The Stones in the Park
Marian McIntyre
The tiny white lace dress was pretty risqué, but everyone was wearing it and I thought I looked sensational. Nothing underneath except white bikini pants: bras had been discarded. It was 5th July, 1969, and the sun shone on the King's Road, Chelsea. Susie and I set off from Sydney Street, walking towards Hyde Park. Brian was dead, found two days earlier floating face down in a swimming pool, and the remaining Stones were performing a spontaneous, free concert in his honour. This was the first open-air rock concerts as far as we knew. How did we hear of the concert? It was just word of mouth, and we had picked it up news of it on the street.
As we approached Hyde Park the crowds thickened, good natured, full of excitement. We began to meet up with friends and our little group grew. Susie had heard that the Hell's Angels were in charge of security and was searching anxiously for the one she fancied; she had a bike of her own and tried to hang out with them. Me, I fancied her little brother, Dave, only three weeks younger than I was, tall, laughing, muscular, tanned and with an irresistible hesitancy, and wicked; we were aware he dealt in drugs but knew no details. They were such a cool family. I would come up to stay for the weekend from my parent's suburban existence, revelling in the atmosphere in Susie's family house; her father had published JP Donleavy when no other house would take him on.
That day Susie had brought me a small carton of plain yoghurt which I ate in the street, on the way; the first time I had ever seen or tasted yoghurt. Not, in my view, a product likely to take off.
We walked to Hyde Park and sat down on the grass not far from the makeshift stage. No security, no crowd control. I had been a devoted Stones fan since they had first emerged when I was 14, into rock, not pop. The crowd was rumoured to be half a million. Stories circulated of previous recent concerts; a woman had given birth in the audience, a man had died of a heart attack. Excitement grew. Suddenly, the Stones bounded onto the stage, Mick apparently in a white dress, the same as me. Charlie behind his drums, Keith and Bill giving it their all. Opening with 'Midnight Rambler', they quickly moved onto 'Satisfaction', the greatest anthem of all time. 'Jumping Jack Flash', 'Honky Tonk Woman'; we were all up and dancing now, all five hundred thousand of us, some waving precariously on our boyfriends' shoulders.
A pause; Mick spoke, paying a tribute to Brian (whatever had actually happened?) and to our surprise, set off clouds of white butterflies which rose into the air above us all. The concert finished with 'Sympathy for the devil'. We were delirious.
Susie had found her Hell's Angel and disappeared.
Feeling elated but at the same time, rather flat, I made my way back to Sydney Street with Dave and the other boys. We danced on the balcony to more Stones' hits and passers by waved to us; it was a balmy evening with a benign atmosphere. But no, I didn't sleep with Dave. It seems extraordinary, looking back on that of free love, but I couldn't bring myself to sleep with someone younger than me, even if it was only three weeks younger. A sin of omission? A lucky escape?
Postscript. Forty years later. My children have given me the DVD of the concert. I try to find myself in the vast audience, and there I am, in my white lace dress, dancing. But there I am again, and again; no, not me, there are white specks everywhere, hundreds of us, all looking sensational, dancing in our white lace dresses.
