Hackney Diamond Geezers

Mick Jagger turned 80 in July. Keith Richards offered his congratulations in the time-honoured tradition: his social media team posted a video to Instagram, so he could ask his old mucker — no, really, he is quite old — to “give me a call and let me know what it’s like.” It being, presumably, life in one’s ninth decade. Jagger’s response, if indeed one was forthcoming, is not recorded, but Richards is a mere 79, so he must only hang on until December 18 to find out for himself.

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Six weeks after Sir Mick’s birthday, on a stifling afternoon during the capital’s Indian summer, the two surviving members of the original line-up of the Rolling Stones took to the stage of the Hackney Empire, in east London. I won’t say they bounded on, but there was a certain amount of strutting and even a shimmy, from you-know-who. The Hackney Empire opened in 1901, the year of Queen Victoria’s death, meaning it is 42 years Mick’s senior. Like him, it is in strikingly good nick.

Mick and Keith, the duo once known as the Glimmer Twins, were accompanied by their callow bandmate Ronnie Wood, who is a comparatively late addition to the group, having joined as recently as 1975 — although he didn’t make partner until 1993, which is practically yesterday in Stones-years. (Ronnie is very much a junior partner, as you would expect of a man who is only 76.)

The occasion was a “press conference” (unusual in that no questions from the press were permitted) to announce a new studio album, Hackney Diamonds — their 24^th, we were reminded, and their first in 18 years, since 2005’s A Bigger Bang. Over six decades, the Stones have sold 250m albums. They are among the most popular acts in music history and, in the words of their warm-up man, “the ultimate rock’n’roll band.” Indiscriminate use of the word “iconic” was, for once, not entirely without justification.

The invitations had gone out by email a few weeks previously. Few details were offered beyond the reassurance that this would be a “once-in-a-lifetime event”, but when their satanic majesties request one’s presence, it doesn’t do to ask too many questions. Also, they offered to send a car. And so even though it really was baking outside, and I confess I hemmed and hawed a little that morning while looking in horror at my preferred weather app, when the time came to leave the air-conditioned Esquire office for the hour or so journey across town I thought, screw it, baby, it’s the Rolling Stones: how many more chances will there be to see them in the flesh again?

(I remember thinking exactly this in 2003, when Mick, a wet-behind-the-ears 60-year-old, was just getting into his groove, and I, at that time exactly half his age, had been dispatched to Munich, of all places, to witness the opening night of their Licks greatest hits tour, celebrating a fleeting 40 years of hitmaking. I remember thinking it in 1990, too, when I was 17 and watching them from the crowd at Wembley Stadium on their Urban Jungle tour. They seemed ancient to me then. It was inconceivable that they could carry on much longer. And I’m sure there are many others, even older than me — possibly almost as old as Mick and Keith — who remember thinking the same in 1972, when they’d been going for a decade already and I wasn’t even born.)

I arrived 40 minutes before showtime to find a crowd assembled on Mare Street, outside the Empire. TV cameras, hulking security operatives, autograph hunters in faded Stones t-shirts, nonplussed passers-by, kids craning their necks to see what the fuss was about. “Of course I’ve fucking heard of them!” said one girl to her friend, offended at the suggestion, as they sheltered in a sliver of shade supplied by a bus stop.

Inside, almost every seat was already filled and the thermostat was climbing. Bottles of water were handed out. I was grateful to be seated next to a reporter from the Guardian, who had brought a fan with her. If nothing else, at least I could enjoy some secondary breeze.

The empty stage was upholstered like a cupcake, in red velvet: red curtains, red armchairs, a red rug on which rested three chandeliers, as if they’d lately crashed to the floor. The famous Stones lips logo had been adapted to look like it was made of shattered glass.

After some points of order from the floor manager, our host arrived on the dot of 2.30pm: Jimmy Fallon, the American talk-show host, a tall man in a too-tight suit and skinny tie, all nervous energy and cue cards. “We are live around the world!” he marvelled, to the audience watching on YouTube — as if it was the 1960s and the idea of a satellite link-up was as fresh as a trainee groupie.

The Stones wore black, in contrast to Ronnie’s pallor. The slightly younger man’s jacket was almost as sharp as his cheekbones; cadaverous is the cliched descriptor, but few of us, even on our death beds, will be as thin as Ron. Keith kept his hat and sunglasses in place, along with his deadpan sense of the absurd. Mick, as ever the most “present” of the band, wore a satin shirt beneath a paisley bomber. One wonders whether any humans in history have ever looked quite like these three. They’ve been in costume so long they’ve turned into wire hangers.

Beginning a pattern of hopeful-call-and-muddled-response, Fallon began by wondering how we came to be here, in Hackney. He didn’t quite get an answer to this question. The general gist: because the album is called Hackney Diamonds, obviously. And why was that? This, too, was unclear at first. Under further questioning, Mick revealed, in a roundabout way, that Hackney diamonds are the shards of glass left behind after a robber smashes your car window. Why is that an appropriate name? Well, Keith explained, it was originally going to be called Smash & Grab.

