Friday, 28 March 2003

How come you taste so good?

So a friend of a friend of a friend had a spare ticket to see the Stones. A spare ticket worth $275 American. So I can now say that I have, indeed, seen the Rolling Stones, up close and personal. Charlie Watts was stoic as ever; Keef was dressed like a bag lady and used a purple guitar I've never seen him use during "Satisfaction". It was good. A raunchy spectacle, which is just as it should be - animations of topless women, tornadoes of confetti, giant inflatable women that looked like they were, um, pleasuring themselves with the flagpoles they were carrying. What else to report? Most of the favourites got a run-through: Brown Sugar, Start Me Up, You Can't Always Get What You Want, Sympathy For The Devil, Honky Tonk Woman, Street Fighting Man, Satisfaction. Would've Liked To Hear: The Last Time, Miss You, Salt Of The Earth, Angie, Paint It Black, 19th Nervous Breakdown, Sister Morphine. And would've liked more bass on the sound system. But all quibbles, all quibbles. I mean, when am I going to see a great 60s band ever again? (I'm not too keen to see the Who, even if I had the chance... With only Townshend and what's-his-face it would seem more like a tribute band than anything.)

Which means in one day I watched the Oscars and the Stones, although admittedly the former only on TV. Michael Moore I thought as usual displayed his talent for making people hate him - has he ever realised he will only ever preach to the converted the way he's going? My picks were really way off this year - I should've just voted who I would've liked to win, which would've been: Chicago; Polanski; Brody; Kidman; Caine; Latifah, and would've been much closer to the actual winners. Can I say Queen Latifah looks so much better now than she used to? Her skin looked like it was glowing at the Oscars. Catherine Zeta-Jones looks like she's about to give birth to quadruplets. I guess they had to nominate that weird new song from Chicago because the rest don't count as "original" songs, which is a damn shame because "All That Jazz" mops the floor with that weak stuff. Fred Ebb, where art thou?




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