"I didn’t want strawberries, I wanted raspberries. Well, it would have been nice if you could have got the orders right. Thanks. Thanks, okay. Goodbye. Christ, the room service here is bleedin’ disgrace, innit Keef."

Mick Jagger lounged on a monumental couch in a penthouse suite atop a prestigious hotel in LA. He looked at the strawberries that had lately been wheeled in on a gold plated trolley, immaculate in their china bowl, set against a back drop of the finest linen. Why couldn’t they have got his order right? He pouted, slowly. On stage a waif-like satyr, all lips and Tina Turner stage moves, off it, he often resembled a testy young housewife- having a moan about this, a gripe about the price of that; flouncing in and out of hotel rooms; flirting with all who came before him and slipping in an out of a bewildering variety of accents.

In public, Jagger made every effort to seem a baaad dog but in reality his hedonism was of a controlled nature: the occasional spliff, the odd vodka Collins, a fondness for cocaine; all done with a restraint and self control which was, in his chosen line of work, practically unheard off.

It was the polar opposite of his band mate and song writing partner, Keith Richard, whose taste for class A narcotics was becoming legendary the world over. He sat opposite, long unkempt hair framing sculpted cheekbones and clouded eyes, decaying crocodile skin boots up on the coffee table; a Marlboro burning between his fingers, with a twelve string slack tuned guitar next to him.

"Room service?" he said in his dissipated English drawl, "whaddaya want room service for? I got the number, to the squealer dealer….. the connection."

Jagger looked across at him with disdain. He was flying out in the afternoon; he stood up.

"I fancied raspberries, not coke."

He flung himself down on the floor and began to do press-ups. Keith lit another cigarette and watched Jagger’s head going up and down.

"Maybe we should do a song about raspberries. Fruity, y’know?"

Jagger was counting his press-ups.

"… Twenty-five, twenty-six. Fat’s Domino’s cornered that market with blueberries."

"Hmmm. Where’s Charlie?"

"I dunno, watch him though, I think he wants to get a hair cut."

Jagger stood up and jumped onto an exercise bike. He began to peddle furiously.

"Where are we playing tonight Mick?"

"We’re not. The tour’s over, remember? Altamont? The Hell’s Angels beat every cunt up with lead weighted pool cues. Remember?"

Keith blinked.

"Oh yeah.."

Jagger looked at him incredulously, his left eyebrow arching upwards. Jagger continued cycling. The telephone rang.

"Get that, would you Keith?"

Richard didn’t move; he was strumming the twelve string and making moaning noises. Finally Jagger got off the exercise bike and minced over to the phone.

"Thanks Keith you lazy- Allo, yes? Yeah, yeah….. oh really?"

He put his hand over the phone.

"Jim Morrison’s in the lobby and he wants to come up and see us."

Keith stopped strumming momentarily.

"Morrison? What the fat one who did ‘Light my Fire’? Hmmmm. Good tune, send him up. Oh- and find out if he’s got anything on him.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Jagger rushed out of the bedroom where he’d adorned himself with eyeliner and flung on a skin-tight cat suit belonging to Marsha Hunt. Keith lit another Marlboro. Jagger opened the door and there stood Morrison dressed in his trademark leathers, with a bottle of wine under his arm.

The Lizard King tilted his head on one side and his mouth curled into a lazy grin.

"Hmmmmmmmm" he said in his famous elliptical fashion. Jagger smiled and elected to talk as if he came from Dartford by way of Louisiana.

"James. How y’all?"

Morrison strode into the room.

"Hmmmmmmm."

Keith followed Morrison across the room with his eyes. He was beginning to realise that some of the younger members of the American rock ‘n roll arena, not to mention it’s fans, were having difficulty with this new primal music that had changed the world in a dozen years. Rock ‘n roll blew the kids away; they couldn’t handle it. Several days earlier the Stones final concert of their tour, at Altamont speedway, had degenerated from a bad atmosphere into violence and murder. Their dark lyrics and awesome percussive rhythms had proved an all too apt soundtrack, to a mass drug bacchanal gone horribly wrong. American kids just didn’t get it, give ‘em the rock and the roll and it blew their minds; or maybe it was just really bad acid.

