Dancing with Duality: A Night with the Rolling Stones at Tokyo Dome

A reflective review of Mick Jagger’s enigmatic stage presence and the Stones’ fading musical impact.

Reflections on Mick Jagger’s Magnetic Contradictions and the Legacy of a Cultural Brand

Last night’s Rolling Stones concert at the Tokyo Dome was a curious experience—one that left me surprisingly unmoved. Despite the stadium’s electrifying atmosphere and the presence of over 100,000 fans, I found myself more intrigued by Mick Jagger himself than by the music. Watching him closely throughout the evening, I realized he embodies a fascinating set of contradictions that make him compelling, even if the performance itself lacked emotional resonance.

Jagger’s stage presence is undeniably unique. He’s not as overtly ambiguous as David Bowie, but he still manages to be both masculine and feminine, youthful and aged, commanding and puppet-like, sexual yet safe. His movements are especially distinctive—he doesn’t strut or stomp, he skips. Like a child. His slender, knock-kneed legs and narrow hipscontrast with his surprisingly strong-looking shoulders. At one point, Keith Richards lumbered across the stage like a gouty water buffalo, unintentionally emphasizing Jagger’s graceful athleticism.

Yet, time has left its mark. Jagger’s once-famous pouting lips are now thinner and greyer, and his face is deeply furrowed with age. Still, his throat remains impressive—thick, veined, and muscular, like an oak tree. The more I watched, the more he seemed to represent opposites: a man who has gone far in life but still retains traces of his native English accent, a global icon who maintains camaraderie with his longtime bandmates.

The giant screen above the stage made him look larger than life, but the reality was different. From the stands, he appeared as a tiny, animated figure, dwarfed by the vast architecture and the crowd. It was as if he were a demented puppet, dancing for a legacy rather than for art.

The audience, too, seemed to reflect this duality. There was love, perhaps rooted in nostalgia—memories of first kisses or youthful rebellion soundtracked by the Stones. There was respect for Jagger’s self-discipline and longevity. But there was also a hint of contempt—for the repetitive repertoire, for the lack of creative evolution, and for the sense that the Stones have become more brand than band. Unlike John Lennon, who transformed his fame into something more meaningful, Jagger seems content to remain within the confines of his musical past.

Vocally, Jagger held his own, though the songs—many written decades ago—have been heard countless times. The highlight of the night came when a black female backing singer took center stage. Her voice was clear, powerful, and beautiful, filling every corner of the stadium and momentarily eclipsing Jagger’s efforts. It was a reminder of what true musical skill can sound like.

Reflecting on the evening, I couldn’t help but compare it to a performance of Swan Lake I saw in Munich last year. That show was a testament to discipline, beauty, and artistry, with dancers, singers, and musicians combining their talents in a symphony of skill. In contrast, the Stones’ concert felt more like a volume-driven spectacle, compensating for poor acoustics with sheer loudness. My head began to throb halfway through.

Ultimately, the Rolling Stones seem to represent a kind of cultural safety. They’re iconic, yes—but perhaps in a way that’s more about familiarity than excellence. People attend their concerts not necessarily for the music, but because it’s what one does. It’s a safe choice, a nod to a shared past. But maybe, just maybe, what they truly stand for now is mediocrity—wrapped in the glittering costume of legend.