STONES COLD THRILLER
Brushes with fame in the freezing Fargo night. Zooming across state lines to bowling alleys. It's hard-core journalism. It's rock – in a hard place.
By Dave Scheiber
St. Petersburg Times
Feb. 28, 1999
FARGO, N.D. – On a recent evening, when a little spare time was on his side, Mick Jagger became a bowling Stone. What else was there for a guy to do with his kids and crew on a freezing February weeknight in Fargo?
Come to think of it, what were the Rolling Stones doing here in the first place?
Anyone in this quiet city on the North Dakota plains could easily have answered that question two weeks ago: Fargo had a date with rock 'n' roll history. The Rolling Stones, the greatest party band ever, were coming to town for the first time in their 37 years.
The Stones in Fargo – a place that must have gotten its name when some pioneer exclaimed "Hey, it's too darn far, go on ahead without me." The image of the bad lads of London rockin' in the land of endless wheat fields, country crooners and sedate Scandinavian culture raised certain fundamental questions.
How did Fargo grab a spot among the big-market stops? Had the Stones liked the quirky movie Fargo so much they had their "No Security" tour, which hits Tampa on Wednesday, routed through this unassuming locale? Would the legendary band members let down their guard and mingle a bit in the small-town surroundings?
A whirlwind 36 hours – from the day before the Feb. 17 show through the concert itself – produced plenty of answers and memorable moments. In the end, Fargo and many folks got just what they were looking for.
Satisfaction.
START THEM UP
Inside Fargo's cozy Hector Airport, only a handful of passengers are waiting to pick up their bags from incoming flights. It's just another slow Tuesday afternoon, just past 5 o'clock.
Over at the Hertz counter, 19-year-old Andrea Smith is thinking ahead to the next evening. She and her friends have tickets to the Rolling Stones concert.
"We're all so excited," she says. "Up here there's a lot more country music fans, and Garth Brooks sold out a lot faster. But I think this will really be a blast!"
Smith isn't certain whether the band will land in the next few hours, or the next day right before show time. She has a hunch that they will arrive on an obscure airstrip nearby to avoid crowds. One thing is certain, they will be very cold. Smith insists that the weather is actually fairly mild for February. But walking to the rental car, I quickly conclude that 10 degrees with a swirling wind gives new meaning to the words "gimme shelter."
Just as I enter my car and crank up the heat, I notice a news truck pulling up. "Concert tomorrow by the Rolling Stones – their plane is about to land," a sound tech tells me.
Who says you can't always get what you want? Within 15 minutes, Northwest jet NB17EA rolls into view on a remote area of the tarmac carrying the Stones and several dozen people in their formidable entourage – family members, body guards, advance people, wardrobe experts, technical staff and more. As if on cue, a procession of vehicles pulls up next to the plane – two Ford Club Wagons, an Explorer, a Windstar minivan and two Cadillac Sevilles.
It is like an arrival of foreign dignitaries. First down the ramp is a short, stocky man, Mick's bodyguard. Then comes a familiar lanky figure with a black fedora and top coat, wearing dark shades and carrying a walking stick. It is lead guitarist Keith Richards.
"Where's all the palm trees?" he says, waving at the crews of local TV and radio stations. "It looks a lot like Russia."
Behind him are guitarist Ron Wood and drummer Charlie Watts, each bundled in black coats and mufflers, followed by Jagger and daughter, Georgia May. "Glad to be in Faaah-go," shouts a smiling Jagger, neck warmed by a dapper designer scarf, before stepping into a silver Caddie.
A grumpy airport security woman has allowed only seven TV and radio people to set up near the plane. The remaining few of us are allowed to watch from behind a nearby fence. But freelance photographer Eric Hylden and I have staked out a great vantage point, so we are in perfect position as the Stones cruise by.
"The Stones coming to Fargo, this is once in a lifetime," says Chad Wurgler, a 25-year-old bartender inside the airport lounge, after the unexpected flurry of excitement. Word is circulating that the Stones are heading downtown to the upscale Radisson hotel. I grab a phone, switch my reservation from the Quality Inn to the band hotel. Hylden and I head downtown, ready for whatever rock adventure awaits.
GOTTA BOWL ME
The Radisson is hopping with excitement, though on a Tuesday night in Fargo, the hopping is done by only a half dozen or so guests.
