Jo Wood - It's Only Rock 'n' Roll - Thirty Years with a Rolling Stone

It was a beautiful ride along the Thames and Ronnie was in a great mood. We chatted about the guests who were coming that night and the plans for the end-of-show party. As Ronnie had been touring for 30 years this was just another normal day’s work for him, but he loved his job as much as ever. Getting up on that stage, doing what he did best, while night after night thousands of people screamed in adoration. Girls still threw themselves at him so blatantly that I sometimes felt I was in the way – especially now I was older. But in a few weeks’ time we would be celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our first date. We’d had our ups and downs, but we were still strong, and as we were coming to the end of a two-year slog we would finally have some time to ourselves to enjoy the rewards of all that hard work.

As we sped down the river, though, the sun sparkling on the water, I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of it all coming to an end. I loved being on tour and would miss everyone hugely: not just the boys in the band, their wives and kids, but the backing musicians, roadies, security guys, office and tour staff, too. We had worked together for so long, we were like one big, crazy family.

The boat docked right next to the O2, where we jumped into waiting cars for the two-second drive inside the stadium. Being part of the Rolling Stones family is to live in a magical kingdom, where everything is taken care of and nothing is too much trouble. You’re given the best tables in restaurants, you fly first class, you get the best limos to the best hotels – God forbid you should actually have to walk a few metres!

I went straight to Ronnie’s dressing room, known as ‘Recovery’ on this tour, to drop off the gig bag, organize myself for the evening, and check that everything on his tour rider (an artist’s list of backstage demands) was in the room. In the old days this would have meant loads of booze, but now that Ronnie tried to stay sober on tour it was bottles of Vitaminwater, a coffee machine and sometimes a plain chicken sandwich. I liked to make the room feel homely, so there would also be lilies, incense and scented candles.

While Ronnie hung out in Keith’s dressing room (known as ‘Camp X-ray’), I went off to talk to Isabol in Wardrobe and pick out Ronnie’s clothes for the show. First, though, I stopped off to see Lisa Portman, who looked after Mick, to find out what colour he’d be wearing that night. If he was wearing red or blue, the rest of the boys couldn’t wear red or blue. The only person who didn’t comply with this was Keith. He would just pull stuff out at random and wear whatever he pleased.

Ronnie always wore the same shoes and skinny black jeans for shows, but I selected a couple of jackets and three tops for him to pick from that night, so he’d feel like he’d chosen his outfit. On the way back to the dressing room Caroline, the makeup artist, stuck her head out of the door.

‘I need him at five fifteen today, Jo,’ she said. ‘Oh, and if you see Bobby Keys, will you send him over to me?’

‘No problem.’

This was always my favourite time of the day on tour, when the excitement and energy were growing in the build-up to that night’s show. I passed Mick in the corridor and said hi, then headed to the lounge. This was the hospitality room where all the guests and backing musicians would hang out in the run-up to the show. At the O2 the lounge took up a whole floor, as everyone had family and friends coming. Dinner was always set out during the sound check so it was ready to eat as soon as the doors opened at 6 p.m. Like a hotel buffet, there would always be loads of choice: salad, cheese, fish and chips, some sort of meat dish, a vegetarian option – and almost always an organic meal, too. I had first asked for this in the early nineties and the caterers had been brilliant at sourcing organic food wherever we had been in the world; in fact, there had been only a couple of places where they hadn’t managed it. Sometimes I brought along organic produce from my own vegetable patch, too: on one tour I smuggled a whole suitcase of new potatoes to Paris, and backstage there was a huge bowl of them, dripping in butter, labelled, ‘Jo’s Organic Potatoes’. Every single one was eaten.

It was after the potato-smuggling incident that Keith said to me, ‘The trouble with you, Josephine, is that you’re addicted to organic food.’

I had to laugh. ‘ Addicted? That’s a bit rich coming from you, Keith!’

At eight thirty, with moments to go before show time, I headed down to the stage and positioned myself by the flight cases, the huge containers used to transport the band’s kit around the world, so I’d be right there when Ronnie came on, in case he needed something. The roar of the crowd grew in anticipation and then – POW! Literally a bigger bang, as fireworks showered sparks all over the stage and the screens showed the Stones’ tongue logo in the midst of a huge explosion. Then as the smell of smoke and hot lights filled the air, the lights came up and the opening guitar notes of ‘Start Me Up’ boomed out into the arena.

Wow . I never got tired of experiencing the first thrilling moments of a show.

I stayed by the amp for the first two songs and then, once I knew Ronnie was happy, it was back to the dressing room to lay out his robe and pack up the gig bag. I rarely watched a whole show, preferring to catch up with the rest of the crew, but I would always go back to my spot on the stage to watch Ronnie’s solos and for the final few songs when they played all the classics: ‘Paint It Black’, ‘Satisfaction’, ‘Brown Sugar’ … The boys swapped it around every night so they never played the same set two shows in a row.

I went back to the lounge and found the logistics manager and Mick’s PA, Alan Dunn, who was grabbing a bite to eat. I adored Alan; I’d known him for almost as long as I’d known Ronnie and we had a wonderful, flirty friendship. Years ago the Stones were working on an album in Montserrat and Alan – who didn’t really drink – got so drunk downing B52 shots that he stripped naked and started chasing me around the garden waving his willy at me. No one blinked an eyelid, and in the end I had to lock myself in the bathroom to escape. I had so many funny times with Alan.

I’d never usually drink at a show, but tonight we had the end-of-tour party to look forward to after the gig, so I poured Alan and myself a small glass of wine each. We’d been chatting for a few minutes when I glanced at the set list. In a few minutes’ time the boys would be playing ‘Can’t You Hear Me Knocking’, with my favourite of Ronnie’s solos. I said goodbye to Alan, promising to continue our chat at the party.

The song was just starting as I arrived back at my spot behind the amp on stage. It was a great show tonight – UK audiences were always loud and loyal, although they usually needed a bit of time to warm up. Typical British reserve, I guess. I could make out some of the fans’ faces at the front of the crowd, but after the first few rows it seemed to be just an expanse of darkness, lit only by the flashes of cameras and phones. Standing on that stage listening to music that was so familiar to me, surrounded by people I’d known for years (not just the musicians, but all the roadies, riggers and tech guys behind the scenes, too), I truly felt like I was home.

Just to the side of where I was standing I could see Charlie Watts drumming away with fantastically precise rhythm. He caught me looking at him and pulled a face. I love Charlie; I could never tire of watching him play the drums. Darryl Jones on bass was standing just past him and then, bounding across the stage, shaking maracas, there was Mick. The guy is such a fantastic showman. I’ve never seen anyone else take an audience like he can and hold them in his hand for the entire show. I popped my head up a bit higher so I could see Keith, who was across on the other side. I’ve been lucky enough to meet some legends in my time – Bob Marley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bill Clinton, Muhammad Ali, Madonna, Chuck Berry, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye and, yes, of course, Mick Jagger, but Keith is the most extraordinary person, and one of my dearest friends.