Thank You, Charlie Watts by J. J. Thayer
I first saw the Stones play live in the fall of 1994. The band was touring Voodoo Lounge and played the now-demolished and not-lamented Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. In a rite of passage, my buddy Christian and I camped out overnight in a humid New Jersey strip-mall parking lot so we could score good tickets when they went on sale early the next morning. And score we did--a block of eight front-section floor seats, on Keith’s side of the stage.
At the time, I liked the Stones, and I knew that their show was something that I was supposed to see, but I wasn’t convinced, yet. Ticket prices were high, the staging was over-elaborate, the merchandise was too professional, and it all felt a little… corporate. My twenty-year-old self couldn’t express it that way back then, but this whole package didn’t seem quite dangerous enough for a rock concert.
And what of the drum kit? Charlie Watts’ little four-piece kit looked positively dwarfed by the stage set. In the age where rock drummers brought racks of toms and cymbals, dozens of MIDI triggers, and loads of special percussion used exactly once in a two-hour set, how was Charlie’s one-up-one-down tom setup going to get it done?
Then the lights dropped, the on-stage snake breathed some fire, and the Stones lit into “Not Fade Away”, driven by Charlie’s drums. Charlie’s playing was somehow powerful and subtle at the same time, and you couldn’t help but dance. He was the “engine room” of the Stones (as Keith so aptly put it), and, fifteen seconds in, I was completely and utterly sold.
Fast-forward twenty five years. My house is filled with Stones memorabilia, including, I’m proud to say, an autographed picture of Mr. Watts himself. I’ve seen them live over twenty times since, taking various different friends who all left as believers. And now, July 2019, on a perfect summer evening, the Stones are playing at nearby Gillette Stadium. Somehow, the whole family is home with no one having evening plans. It’s time to take the kids to experience a Stones show.
My wife begs off. “This is your thing,” she says, “you take them.” I pony up for four decent tickets (gulp) and pack my sixteen-year-old son, thirteen-year-old daughter and eleven-year-old son into the car for the ride to Foxboro.
In case you didn’t know, the Stones are definitely not cool to that demographic, so I lay the ground rules on the drive down. This is very special to me, and I don’t want to hear any complaining. Don’t ask me when we’re going home. Yes, they’re old. “Somehow, this band is still working--and filling stadiums--after fifty-five years,” I tell the kids. “They’re doing something right. Appreciate this for what it is. Suspend disbelief and allow yourself to enjoy the music and the show.”
To their credit (and my eternal gratitude), they did just that. As the band took the stage and ripped into “Street Fighting Man,” Charlie got them up and dancing. His drumming gave them no choice. I noticed awestruck looks on their faces (which my sons, of course, vehemently deny to this day).
And then came the best moment, by far, of any of my Stones shows, as Keith and Charlie tore into “It’s Only Rock And Roll.” My daughter put her arms around me, leaned in, and whispered: “Dad! They. Are. Awesome!” Just like that, father and daughter are closer together forever.
Great artists--and their art--allow people, across generations, to discover previously unknown commonality. Engine Room Charlie helped me bond with my teenage daughter. What a fantastic gift he’s given us. Thank you, Charlie Watts.
At the time, I liked the Stones, and I knew that their show was something that I was supposed to see, but I wasn’t convinced, yet. Ticket prices were high, the staging was over-elaborate, the merchandise was too professional, and it all felt a little… corporate. My twenty-year-old self couldn’t express it that way back then, but this whole package didn’t seem quite dangerous enough for a rock concert.
And what of the drum kit? Charlie Watts’ little four-piece kit looked positively dwarfed by the stage set. In the age where rock drummers brought racks of toms and cymbals, dozens of MIDI triggers, and loads of special percussion used exactly once in a two-hour set, how was Charlie’s one-up-one-down tom setup going to get it done?
Then the lights dropped, the on-stage snake breathed some fire, and the Stones lit into “Not Fade Away”, driven by Charlie’s drums. Charlie’s playing was somehow powerful and subtle at the same time, and you couldn’t help but dance. He was the “engine room” of the Stones (as Keith so aptly put it), and, fifteen seconds in, I was completely and utterly sold.
Fast-forward twenty five years. My house is filled with Stones memorabilia, including, I’m proud to say, an autographed picture of Mr. Watts himself. I’ve seen them live over twenty times since, taking various different friends who all left as believers. And now, July 2019, on a perfect summer evening, the Stones are playing at nearby Gillette Stadium. Somehow, the whole family is home with no one having evening plans. It’s time to take the kids to experience a Stones show.
My wife begs off. “This is your thing,” she says, “you take them.” I pony up for four decent tickets (gulp) and pack my sixteen-year-old son, thirteen-year-old daughter and eleven-year-old son into the car for the ride to Foxboro.
In case you didn’t know, the Stones are definitely not cool to that demographic, so I lay the ground rules on the drive down. This is very special to me, and I don’t want to hear any complaining. Don’t ask me when we’re going home. Yes, they’re old. “Somehow, this band is still working--and filling stadiums--after fifty-five years,” I tell the kids. “They’re doing something right. Appreciate this for what it is. Suspend disbelief and allow yourself to enjoy the music and the show.”
To their credit (and my eternal gratitude), they did just that. As the band took the stage and ripped into “Street Fighting Man,” Charlie got them up and dancing. His drumming gave them no choice. I noticed awestruck looks on their faces (which my sons, of course, vehemently deny to this day).
And then came the best moment, by far, of any of my Stones shows, as Keith and Charlie tore into “It’s Only Rock And Roll.” My daughter put her arms around me, leaned in, and whispered: “Dad! They. Are. Awesome!” Just like that, father and daughter are closer together forever.
Great artists--and their art--allow people, across generations, to discover previously unknown commonality. Engine Room Charlie helped me bond with my teenage daughter. What a fantastic gift he’s given us. Thank you, Charlie Watts.