The staff meticulously avoids conversation about the band members or their whereabouts, even though Ron Wood is hanging over a balcony railing above the lobby, asking whether the luggage has arrived. The Stones apparently have booked an entire upstairs floor and part of another. But, explains general manager John Warwick politely, "I'm not even acknowledging that they're here."
A handful of backup band members have already headed to the lounge. One of them is veteran Stones saxman Bobby Keys, a burly Texan who has played with everyone from Elvis Presley to Buddy Holly to Eric Clapton. Keys is busy speaking to two fans: Wayne Wilson, a 28-year-old furniture delivery man, and his mother, Erma Wilson, a 48-year-old homemaker. They have driven from their home in Huron, S.D., to a half dozen Stones concerts over the years, including 10 hours to Chicago and 12 hours to St. Louis. So getting to Fargo – four hours – was a breeze. "We're off to see 'em in Kansas City in April," Wayne says.
Wayne is a seasoned veteran when it comes to Stones autograph-seeking and picture-taking. Erma is pretty darn good herself. Their goal is certainly to enjoy the show, for which Wayne has shelled out $800 to a scalper for two front-row seats. But Wayne has also come to get a Stones souvenir for his sister, Angie, who has Hodgkin's disease, add more signatures and snapshots to his collection and try for some banter with anyone connected with the band.
There is little Wayne does not know about the Stones, including where to be at just the right time.
Around 8:30 p.m. he spots Jagger leaving the lobby with his daughter and a dozen others in the entourage. He not only gets the singer's attention long enough for his mother to take a shot of them together, he also overhears a driver saying something about directions to a bowling alley.
Wayne relays the tip to me, and in no time, the chase is on in the 9-degree North Dakota darkness. Photographer Hylden knows the roads well. He and I are up front; Wayne and Erma squeeze in back. "This is unbelievable," Wayne says.
The best we can figure, Jagger and his crew have a half-hour head start on us, so the clock is ticking. The Rock 'N' Bowl seems like a natural choice, and we pull up in 10 minutes. But there is nothing but loud, head-banging music and wafting cigarette smoke.
We veer out of the lot and in minutes have crossed the state line into Fargo's sister city, Moorhead, Minn., to a pair of little 10-pin alleys. We scour the parking lots for Club Wagons. Nothing. But one of the alley managers suggests a place called West Acres – back across the North Dakota line.
We floor it, then have to go painfully slow for a spell as a Fargo police car tails us. We realize we're lost and have to get directions at an empty movie theater. At 10:32, we race by places called Skateland, Cactus Jack's and Mom's Kitchen and wheel into the West Acres parking lot – just as a Club Wagon is pulling out. We rush inside, only to learn Jagger and his daughter have just left in the silver Seville ahead of the vans.
Inside, a dozen or so Stones employees are still rolling. And a handful of bowlers and alley officials are still trying to believe what has just happened on what, until then, had been a dead night in Fargo.
"He gave me his score sheet!" says a giddy woman who will only identify herself as Colleen. A quick glance reveals some decent bowling indeed by Mick: a 152, easily topping the 77 and 74 of two crew members. Mick handily won the other game, too, but only with 110. West Acre managers Steve Foss and Robert "Red" Remmen are ecstatic.
Already, they have been offered $200 for the bowling ball Jagger used, one with the name "Doris" inscribed on it. Someone has tried to buy the shoes he wore for $100. They are not for sale.
It sure electrified this place when they came walking through the door," Foss says. "I just tried to give them some privacy at the far end of the alley."
"It's one of the biggest moments I've ever had," Remmen adds. "They all couldn't have been any nicer."
We leave for the hotel, mildly dejected that we missed the Mick sighting by minutes. Another annoyance: I go through three ballpoint pens before I realize they won't work in sub-freezing temperatures. But now the chase is truly on. Wayne and Erma are more determined than ever to spot the Stones, and one way or another, I intend to catch up with Mick, too.
We head to the hotel bar, where again an array of backup band players is hanging out. The horn section, I learn, has ties to Tampa Bay: trombonist Kent Smith's in-laws live in Spring Hill; saxman Tim Reis is filling in for Andy Snitzer, whose uncle, Herb Snitzer, is an acclaimed St. Petersburg-based photographer.
