ISSUE DATE: Sept. 4, 1989
The anniversary of Woodstock arrived and waned, much like the first time around. It was mostly a convenience for the media, a way to get a handle on an upstart pop phenomenon. For music, a fan remembered, all the festival symbolized was a washout. Lysergic mud and bad amplification. The rest was a fairy tale.
And, as the fairy tales say, it seemed that it might be time again for legends. Twenty years later there were suddenly on every side the familiar sounds of the ’60s: Bob Dylan, the Who, Van Morrison, the Bee Gees and the Jefferson Airplane. But the flashiest news was that the Rolling Stones, well aged and embattled, would be lumbering out of the woods and into the lights again. “The world’s greatest rock ‘n’ roll band” (an unofficial title the band never originated but did little to discourage) had not only cut a new record but was embarking on a tour that would take it to nearly 40 U.S. cities.
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