Fallon seemed to have fallen into the trap of imagining that the Rolling Stones were here to explain, rather than to amuse. Trying to establish a logical reason for what they do is a fool’s errand. The Stones have never played the Hackney Empire and appear to have no previous connection to it, or to the borough in which is sits. So what? It might as well be Hackney as anywhere else. The rock’n’roll circus pitches its tent wherever it pleases. Authenticity be damned. This is showbiz. Next question.

Not that we learnt nothing. We were told that the record was started in Jamaica and finished in New York and LA. That it was made fast, to a deadline. That it is “eclectic.” That it features eleven new tracks, with twelve more in the can.

“I don’t wanna be big-headed,” said Mick (as if!), “but we’re quite pleased with it.”

We learnt, too, that Lady Gaga appears on Hackney Diamonds. They forgot to tell us that Paul McCartney, Stevie Wonder and Elton John also guest. They did mention Bill Wyman, age 86. Unexpectedly, we heard that Ronnie has been playing a bit with Van Morrison, who’s lately made an album of skiffle. (This was news to Mick, who seemed tickled by it. “Skiffle?” he chortled.) In the biggest revelation of the day, we learnt that Keith has given up smoking. The best anecdote — the only anecdote? — was Mick’s, about the Stones’ first ever album launch, in 1962. He and Keith took two reporters to a pub in Denmark Street, Soho’s tin pan alley, bought them pints, and disappeared. That was it.

Keith was asked, somewhat superfluously I thought, if he missed Charlie Watts, who died in 2021. (Charlie appears on two tracks on Hackney Diamonds.) He allowed that of course they all did. “He’s up there,” Keith said, gesturing vaguely towards the dress circle, where I was sitting. A few heads swivelled in that general direction, as if the dapper drummer’s ghost might be visible in the gods. It wasn’t.

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Having apparently solicited questions in advance from the band’s adoring public, Fallon asked Mick, on behalf of someone called Lou, if he had a favourite Stones song? Obliging to a fault, Mick said that he does not have a favourite Stones song. (Perhaps they could have rehearsed this a bit?) Much to everyone’s relief, especially Fallon’s, Keith said he does have a favourite Stones song. In fact, two: “Gimme Shelter” and “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”. Well, they’re his favourites to play, anyway. We didn’t get to Ron’s favourites. Perhaps now we’ll never know.

Apropos very little, Fallon wondered if the Stones ever play darts? (I think this was his own question, rather than crowdsourced.) Much to no one’s surprise, it turns out that the Stones do not play darts.

Fallon fell back on his Mick impersonation, which is pretty good. Still, after 10 minutes or so, I wondered how he was going to stretch this to the scheduled half-hour. Perhaps Fallon was feeling the same way because, in a move I felt was somewhat sophomoric for an interviewer of his eminence, he began to read out the title of each song on the album, asking the band to comment, which they did, up to a point.

The day after the press conference, Rolling Stone, the venerable American magazine named after the band, published a piece alleging that Fallon presides over a “toxic work environment” at NBC’s The Tonight Show. It was subsequently reported that he had apologised to his staff on a Zoom call. I wondered if perhaps he had known this story was about to break, which might have explained his slightly distracted air? Or maybe he was just jet lagged after the flight from New York? Or maybe he’s always like this? I confess I am not a Tonight Show viewer.

In any event, Fallon looked like a weight had been lifted when it was time to wrap up the interview. “There’s no other band like you,” he enthused. “That’s the point,” drawled Keith.

The Stones waved goodbye, hugged Fallon, and shuffled off.

Now Fallon took a seat in the front row of the stalls, next to Sydney Sweeney, the star of Euphoria, the HBO sexploitation show. From this position, he conducted an interview with her and, for reasons unexplained, her mother, who was seated behind them. We in the room could only make out the backs of their heads but no matter, we were shortly to see much more Sweeney. Frustratingly, we never found out what her favourite Stones song is. Nor her mother’s.

The reason for the actress’s presence: she is the lead performer in the promo for “Angry”, the first single from Hackney Diamonds. This we all watched together on a big screen. The video consists of Sweeney being driven, in a vintage red Mercedes convertible, along the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, writhing ecstatically (euphorically?) in a leather bustier while the billboards she passes come to life, archive footage of the Stones CGI’d so it appears that their former, even spritelier selves are performing the new song.

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At 25, Sweeney, it occurred to me, is young enough to be the granddaughter of a Stone. In fact, she is six years younger than Mick’s eldest granddaughter, Assisi, who is the mother of his nine-year-old great-granddaughter, Ezra. Confusingly, though perhaps not for him, Sweeney is also 19 years older than Mick’s youngest child, Devereux, so she’s old enough to be Devereux’s mother. But maybe I’m harshing everyone’s mellow by getting hung up on this whole age rap? Probably.

Anyway, “Angry”. Route one Rolling Stones. A killer stop-start riff, propulsive rhythm section, Mick’s lyrics delivered with a comic snarl: “It hasn’t rained in a month, the river’s run dry/ We haven’t made love and I wanna know why.” Touching, no?

Now hot under the collar for multiple reasons, and genuinely fearing heatstroke, I cancelled the car back to the office, caught an Overground train at Hackney Central and sang “Angry” all the way home. It’s not my favourite Stones song. (“Satisfaction”, not that Fallon asked.) But it’s pretty fucking good.

“Angry” is out now. Hackney Diamonds will be released on October 20.