It’s late one night in Manhattan in 1985, and Mick Jagger is trying, and failing, to hail a cab. Darkness fell long ago, and in a way unimaginable today, the Rolling Stone is on the street alone. He paces to the corner and back, not unduly concerned, even as New York’s night-denizens sidle up wanting autographs or cash.
Finally, Jagger turns to the only face he recognises, the only one who’s always here outside the studio, and is now, uniquely, offering to help. “Okay, let’s do it,” he decides, jumping into John Brennan’s car. The rock star and rock’s most relentless autograph hunter are going for a ride.
