pugnacious-looking youth named Ian Stewart, a shipping clerk with the Imperial Chemical Industries corporation who arrived unpromisingly wearing too-brief leather cycling shorts and munching a pork pie, but who could play stride and barrelhouse piano as if he’d grown up around the New Orleans bordellos rather than in Ewell, Surrey. Just as appealing were his plainspoken manner, dry wit, and refusal to show his prospective bandmates the slightest reverence. “Stu” was not only welcomed into the lineup but recognized as a natural friend and ally even by the cautious Mick—in his case, perhaps the only one who would always talk to him as an equal, refuse to flatter him, and be unafraid to tell him the truth.
Brian had now filled every spot in his blues band except that of drummer. It was the vital ingredient for any kind of “beat” music, marking out the serious from the strum-along amateur. Drummers tended to be slightly older men with daytime jobs well paid enough for them to afford the sixty pounds which a new professional kit could cost. Even mediocre players were as sought after as plumbers during burst pipe season and could take their pick from among the best Trad or rock ’n’ roll bands. Although Soho had a whole street of drummers for hire (Archer Street, where pro and semipro musicians congregated seeking work), none was likely to be tempted by a gaggle of young blues apostles without money, management, or prospects. The Bricklayers Arms auditions did produce one promising candidate in Mick Avory, who sat in with the lineup a couple of times and seemed to fit in well enough. But he could see no future in playing behind this other Mick, and refused to commit himself permanently.
There was also the question of what to name the band. Brian, whose prerogative it was, had endlessly agonized about it, rejecting all suggestions from Mick and Keith while thinking of nothing suitable himself. The problem was only resolved when he decided to advertise for gigs in Jazz News and had to come up with a name while dictating the small ad over the telephone. His impromptu choice of “the Rolling Stones” was a further debt to Muddy Waters—not only Waters’s 1950 song “Rollin’ Stone” but a lesser-known EP track, “Mannish Boy,” which includes the line “Oh, I’m a rollin’ stone.”
To British ears it was an odd choice, less evocative of a blues master’s raunchy potted autobiography than of the sententious proverb recommending stagnation over adventure: “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” Mick, Keith, Stu, and Dick all protested that it made them sound halfway between a classical string quartet and an Irish show band, but the die was cast—and, after all, it was Brian’s group.
Their big break was the end result of a rather brutal slap in the face for Mick. Alexis Korner’s success at the Marquee Club had by now not only galvanized Soho but come to the notice of the British Broadcasting Corporation on Portland Place, three-quarters of a mile to the north. As a result, completing Korner’s sense of vindication, Blues Incorporated were offered a live appearance on BBC radio’s Thursday night Jazz Club program on July 12. It was an opportunity not to be missed, even though it clashed with the band’s regular weekly show at the Marquee. So as not to disappoint their club audience, Long John Baldry, the Ealing Club’s queenly blond giant, was lined up to deputize for them.
For this hugely important exposure on national radio, Korner did not want Mick to be his band’s sole vocalist but to perform in alternation with Art Wood, elder brother of the still-unknown schoolboy Ronnie. However, the parsimonious BBC would not pay for two singers on top of five instrumentalists. So Korner, figuring that Mick’s appeal was more visual than vocal, and thus of doubtful impact on radio, decided to drop him in favor of Art Wood. (In the end Art did not appear either, and the vocals were left to Cyril
Brian had now filled every spot in his blues band except that of drummer. It was the vital ingredient for any kind of “beat” music, marking out the serious from the strum-along amateur. Drummers tended to be slightly older men with daytime jobs well paid enough for them to afford the sixty pounds which a new professional kit could cost. Even mediocre players were as sought after as plumbers during burst pipe season and could take their pick from among the best Trad or rock ’n’ roll bands. Although Soho had a whole street of drummers for hire (Archer Street, where pro and semipro musicians congregated seeking work), none was likely to be tempted by a gaggle of young blues apostles without money, management, or prospects. The Bricklayers Arms auditions did produce one promising candidate in Mick Avory, who sat in with the lineup a couple of times and seemed to fit in well enough. But he could see no future in playing behind this other Mick, and refused to commit himself permanently.
There was also the question of what to name the band. Brian, whose prerogative it was, had endlessly agonized about it, rejecting all suggestions from Mick and Keith while thinking of nothing suitable himself. The problem was only resolved when he decided to advertise for gigs in Jazz News and had to come up with a name while dictating the small ad over the telephone. His impromptu choice of “the Rolling Stones” was a further debt to Muddy Waters—not only Waters’s 1950 song “Rollin’ Stone” but a lesser-known EP track, “Mannish Boy,” which includes the line “Oh, I’m a rollin’ stone.”
To British ears it was an odd choice, less evocative of a blues master’s raunchy potted autobiography than of the sententious proverb recommending stagnation over adventure: “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” Mick, Keith, Stu, and Dick all protested that it made them sound halfway between a classical string quartet and an Irish show band, but the die was cast—and, after all, it was Brian’s group.
Their big break was the end result of a rather brutal slap in the face for Mick. Alexis Korner’s success at the Marquee Club had by now not only galvanized Soho but come to the notice of the British Broadcasting Corporation on Portland Place, three-quarters of a mile to the north. As a result, completing Korner’s sense of vindication, Blues Incorporated were offered a live appearance on BBC radio’s Thursday night Jazz Club program on July 12. It was an opportunity not to be missed, even though it clashed with the band’s regular weekly show at the Marquee. So as not to disappoint their club audience, Long John Baldry, the Ealing Club’s queenly blond giant, was lined up to deputize for them.
For this hugely important exposure on national radio, Korner did not want Mick to be his band’s sole vocalist but to perform in alternation with Art Wood, elder brother of the still-unknown schoolboy Ronnie. However, the parsimonious BBC would not pay for two singers on top of five instrumentalists. So Korner, figuring that Mick’s appeal was more visual than vocal, and thus of doubtful impact on radio, decided to drop him in favor of Art Wood. (In the end Art did not appear either, and the vocals were left to Cyril
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