Morrison flung himself down on the couch opposite Keith. Morrison had always preferred the original leader, Brian Jones, and had written some poetry about him on hearing of his demise in a swimming pool earlier that year. Morrison saw that the princely blonde Jones’ excessive behaviour and outrageous appearance had given the band it’s direction and image as the ultimate bad boys.

Jim was feeling confident- he’d had two lines of coke in the lobby rest room and was now ready to joust. He leaned forward.

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Keith dropped the pack on the table.

"Hello James."

Jagger moved over to a drinks cabinet and found a corkscrew and some antique wine glasses. Morrison relaxed back and blew a plume of smoke, whilst Jagger examined the label on the wine bottle.

"…Hmmm ’56 Margaux. Not bad."

Morrison ran his fingers through his hair.

"Well I’m glad it hasn’t …….offended you guys. I heard you had taste."

Keith dropped another butt into his personal ashtray- a world war one German helmet mounted on a small slab of marble.

"Fifty six was a good year," said Keith, "…Chuck, little Richard…Elvis"

Morrison grinned, "Good old rock and roll eh?"

Jagger poured the vintage wine, carefully twisting the neck after each pour.

"Yeah," he said "the old rockers are sweet, just terribly….Bitter."

Morrison laughed.

"Maybe Chuck should have dropped acid!"

"If he had of," said Keith " he might have found another chord to play with."

"That’s right," said Jagger, in what had now become a sarcastic Mayfair drawl, "and made some money. Instead, while we’re playing Madison Square Garden, he’s in some sweaty promoters office in the back end of Missouri arguing about giving a pick up band fifty dollars. Isn’t that right Keef?"

"Looks that way."

Morrison dragged on his cigarette.

"You English guys are a gas…gas gas."

Keith sipped at his Margaux.

"We like to think we know how to enjoy ourselves."

Jagger, who was pouting at his reflection in a huge mirror on the opposite wall, swivelled his eyes round to Richards.

"That’s right. In fact we’ve been wondering…"

"….if American kids know how to enjoy themselves," finished Keith.

Jagger looked at Morrison, who was getting joint rolling apparatus out of a concealed pouch in his jacket. He looked up at Jagger and said nothing.

"I take it you heard about Altamont?" Jagger said slowly.

Morrison was burning hash with a hefty onyx and gold table lighter.

"I sure did."

"And what did you make of it?"

"Well…. If you’re gonna dance with the devil…."

Jagger made his grammar-school-boy-affronted-by-being-told-he’d-failed-an-exam-which-he’d-thought-he’d-cruise-through look.

"James. What on earth do you mean by that?"

Keith waved his hands gently in the manner of Al Jolson singing Mammy.

"He means we asked for it by playing Sympathy for the Devil, the dark shit."

Jagger looked at Keith, flicked at his hair, then looked back at Morrison.

"James. It’s only rock and roll."

Morrison took a bit hit on the spliff, held it, exhaled and spoke.

"I’m afraid it’s more than that. Some kids go and see us guys playing and all they want to do is horse around and maybe get laid. Then they go home and maybe read the sports illustrated and watch TV. Others come because…. They know."

"Know what?" said Jagger.

"That this goes beyond mere entertainment, mere show business. This something real in their lives."

"Don’t you think I know that?" said Keith dryly, "Jesus, the first time I heard Berry man…"

Morrison looked across at Keith. He was just the teensiest bit scared of Keith Richards, an indestructible English vampire with a bone dry martini wit and a rhythmic sensibility on a Fender telecaster that rivalled the whole Basie orchestra.

"Yeah," said Morrison, "But out here we is living on the edge of sanity itself, you found that out at the speedway."

Jagger sipped his wine as prudently as a maiden aunt imbibing a cream sherry.

"Edge of sanity itself? Bollocks. The angels are a bunch of fucking arseholes."

Morrison’s red eyes moved round to Jagger, and watched him take a polite puff on the reefer.

"Yeah, maybe they are arseholes…..okay they are arseholes, but they were just players in the drama- the villains of the piece."

"Well," said Jagger "At least you don’t think we’re the villains, like every other bastard in this town."

Morrison sat forward, warming to his theme.

"They’re just players man, like us, players- all the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.."

"They have their exits and their entrances," said Keith.

Morrison sat back, impressed.

"That’s right man."

Jagger raised his eyebrows.