Wayne, Erma and I linger late into the night in the lobby, until a young hotel security guard insists we head to our rooms. "What kind of rule is that?" I ask. "What can I say? This is Fargo," he replies.
We wonder if he wants us out of the way so some big-name Stones can return from a night out. Staff at the front desk seems edgy. We watch from the balcony on another floor, but the guard is on us every step of the way. It is 2 a.m. I am beat. G'night Mick and Keith and band upstairs. Time to grab a few hours sleep. There's still one more day to catch up with the Rolling Stones.
IT'S ONLY ROCK 'N' ROLL, BUT THEY LIKE IT
Inside the Fargodome, venue executive director Paul Johnson couldn't be more excited. The morning of the big show, one he played a key role in landing, has finally arrived. At 8:30 a.m. he sits in his spacious office in the attractive eight-year-old facility, reflecting on the mega-concert coup.
"A lot of it was persistence, letting their people know we are a great venue," Johnson says, noting a previous attempt to lure the Stones helped pave the way for the successful bid.
The dome, which doubles as a football stadium for North Dakota State, made its first mark with a sold-out Guns 'N Roses concert in 1992. Then came its biggest moment, three straight sold-out concerts by Garth Brooks the same year – with coverage splashed all week on the front of Fargo's daily paper, the Forum.
There have since been concerts by Elton John, Billy Joel and many others. But Johnson sees the dome coming of age with the Stones show. The concert is also a feather in the cap for the city, population 75,000, now home to thriving software companies, and a booming economy recently profiled in Newsweek. Fargo is on a roll.
”There's no question that this is the most visible concert ever for the dome, and the state," he says.
Fargo resident Bonnie Nagel, 48, thinks the Stones show will make the town seem more hip, and less hick, as the movie portrayed it: "I've lived here 30 years and we're not that way!" she says, smiling. "We don't wear those silly hats with earflaps, either."
Back at the hotel, Mick's kids – 5-year-old Georgia May and 9-year-old James – have been bopping around the hotel with a nanny. Georgia May has paid a few visits to the gift shop, purchasing a little stuffed dog and a nylon wrist pouch. "Nice little girl," says Tom Kurtti, who has run the Imperial Gift Shop with his wife, Louise, for 15 years. They have Georgia May sign their guest register, already bearing such names as Barbara Bush, Johnny Cash and Richard Simmons.
By 3 p.m., a half-dozen fans have staked out positions at one side of the lobby, certain the Stones will have to leave by 4 for a sound check. One is a 45-year-old United Van Lines trucker, Mark Johnston, who has rerouted his run from Vancouver, British Columbia, to Boston to make the show. In his hand is a vintage Chuck Berry album, Rockin' at the Hop. Mick Jagger was holding a copy of that same album in 1962 when he bumped into Keith Richards on a train platform in England. It sparked a discussion of the blues that helped bring them together to form the Stones.
Nearby sits 16-year-old Jenny Livingood, a freshman at Moorhead State. She has a sly strategy: fill out an application to work at the Radisson while keeping her eyes on the door. She has brought her Honda guitar, praying that Jagger will sign it.
Terry Richards, a Fargo teacher, has brought his 40th anniversary Fender Stratocaster, hoping to have Ron Wood sign it. Don Rhoden, a 42-year-old anesthesiologist, has just driven in for the show from Omaha and takes the scene in.
The crowd is getting antsy as 4 p.m. approaches. But no Stones. By 4:30, it seems likely the band members have been shuttled out a side entrance. The game appears over.
Some onlookers leave. Then, almost out of nowhere, five black-jacketed drivers from Ace of Hearts limo service emerge through the front door. They stand at soldier-like attention, facing the elevators. Game on!
Veteran Stones security chief Jim Callighan, a tall, amiable gent from England, calmly surveys the lobby. Suddenly, there is a surge of activity outside: Charlie Watts and Keith Richards have successfully eluded the small crowd and ducked into their vans from side hotel doors.
Spirits sag. The rag-tag pack shifts outside, where a huge neon temperature sign at the end of the block reads like a scoreboard: 11 degrees. One high school girl is standing on the curb in a tank top, shivering uncontrollably but refusing to leave. Then there's another flurry of movement: Ron Wood breezes past, stopping only to sign one autograph, on the teacher's guitar. "I'm going home to put this right on the wall!" he declares.
