They came again this year, hurtling around this land on a carom even more apocalyptic (if less bloody) than the one in ’69, and I missed ’em.

The greatest rock and roll band in the world, for sure, and my heroes ever since I got my first look at Mick’s leer way back in ’64: the decadent bad-ass princes we’ll never put down or lose!

I saw them in 1964 on their second American tour, and in ’65 twice. The second time, in December, I cried because I thought they’d turned away from the True Faith of Pure R & B and sold out-to the crass commercialism of rock.

I’ll never forget that day. My girlfriend and I took the bus all the way down from our suburb into downtown San Diego, went right to the concert hall ticket window, and suddenly I said: “Fuck it! Fuck then*! Who needs ’em?” And went staggering erratically in the general direction of Skid Row, dropping tears as big as cantaloupes.