The guitars of Keith Richards and Mick Taylor start the strong chording that sets up an oscillating rhythm almost like a submarine’s Klaxon, and Mick sings, “Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy / For the summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy.” Bill Wyman’s bass plays strong, descending notes, Keith and Mick kick it back up again, and Charlie hits the cymbals, bass drum, snare, pounding to a climax. Keith is crouched, his knees bent, his right arm pumping. Mick Taylor picks single notes, twining through the solid wall of sound the band now pours out.
“Yeah,” yells Mick. “Hey, said my name is called disturbance. I shout and scream, I’ll kill the King. I’ll rail at all his servants.” On the chorus, Keith rushes to the mike, joining in, singing, “Well what can a poor boy do? / ‘Cept to sing for a rock ‘n’ roll band? / ‘Cause in sleepy London town there’s just no place for a / street fightin’ man.” “No!” yells Mick. On the last note, Keith flings his arm into the air, Charlie plays the closing drum roll, and The Rolling Stones race off, jogging through the security, down the concrete halls, leaping into the open, waiting doors of the limousines, out of the hall before most of the audience realizes they’ve left.
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