Now there is only one vehicle left, the silver Seville. Ten minutes pass. 9 degrees. From a side door, a bodyguard appears. His cell phone rings. It has to be the signal. The pack presses toward the Seville. At that instant, Mick Jagger appears. He looks sharp, his coiffed brown hair flowing stylishly as he strides to the car.
As Jagger moves past me, no more than two feet away, he slips on a patch of ice, quickly catching his balance. Meanwhile, in a blur, the bodyguard steps into the crowd, directly blocking my path. I figure I have one shot at a question. Mick's split with Jerri? Too London tab-ish. The tour? Too bland. I want to know about that impressive 152 tally.
"Mick, how'd you like that bowling score last night?" I yell. He's busy signing something. I yell it again, and once more. This is hard-core journalism, after all. On my third try, Mick's head turns, and he utters two words.
"All right."
Was it "all right," he liked it? Or "all right, driver, let's get the heck out of here?" I will never know for sure. But my mission is complete as the Caddie pulls away.
The work is also done for student Jenny Livingood. She is weeping uncontrollably. Jagger has signed her guitar. "This is the best moment in my life," she says through sobs.
More quietly, beefy trucker Mark Johnston holds his album cover and smiles. It now bears Jagger's signature. The tank-topped teenager only got a snapshot, but seems happy if not warm. As for Wayne and Erma, it is another bonanza of photos and memories.
A few hours later, outside the Fargodome, it's 2 degrees and dropping. Inside, a raucous sellout crowd of 22,000 has packed the place. Local radio news personality Don Haney puts the number in perspective: The crowd is big enough to make the Fargodome unofficially rank as the state's fifth-largest city for the night. Fans stomp and cheer loud enough to shake the Great Plains down to Kansas.
Mick and the boys romp and rock and race around stage for two hours with boundless energy belying their 50-plus years. "Fargo, you've made us all feel very welcome, and we thank you for that!" shouts Jagger to the exuberant crowd.
The Stones then launch into Respectable, and somehow the title seems to fit this distant northern town just fine.
Brushes with fame in the freezing Fargo night. Zooming across state lines to bowling alleys. It's hard-core journalism. It's rock – in a hard place.
By Dave Scheiber
St. Petersburg Times
Feb. 28, 1999
FARGO, N.D. – On a recent evening, when a little spare time was on his side, Mick Jagger became a bowling Stone. What else was there for a guy to do with his kids and crew on a freezing February weeknight in Fargo?
Come to think of it, what were the Rolling Stones doing here in the first place?
Anyone in this quiet city on the North Dakota plains could easily have answered that question two weeks ago: Fargo had a date with rock 'n' roll history. The Rolling Stones, the greatest party band ever, were coming to town for the first time in their 37 years.
The Stones in Fargo – a place that must have gotten its name when some pioneer exclaimed "Hey, it's too darn far, go on ahead without me." The image of the bad lads of London rockin' in the land of endless wheat fields, country crooners and sedate Scandinavian culture raised certain fundamental questions.
How did Fargo grab a spot among the big-market stops? Had the Stones liked the quirky movie Fargo so much they had their "No Security" tour, which hits Tampa on Wednesday, routed through this unassuming locale? Would the legendary band members let down their guard and mingle a bit in the small-town surroundings?
A whirlwind 36 hours – from the day before the Feb. 17 show through the concert itself – produced plenty of answers and memorable moments. In the end, Fargo and many folks got just what they were looking for.
Satisfaction.
START THEM UP
Inside Fargo's cozy Hector Airport, only a handful of passengers are waiting to pick up their bags from incoming flights. It's just another slow Tuesday afternoon, just past 5 o'clock.
Over at the Hertz counter, 19-year-old Andrea Smith is thinking ahead to the next evening. She and her friends have tickets to the Rolling Stones concert.
"We're all so excited," she says. "Up here there's a lot more country music fans, and Garth Brooks sold out a lot faster. But I think this will really be a blast!"
Smith isn't certain whether the band will land in the next few hours, or the next day right before show time. She has a hunch that they will arrive on an obscure airstrip nearby to avoid crowds. One thing is certain, they will be very cold. Smith insists that the weather is actually fairly mild for February. But walking to the rental car, I quickly conclude that 10 degrees with a swirling wind gives new meaning to the words "gimme shelter."
