survivors of the rock’n’roll wars, veterans of everything.

Tonight is the start of the European leg of the Stones’ marathon 40th anniversary Licks tour and, by their own standards, I suppose this is a genuinely stripped-down sort of show. A couple of nights later, they play the Olympic stadium and you can bet the fucking farm the pyrotechnics will be deployed in typically spectacular force. Here in the 12,000-capacity Olympiahalle, there are no great distractions. No giant inflatables, dirigibles, cherry pickers, fireworks?just the Stones, really, and their music. Which is all, in the end, you could ever ask for.

Anyway, it starts with a wonderful bit of rock’n’roll theatre. When the lights go out and we’re plunged into an elemental darkness, we sit and listen, hackles rising, to an introductory tape that sounds like an amped-up soundtrack to a March Of Time newsreel, stirring and anticipatory. This goes on for a while. Then two things happen at once, everyone taken by surprise. A guitar riff rips through the hall and a spotlight hits the stage and the only man on it. It’s Keith, hunched over his guitar, cranking out the fearsome opening chords of “Street Fighting Man”. Jaws drop, even as the stage explodes in light and Jagger’s immortal, slovenly drawl?”Eeev’ree whea a’heah th’sown of ma’chin’ cha’gin’ feeeat, boyyyys…”?rises above the resultant clamour, the crowd’s roar. It’s a fucking incredible couple of minutes, and gets better, the Stones completing a stunning opening salvo with a pugnacious “It’s Only Rock’N’Roll”, “If You Can’t Rock Me”, “Don’t Stop”, one of the new songs included on the 40 Licks compilation, and a raucous “Heartbreaker”.

Further highlights? Everything, really?starting with the quartet of songs from tonight’s featured album, Let It Bleed. There’s an unreasonably lovely “Love In Vain”, with Ronnie on lap-steel, bruising versions of “Live With Me” and “Monkey Man”, and a raw and sprawling “Midnight Rambler”, which features one of those prowling Keith guitar solos that builds out of nothing into an entirely ominous squall. The racket he’s making goes into overdrive when the strobes kick in and the song lurches into a chaotic free-for-all, with Jagger’s angry harmonica blasts blowing ragged holes in the walls of guitars.

Elsewhere, there’s a wild “Tumblin’ Dice”, after which Keith virtually steals the entire show with a solo spot that includes a cracked and weary “Slipping Away”, his gorgeous soul ballad from Steel Wheels, and a fine “Before They Make Me Run”. A vicious “Start Me Up” gives way to a truly unforgettable “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?”, the main set ending with “Honky Tonk Women” and “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”. There’s great excitement then, with the band’s appearance on a small stage towards the rear of the arena floor, where they play a short set that climaxes with a jittery “Neighbours” and a flat-out brilliant “Brown Sugar”. Back on the main stage, an untrammelled “Satisfaction” is the only encore.

After 40 years of doing what they do, everyone seems to be taking it for granted that this is the final time around for the Stones?on this scale, at least. If it is, they are not leaving the building quietly. True to who they have been these many years, they are kicking up a hell of a storm on their way out. Tonight is a swashbuckling triumph, part of an epic last hurrah from the greatest rock’n’roll group in the world. Incredible.

Bruce Springsteen And The E Street Band

CRYSTAL PALACE SPORTS CENTRE

TUESDAY, MAY 27, 2003

Something doesn’t feel right, as Bruce takes the stage in the early evening light. He’s giving his all, of course, delivering what is as near as he will get to a directly political statement all night. But as he wraps himself in the torn and bloodied flag during the anguished, acoustic slide guitar blues rewrite of “Born In The USA”, the concomitant atmosphere is hard to locate. The crowd seem uncertain how to react, taking their time to get acclimatised.

Borne of the ’60s garage band generation who worshipped at the feet of the soul man revues, Springsteen is a seasoned campaigner from a dying tradition. His genius has been to ensure his showmanship services songs that express a common humanity, often facing seemingly insurmountable odds.

It follows that the 9/11-inspired The Rising is a quintessential Springsteen album, a mid-life reunion with his most celebrated associates?soaked in blood, sweat, tears, forgiveness and rocking redemption. The title track, one of the most extraordinary songs of his career, introduces the band, with newest member, violinist Soozie Tyrell, striking the first non-Bruce chord of the evening.

