When the Rolling Stones turned up on my doorstep
When he heard a Jaggeresque ‘yay-eh’ come from his tiny local theatre, James Hall took a closer look . . .
Not much ever happens in Clapham Old Town. Apart from the influx of weekend drinkers, our corner of south-west London is pleasantly dull. We’ve got the Common, the bus stand and the community-run Omnibus Theatre.
But like a power chord in a library, this tranquillity was shattered last week when The Rolling Stones secretly requisitioned our little theatre for a week of rehearsals. It’s not often that the biggest band in the world rocks up to the street next to yours. It’s even less often that such news fails to leak out.
On a 14-date stadium tour that kicks off next week, the Stones will play to close to a million people across Europe. But for five bizarre evenings, myself, two super-fans and a handful of other residents were able to listen outside this small converted-librarycum-theatre as they ran through their back catalogue, a pane of glass between us.
It all began on the night of April 29. I noticed two lorries being unloaded outside the theatre. Interest piqued, I wandered past the next afternoon. A couple of thickset ex-army types were hanging around outside. Then, as if from nowhere, a blacked-out chauffeur-driven Mercedes purred up the street. It drove through the private gates at the theatre’s rear, dropped someone off, then reversed out. A second car appeared minutes later and did the same. Then another. Half an hour later, I returned to pick up my own car. I heard music from inside. It was a band. They were playing Wild Horses. And the singer was doing a very good impression of Mick Jagger.
Two blokes were standing over the road, listening. They didn’t look part of the set-up but were loitering with purpose. I approached. One of their phones went off. The ringtone was Miss You, the Stones’s disco hit from 1978. My jaw dropped.
“It’s not… actually… is it?”
A strange omertà governs superfans. They said nothing – but it was enough. I listened more. There was a Jagger-esque “yay-eh”. A Keef-like guitar lick. It was the Stones, stripped of backing singers and horns, seconds from my front door. Bands often hire entire venues in which to rehearse in the run-up to a tour. My best guess was that Omnibus was conveniently located, available and so unobtrusive that nobody would suspect a thing.
My moment of rock ’n’ roll revelation was followed by one of pure comedy. My car battery was flat. Luckily, as no one else was around, the chauffeurs who’d arrived an hour or so before offered to help. Dressed in three-piece suits, the men who were clearly Mick, Keith, Charlie and Ronnie’s drivers pushed my defunct Golf down the road in an attempt to, ahem, start me up.
I spent the week popping down in coffee breaks and after work, and made friends with the super-fans, who turned out to be delightful. By the week’s end, a handful of locals also knew, but a sort of collective secrecy had descended.
The band left in the evenings amid G7-style security. “Nice dogs,” Charlie remarked to my pooch-owning pub friend Jeremy, who happened to walk past the moment the drummer left. Curiously, Ronnie also commented on my mate Pedro’s labrador when he briefly emerged. Keith appeared for a nanosecond. Too cool for canine chat, he was whisked away; a flash of green drainpipe jean and rakish headband was all I really saw.
And that was it. Clapham feels boring again. Who knows, perhaps the Stones left some rock ’n’ roll stardust behind on these quiet streets. At least I’ve now got time to get my car fixed. It wasn’t doing so well – but it’s all right now.