Just as I enter my car and crank up the heat, I notice a news truck pulling up. "Concert tomorrow by the Rolling Stones – their plane is about to land," a sound tech tells me.
Who says you can't always get what you want? Within 15 minutes, Northwest jet NB17EA rolls into view on a remote area of the tarmac carrying the Stones and several dozen people in their formidable entourage – family members, body guards, advance people, wardrobe experts, technical staff and more. As if on cue, a procession of vehicles pulls up next to the plane – two Ford Club Wagons, an Explorer, a Windstar minivan and two Cadillac Sevilles.
It is like an arrival of foreign dignitaries. First down the ramp is a short, stocky man, Mick's bodyguard. Then comes a familiar lanky figure with a black fedora and top coat, wearing dark shades and carrying a walking stick. It is lead guitarist Keith Richards.
"Where's all the palm trees?" he says, waving at the crews of local TV and radio stations. "It looks a lot like Russia."
Behind him are guitarist Ron Wood and drummer Charlie Watts, each bundled in black coats and mufflers, followed by Jagger and daughter, Georgia May. "Glad to be in Faaah-go," shouts a smiling Jagger, neck warmed by a dapper designer scarf, before stepping into a silver Caddie.
A grumpy airport security woman has allowed only seven TV and radio people to set up near the plane. The remaining few of us are allowed to watch from behind a nearby fence. But freelance photographer Eric Hylden and I have staked out a great vantage point, so we are in perfect position as the Stones cruise by.
"The Stones coming to Fargo, this is once in a lifetime," says Chad Wurgler, a 25-year-old bartender inside the airport lounge, after the unexpected flurry of excitement. Word is circulating that the Stones are heading downtown to the upscale Radisson hotel. I grab a phone, switch my reservation from the Quality Inn to the band hotel. Hylden and I head downtown, ready for whatever rock adventure awaits.
GOTTA BOWL ME
The Radisson is hopping with excitement, though on a Tuesday night in Fargo, the hopping is done by only a half dozen or so guests.
The staff meticulously avoids conversation about the band members or their whereabouts, even though Ron Wood is hanging over a balcony railing above the lobby, asking whether the luggage has arrived. The Stones apparently have booked an entire upstairs floor and part of another. But, explains general manager John Warwick politely, "I'm not even acknowledging that they're here."
A handful of backup band members have already headed to the lounge. One of them is veteran Stones saxman Bobby Keys, a burly Texan who has played with everyone from Elvis Presley to Buddy Holly to Eric Clapton. Keys is busy speaking to two fans: Wayne Wilson, a 28-year-old furniture delivery man, and his mother, Erma Wilson, a 48-year-old homemaker. They have driven from their home in Huron, S.D., to a half dozen Stones concerts over the years, including 10 hours to Chicago and 12 hours to St. Louis. So getting to Fargo – four hours – was a breeze. "We're off to see 'em in Kansas City in April," Wayne says.
Wayne is a seasoned veteran when it comes to Stones autograph-seeking and picture-taking. Erma is pretty darn good herself. Their goal is certainly to enjoy the show, for which Wayne has shelled out $800 to a scalper for two front-row seats. But Wayne has also come to get a Stones souvenir for his sister, Angie, who has Hodgkin's disease, add more signatures and snapshots to his collection and try for some banter with anyone connected with the band.
There is little Wayne does not know about the Stones, including where to be at just the right time.
Around 8:30 p.m. he spots Jagger leaving the lobby with his daughter and a dozen others in the entourage. He not only gets the singer's attention long enough for his mother to take a shot of them together, he also overhears a driver saying something about directions to a bowling alley.
Wayne relays the tip to me, and in no time, the chase is on in the 9-degree North Dakota darkness. Photographer Hylden knows the roads well. He and I are up front; Wayne and Erma squeeze in back. "This is unbelievable," Wayne says.
The best we can figure, Jagger and his crew have a half-hour head start on us, so the clock is ticking. The Rock 'N' Bowl seems like a natural choice, and we pull up in 10 minutes. But there is nothing but loud, head-banging music and wafting cigarette smoke.
