At a small Rolling Stones concert in a riverside courtyard, the guitarist squeals the N-word without provocation, as if it were part of the rhythm and blues tradition he was imitating. My friend Jesse, lying on his back in the nighttime grass, channels our pure confusion by belting out a loud and involuntary "What the fuck?" The music stops and a burly Brian Jones knocks over a ride cymbal as he comes to confront Jesse. We try to run interference and leave as quickly as we can, taking most of the small crowd with us. The Stones turn their amps around and start up again, facing the river.