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The Rolling Stones Altamont Concert is an Allegory for Partying Dialectics
by The Bookhouse Boys
We started this new millennium with the excitement of that free show at the Altamont Speedway in ’69. We were like, “Fuck yeah! Who doesn’t want to see the Stones for free,” Right? We volunteered, happy to give a hand, got the stage set up in just one day. The vibe was good, at first, but we got pushy–all, “This is my trip, man; go find your own.”
Then came the bad acid. People were getting loony; that fat naked chick kept trying to get up on stage. The happier amongst us were oblivious to the confusion, but near the stage, the tension multiplied. The Angels’ bikes got wrecked from the overcrowding bodies; so they were down there beating the shit out of everyone with pool cues.
Two thousand four is right at our neck, man. What’re we going to do? Charge at the fucker full-bore, hoping to find something along the way? Do we want to challenge this decade, threaten it to just go ahead and try to do us in?
I’ve been partying like it’s the end of the world lately. Like each motherfucking party is my last; and I’m sure as shit going to do it up right. There’s a lot of freedom that comes with this standpoint. There are no consequences, no worries about tomorrow, just the bliss of jabbing my arms into the air in a drunken celebration of the single moment. I tell myself that this is the best it’s gonna get, that I have to live it up like some terminally ill raver. I begin to bleed these party times, to crush them, hoping that a bit more party will leak to the surface.
I woke up a few days ago. The world was still here, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I hadn’t done anything terrible the night before, no serious embarrassment. It wasn’t a matter of living the night down, but what to do afterward. That party had been my purpose, and now I was lost, sweating old booze, nervous and vaguely contemplative. Whiny thoughts flapping about my mind to no solid solution.
I knew there were more fun times to be had, but when? And where were they? I’d lost my direction, as I’d only been focusing on a singular moment and purpose. The party was over, but a new night was approaching. I’d become a party cynic, selfishly interested in the festivity for my own benefit, rather than benefiting from my interest in festivities in general. This party’s not my last, but my first in a long series of excellentness. It’s time to start partying like it’s the fucking Genesis, man.
“So we took the snake’s apple, big whoop, God. Lay off the guilt trip, man. What the hell did you make all this shit for if we can’t…Whoa! Holy shit, look at those flowers! They’re sooo bright!…Awesome! What’s this thing called? A toad, huh? Look at him, all bubbly on top and soft in the belly. Uh oh…Ah jeez, he just peed on me. I don’t care, though. I need to check out the streams and waterfalls. Come on, guys! I hear cauliflower is good. Not for everybody, but what the hell, let’s give it a go.”
This is the ‘tude we copped for our new tour. Let’s not get all needy like we did at Altamont. Relax a little, make some new friends. We’ve got our entire lives for partying.
Sure, perhaps each of us won’t be around for much longer. We don’t need to waste time worrying or making detailed plans for what will come next. I’m not arguing for structure.
But it’s ridiculous to act as if any given moment is a single definitive point in our lives. The beauty is in the experience of the moment and the hope for more of them, not the attempt to make each moment better than the last. For, if you have a bad day, it becomes a depressing life and suddenly seems endless. The Bookhouse Boys are optimists now, hon. That bad day’ll be over soon, and life is gonna kick ass again.
At Altamont, we were out there squeezing the fucking life out of the party, when the whole time we should’ve just been working on getting laid.
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Volume 2, Issue 1 contents |
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