We veer out of the lot and in minutes have crossed the state line into Fargo's sister city, Moorhead, Minn., to a pair of little 10-pin alleys. We scour the parking lots for Club Wagons. Nothing. But one of the alley managers suggests a place called West Acres – back across the North Dakota line.
We floor it, then have to go painfully slow for a spell as a Fargo police car tails us. We realize we're lost and have to get directions at an empty movie theater. At 10:32, we race by places called Skateland, Cactus Jack's and Mom's Kitchen and wheel into the West Acres parking lot – just as a Club Wagon is pulling out. We rush inside, only to learn Jagger and his daughter have just left in the silver Seville ahead of the vans.
Inside, a dozen or so Stones employees are still rolling. And a handful of bowlers and alley officials are still trying to believe what has just happened on what, until then, had been a dead night in Fargo.
"He gave me his score sheet!" says a giddy woman who will only identify herself as Colleen. A quick glance reveals some decent bowling indeed by Mick: a 152, easily topping the 77 and 74 of two crew members. Mick handily won the other game, too, but only with 110. West Acre managers Steve Foss and Robert "Red" Remmen are ecstatic.
Already, they have been offered $200 for the bowling ball Jagger used, one with the name "Doris" inscribed on it. Someone has tried to buy the shoes he wore for $100. They are not for sale.
It sure electrified this place when they came walking through the door," Foss says. "I just tried to give them some privacy at the far end of the alley."
"It's one of the biggest moments I've ever had," Remmen adds. "They all couldn't have been any nicer."
We leave for the hotel, mildly dejected that we missed the Mick sighting by minutes. Another annoyance: I go through three ballpoint pens before I realize they won't work in sub-freezing temperatures. But now the chase is truly on. Wayne and Erma are more determined than ever to spot the Stones, and one way or another, I intend to catch up with Mick, too.
We head to the hotel bar, where again an array of backup band players is hanging out. The horn section, I learn, has ties to Tampa Bay: trombonist Kent Smith's in-laws live in Spring Hill; saxman Tim Reis is filling in for Andy Snitzer, whose uncle, Herb Snitzer, is an acclaimed St. Petersburg-based photographer.
Wayne, Erma and I linger late into the night in the lobby, until a young hotel security guard insists we head to our rooms. "What kind of rule is that?" I ask. "What can I say? This is Fargo," he replies.
We wonder if he wants us out of the way so some big-name Stones can return from a night out. Staff at the front desk seems edgy. We watch from the balcony on another floor, but the guard is on us every step of the way. It is 2 a.m. I am beat. G'night Mick and Keith and band upstairs. Time to grab a few hours sleep. There's still one more day to catch up with the Rolling Stones.
IT'S ONLY ROCK 'N' ROLL, BUT THEY LIKE IT
Inside the Fargodome, venue executive director Paul Johnson couldn't be more excited. The morning of the big show, one he played a key role in landing, has finally arrived. At 8:30 a.m. he sits in his spacious office in the attractive eight-year-old facility, reflecting on the mega-concert coup.
"A lot of it was persistence, letting their people know we are a great venue," Johnson says, noting a previous attempt to lure the Stones helped pave the way for the successful bid.
The dome, which doubles as a football stadium for North Dakota State, made its first mark with a sold-out Guns 'N Roses concert in 1992. Then came its biggest moment, three straight sold-out concerts by Garth Brooks the same year – with coverage splashed all week on the front of Fargo's daily paper, the Forum.
There have since been concerts by Elton John, Billy Joel and many others. But Johnson sees the dome coming of age with the Stones show. The concert is also a feather in the cap for the city, population 75,000, now home to thriving software companies, and a booming economy recently profiled in Newsweek. Fargo is on a roll.
”There's no question that this is the most visible concert ever for the dome, and the state," he says.
Fargo resident Bonnie Nagel, 48, thinks the Stones show will make the town seem more hip, and less hick, as the movie portrayed it: "I've lived here 30 years and we're not that way!" she says, smiling. "We don't wear those silly hats with earflaps, either."