"Well I’m a crawling king snake. Woss this? A fucking Shakespeare festival? Do you want me to ring to the lobby and see if Olivier’s in the hotel? He can join us; we’ll have readings round the bleedin’ fire."

Morrison re filled Keith’s glass.

"The bleeding fire? That’s cool imagery. Mick man, you said it’s only rock and roll right?"

"Yes James, I did and I happen to like it."

"But you don’t understand, to you it’s a fucking business man. To those people out there," he waved an unsteady hand towards the view of LA, "to those people out there, it’s the thing that they’ve been waiting for all their lives. We could change the fucking world. Us three, in this room now."

Jagger adopted a sneering fifties matinee idol tone.

"Don’t get carried away James…"

"I’m not getting carried away, we’re at a point in time….if it passes and the world remains the same, then it’ll be an opportunity wasted; if it all turns into the goddamn Ford motor company… what’s gonna be left for those people out there?"

"Don’t get carried away James," continued Jagger, "don’t get carried away the way you’re getting carried away, because if you get carried away you end up like Master Lennon, acting or, for all I know, believing that he’s Jesus Christ, and giving press conferences from the inside of a plastic bag in Amsterdam."

Morrison’s congealed eyes narrowed.

"He’s showing out though, what are you doing?"

Jagger stroked his chin and pouted.

"What am I doing? Well James, I don’t know about Keef, but I for one have had just about enough of this whole ‘come together’ thing. It’s alright for the bloody Beatles- they don’t play live. I’d like to have seen their faces if they’d been on that stage at Altamont. Fuck me they’d have had a shock. Peace and love’s finished mate; get yourself a decent lawyer and hang on tight."

Morrison looked at Keith. Keith blew smoke.

"I think Mick’s right. There’s gonna be some hard times coming down. The games up."

"What do you mean?"

"The big events done on the spur with cats running around getting everyone freaked out on shit drugs and motorcycle cunts beatin’ everyone one up. All in the name of peace and love; so…."

"So what does that leave us with" said Morrison, standing up.

"Music," said Keith.

"Yeah but if the music becomes some goddamn safe controlled thing, then we might as well make elevator music."

Jagger walked over to the mirror and began to comb his hair.

"I thought that’s what you did do James."

"I make music I fucking believe in," he turned to Keith, " do you?"

"What a fucking stupid question man."

Morrison indicated Jagger.

"Does he?"

Jagger had had quite enough; he walked over to the window and looked out.

Morrison threw the wine filled antique wineglass against the opposite wall. It shattered and the wine ran down the wall like blood stained water.

"That’s what we should be doing. Not talking about fucking lawyers."

Jagger turned from the window.

"I think you’d better leave James. I’ve had quite enough of you and you’re getting out of hand."

Morrison walked over and ran his hand through the wine running down the wall.

"You know what’s gonna happen Mick?" he murmured, "this whole thing’s gonna pass and it’s gonna end up pretty much like it was before."

Jagger struck a defiant pose.

"Are you gonna leave or am I going to get you thrown out?"

Morrison laughed.

"You rock ‘n roll devils."

Keith lit a cigarette; Morrison was behind him now. He began to speak without looking round.

"I’m a goddamn musician. Don’t get too hung up. You got to be tough. You’re making money for the man, okay. But you’re making money. They’re gonna make money off your ass from here on in, dead or alive. That’s how it works. You wanna be a politician then go and be a politician."

Morrison snorted derisively.

"Doesn’t have to be that way man."

"Well, I ain’t no Mao. I make rock ‘n roll records. So do you. You’re one of us."

"No I am not."

Jagger collected the surviving wineglasses and shuffled across the room.

"Well, whatever, I want to have my afternoon nap."

Morrison stood there, and looked at them both.

"Hmmmm." 

He walked out of the room, leaving the door open. Jagger shut it behind him.

"Fucking cheek, breaking that glass; we’ll get billed for that."

Keith was strumming the twelve string again. He sang along, extemporising stoned.

"…thank you, for your wine, California, thank you……… for your sweet and bitter fruits, guess I got the desert in my toenails ah ha, and I hid the speed inside my shoe…Come on, come on down, sweet virginia…."

Jagger walked over and, leaning against the back of the couch, joined in, singing in a high cod southern falsetto.

"…Come on, come on down, sweet virginiaaaaa, got to scrape the shit right off your shoes…….."