But that doesn’t ignite the crowd either, and things get a little weirder before the euphoric rush arrives. Up in the stands the transatlantic divide becomes apparent when locals move away from the four Americans who, from the first song in, are on their feet punching the air in a Bruce formation singalong line dance.

The show begins to make more sense down on the pitch where the bulk of the 33,000 crowd are gathered. “Prove It All Night” is a declaration of intent completed by a Sam & Dave call-and-response routine, Bruce cheek by jowl with Miami Steve, and the Van Morrison-style “meet me tonight behind the dynamo” band breakdown. But “Atlantic City”, rearranged to foreground Tyrell, is a mistake, sounding more like J Geils’ “Centrefold” than anything else?a product of boredom rather than inspiration.

The fact is that although the E Street Band sound is tweaked and subtly altered during “Empty Sky” and “You’re Missing”, it remains largely the same. The same is true of the structure of Springsteen’s songs, with a showstopper like “Mary’s Place” easily taking the place once held by “Rosalita”, while the good-humoured nostalgia of “Glory Days” is now explored via the backyard barbecue groove of “Waitin’ On A Sunny Day”.

By the time the latter comes around, dark is descending and?playing the part of the rocking clown and tent show revivalist?Springsteen has broken through the crowd’s reserve. He hangs upside down on the mic stand, plays mock castanets like a wine bar Romeo during “Sherry Darling” and struts along the stage perimeter in a glittery red Stetson thrown from the crowd.

He can afford a little self-mockery because he’s still able to draw resonant depth and meaning from his greatest songs. In “Badlands” the gung-ho youth is tempered by mature wisdom?but the song flies, sizzles and reverberates around the stadium. “Racing In The Street” is a masterpiece of sadness and serenity, Roy Bittan gilding the testimony with his majestic piano outro.

Bruce takes the piano himself for the gorgeous “My City Of Ruins”, a contemplative look at urban decay that dwarfs earlier efforts like “My Hometown”. He jokes about it being time to go back to his hotel room “to peruse your fine English adult entertainment films and have a go on the big Ferris wheel”, but there’s rocking abandon yet with a firecracker “Born To Run”, a Mitch Ryder medley and “Dancing In The Dark”.

The energy still seems limitless, and his dignity is equalled by his humour. Long before the close the crowd have become his joyfully wayward congregation. He may be 53, but there’s still no one who can match Springsteen’s blend of hard graft and blind faith.

Neil Young

HAMMERSMITH APOLLO, LONDON

MONDAY, MAY 19, 2003

So he hasn’t made a truly compelling record since 1994’s Sleeps With Angels. So he’s been treading water with sleepy albums like Silver And Gold and hoary live outings like Road Rock. So he tried to put the kibosh on Jimmy McDonough’s epic biography Shakey.

Fact is, Neil Young is still the most endearing and enduring of rock’s original Western heroes, a rugged bear with a choirboy voice and an implacable self-belief. And we’ll never give up waiting for?what is it now??the fourth or fifth wind of his long and uneven career.

By the time we’re seated in the hallowed pews of the Odeon, most of us know what’s on the menu tonight. A main course of songs we’ve never heard before, followed by a dessert course of classics. A few people are already pissed off before he even saunters slowly on to the stage.

And thus we enter Greendale, Young’s very own Lake Wobegone (or is it Twin Peaks?), the small California coastal town that provides the setting for his quasi-allegorical drama of the contemporary American conscience. If you’re reading this, you’re probably already familiar with the Green family: Earl the painter, Sun the eco-warrior daughter, Jed the druggie son, Captain John the seafarer. You also probably know there’s this pimp-like character who floats around Greendale called “The Devil”.

Maybe you give a shit. I did before I sat through these two turgid hours of slowpoke homilies and sixth-form clich

The Isle Of Wight Festival

SATURDAY & SUNDAY, JUNE 14-15, 2003

On rotation throughout the weekend, footage of Jimi Hendrix at the 1970 Isle Of Wight festival flickers across the stage screens. It’s designed, of course, to lend some historical baggage and countercultural kudos to an event where Bryan Adams and Counting Crows take top billing. Still, the event provides an ideal bucolic setting for The Thrills.

Flowing with silvery guitars, banjos and Hammonds, these Oxfam-attired Dubliners nail the melodic masts of The Byrds and Neil Young with undeniable