Back at the hotel, Mick's kids – 5-year-old Georgia May and 9-year-old James – have been bopping around the hotel with a nanny. Georgia May has paid a few visits to the gift shop, purchasing a little stuffed dog and a nylon wrist pouch. "Nice little girl," says Tom Kurtti, who has run the Imperial Gift Shop with his wife, Louise, for 15 years. They have Georgia May sign their guest register, already bearing such names as Barbara Bush, Johnny Cash and Richard Simmons.
By 3 p.m., a half-dozen fans have staked out positions at one side of the lobby, certain the Stones will have to leave by 4 for a sound check. One is a 45-year-old United Van Lines trucker, Mark Johnston, who has rerouted his run from Vancouver, British Columbia, to Boston to make the show. In his hand is a vintage Chuck Berry album, Rockin' at the Hop. Mick Jagger was holding a copy of that same album in 1962 when he bumped into Keith Richards on a train platform in England. It sparked a discussion of the blues that helped bring them together to form the Stones.
Nearby sits 16-year-old Jenny Livingood, a freshman at Moorhead State. She has a sly strategy: fill out an application to work at the Radisson while keeping her eyes on the door. She has brought her Honda guitar, praying that Jagger will sign it.
Terry Richards, a Fargo teacher, has brought his 40th anniversary Fender Stratocaster, hoping to have Ron Wood sign it. Don Rhoden, a 42-year-old anesthesiologist, has just driven in for the show from Omaha and takes the scene in.
The crowd is getting antsy as 4 p.m. approaches. But no Stones. By 4:30, it seems likely the band members have been shuttled out a side entrance. The game appears over.
Some onlookers leave. Then, almost out of nowhere, five black-jacketed drivers from Ace of Hearts limo service emerge through the front door. They stand at soldier-like attention, facing the elevators. Game on!
Veteran Stones security chief Jim Callighan, a tall, amiable gent from England, calmly surveys the lobby. Suddenly, there is a surge of activity outside: Charlie Watts and Keith Richards have successfully eluded the small crowd and ducked into their vans from side hotel doors.
Spirits sag. The rag-tag pack shifts outside, where a huge neon temperature sign at the end of the block reads like a scoreboard: 11 degrees. One high school girl is standing on the curb in a tank top, shivering uncontrollably but refusing to leave. Then there's another flurry of movement: Ron Wood breezes past, stopping only to sign one autograph, on the teacher's guitar. "I'm going home to put this right on the wall!" he declares.
Now there is only one vehicle left, the silver Seville. Ten minutes pass. 9 degrees. From a side door, a bodyguard appears. His cell phone rings. It has to be the signal. The pack presses toward the Seville. At that instant, Mick Jagger appears. He looks sharp, his coiffed brown hair flowing stylishly as he strides to the car.
As Jagger moves past me, no more than two feet away, he slips on a patch of ice, quickly catching his balance. Meanwhile, in a blur, the bodyguard steps into the crowd, directly blocking my path. I figure I have one shot at a question. Mick's split with Jerri? Too London tab-ish. The tour? Too bland. I want to know about that impressive 152 tally.
"Mick, how'd you like that bowling score last night?" I yell. He's busy signing something. I yell it again, and once more. This is hard-core journalism, after all. On my third try, Mick's head turns, and he utters two words.
"All right."
Was it "all right," he liked it? Or "all right, driver, let's get the heck out of here?" I will never know for sure. But my mission is complete as the Caddie pulls away.
The work is also done for student Jenny Livingood. She is weeping uncontrollably. Jagger has signed her guitar. "This is the best moment in my life," she says through sobs.
More quietly, beefy trucker Mark Johnston holds his album cover and smiles. It now bears Jagger's signature. The tank-topped teenager only got a snapshot, but seems happy if not warm. As for Wayne and Erma, it is another bonanza of photos and memories.
A few hours later, outside the Fargodome, it's 2 degrees and dropping. Inside, a raucous sellout crowd of 22,000 has packed the place. Local radio news personality Don Haney puts the number in perspective: The crowd is big enough to make the Fargodome unofficially rank as the state's fifth-largest city for the night. Fans stomp and cheer loud enough to shake the Great Plains down to Kansas.
Mick and the boys romp and rock and race around stage for two hours with boundless energy belying their 50-plus years. "Fargo, you've made us all feel very welcome, and we thank you for that!" shouts Jagger to the exuberant crowd.
The Stones then launch into Respectable, and somehow the title seems to fit this distant northern town just fine.