A Bigger Bang

I admit to not buying or paying much attention to this album in 2005 when it appeared. I was attempting to salvage my life by moving to Greece as an old lady in my 50s.

In light of what I now know, I realize I should have listened more carefully. But lacking knowledge of the real background, I would not have understood what Mick was going through - or at least I wouldnt have connected his pain to me. 

I'm not the girl (s) in these songs - but "Laugh, I thought I'd die" has a special resonance today.

Everyone in this story is a victim. We all walk the streets of love in a daze of misunderstanding. 

When I was 26 someone - Ken Hertz, a survivor of childhood Experiments at McGill -- took me to New York for my birthday. We spent the weekend there - it was early April, cold and rainy. It was supposed to be a "life changing experience" for me - that's how it was presented by the friend who insisted on paying for my trip. It was so out of character of him that I suspected a trap.

What could be life changing, I asked.

He said, "I don't know - maybe you could meet Mick Jagger."

Of course he was joking, trying to entice me by saying whatever came into his head. He kept insisting until I agreed.

We traveled by Greyhound bus arriving on a Friday night. I remember where we stayed, at Annie Nayer's loft in the East Village. I remember conversations with strangers, and a pointless trip to the Empire State Building in rain and heavy fog the next day.

I remember meeting up with our friend Allan Moyle on Saturday evening. He told us he was in negotiations with producer Robert Stigwood for a film he wanted to make called Times Square.

I remember taking off through the Village in rain, past mountains of stinking garbage bags - the city workers were on strike. Allan acting elated and euphoric: "I love New York! Because anything can happen here!" 

To illustrate this he swan-dives onto a stack of piled-up garbage bags. It's a moment suspended in time. Where were we going? What did we do for the rest of the evening?

There my memory stops as if something switched it off. Much later that night when Allan and I are lying on the floor on separate mattresses touching fingertips. We're back at Annie's loft. A current of powerful energy passes between us - like tantric sex. I wonder if we are falling in love.  The strange energy never leaves me for the rest of the weekend.

The next day is Sunday. We catch the overnight Greyhound back to Montreal. Allan and I share a seat; Kenny sits behind us, sulking. I feel strangely fragile. Allan says I look like Faye Dunaway in Chinatown. I never find out why Ken took me to New Yorl

 We went nowhere. We did nothing. Yet I'm not disappointed or upset. The life changing event failed to materialize and Kenny is angry with me for months afterwards but I don't know why and don't care.

I go back to taking care of my sick mother in Montreal. I never find out what happened that weekend. 

Years later I have a flashback, a very detailed dream. I'm on a bed in New York with Mick Jagger. We're both fully clothed. Mick is dressed head to foot in expensive leather - he may be stoned and talks a blue streak. He has long hair and looks just like he does in photos at age 33, in 1977. I hear every word of  his hilarious monologue. I laugh so hard I almost stop breathing. 

I may have rolled off the bed and onto the floor. I'm even laughing as I wake up in 1993.

I think this is what happened that night after Allan landed on the garbage bags and my mind stopped recording the evening.  I think they took me to see Mick Jagger.

Years later I ran into Allan while I was bicycling in Los Angeles. He invited me over and told me about the time he approached Mick in NY for help with funding Times Square. His daughter Jade was three at the time, Allan said. And Robert Stigwood was involved with the Stones of course, but I didn't know that in 1977.

I now believe this was the "life changing event" that took me to New York on my birthday.  

Like the event in 1965, it left no memory trace but surfaced years later in a dream.

Like a neutron bomb that kills only memory but leaves the people still standing untouched: that's the kind of blast it was.