A Trip to California (Part Two)

I think the decision to head to California with them was something my mother planned well ahead of their arrival. She never said a word about driving back with this other family during their stay with us. The plan was a tit for tat one: they had been shown hospitality by us, so why not let them return the favour with some time at their place. We were to share the space in their van for a few days, stay at their place for a few more days (about a week), and then take a flight home from Los Angeles. My mother had an urge to get ourselves out into the world to see different places. I always thought, and I still believe today, that this was to make sure that my memories of that year did not include just a holiday that everyone celebrated with a complete family and the cold irony and misery of not having even that during a time of the year devoted to miracles and second chances. She wanted me to have more.


Was I excited about the trip? I suppose I was. When you look back at moments in your childhood, it involves a strange pairing of exaggeration and denial. The summer of 1984 began with us living in a new place, and the possibility that we could lead new lives. I remember the music I listened to, the toys I played with, and even the clothes I wore as special and unique to me. That is what children do. Their worlds can seem so completely self-contained that other realities no more exist than any other fantasy seen in movies, comic books or TV programs (again, all unique and special for and to me). For all of these reasons, I am very glad that my mother decided on that trip. I had been to the Caribbean to visit family – our last trip had been to bury my father on the island of Curacao – but I had never left my home country for a place where I knew no one; where I had no familial or cultural ties. It was the first time I was exposed to an environment I only half-knew through its powerful and impressive media. It would be a very direct experience of our neighbours to the south.

Mick Jagger, My Father (Part Three)

I have seen photos of my family from the early seventies. One in particular I found odd: my brother is standing next to my father, who is holding me facing away from the camera. My mother is standing beside him and seems a little nervous. Why? I could never find anything in that photo to get a reasonable answer. I had to dig a little deeper and look at some of the later pictures. I am in the Caribbean with my mother and brother at the airport. I am sitting on my grandmother’s couch in her home. I am on the beach, running with my mother and trying to avoid the surf. This last photo was a vital clue to my links with the prince of rock and roll’s dark side.


I moved like Jagger. I had the lips and eyes of a satyr and a love of music that my parents would begin to question and fret over. I also noted how bad the Stones became after 1972. Could it be that the trauma of discovering that he was now the father of a soon-to-be big-headed first-generation born West Indian in the Golden Horseshoe led to a dropping off in the ability of Mr Jagger to compose with Keef? Was it something that he could only deal with unconsciously? This makes the most sense to me, because it does not seem logical that any group of musicians from England would show any interest in soup made from the head of a goat. There must have been some unconscious reason to explain this sudden interest in a West Indian staple (far better curried than in a soup, by the way).