Brian gone, an album wrapped, Hell’s Angels
in the wings, the stars align for fighting
in the street. For signing on the Angels
and singing to the choirs of fallen angels
in America. The summer’s gone, the Airplane’s
booked. Ignoring nature’s better angels,
Mick and Keith seek counsel on the Angels.
But will they take the Grateful Dead’s advice,
confused and San Franciscan? Dead advice
and deadly? What a notion, dubbing Angels
cops. What’s happened to our Glimmer Brothers?
Will they hire those dark angelic brothers?

Don’t ask Gram of the Burrito Brothers.
Keith spent August at the Grievous Angel’s
side, September in cold turkey, stone brothers
in the blood. But what about the blues, my brothers?
The codependents sleep through all the fighting,
leaving Mick to organize the Brothers
Internationale, the rolling brothers
in their jeans and paisleys on the airplane,
on the bus, and in New York. The airplane,
the hotels . . . . Well, the Rockefeller Brothers
better get their act together. Vice
defines their aura, but they need advice.

“Hello, John? It’s Melvin Belli. I advise
the Stones.… Uh, Belli. The attorney. Your brother’s
been in touch with us, and my adv…[%&@)&#&%]
Melvin Belli . . . . Right. OK. Now, my advice,
considering the city’s stance, is tap the Angels,
book the track. We’ll take the Dead’s advice.”
The lawyer, pacing, lights another Vice-
roy. “Golden Gate is out. The council’s fighting
us on every front. I’m good with fighting,
but we need a parking lot. Advice?”
Keith, essentially still on the airplane:
“Make it big enough to park the airplane!”

Good advice. Burritos down, the Airplane’s
up, the show is on at Altamont. Advice
is at a premium. Grace, the Airplane’s
ingénue, announces that the Airplane’s
captain is unconscious. “Sisters, brothers,
take it down a notch!” The bloodied Airplane
skips a beat, but hand it to the Airplane
and their lady Ace: “Nice going, Angels!
Folks, you gotta hand it to the Angels!”
And ultimately to the Stones, their airplane
on the runway, ready. No more fighting
City Hall, the time is right for fighting

with security. And maybe fighting
the promoter on the stage with airplane
pilot scarf, a top hat and a fighting
chance. Prefiguring the mosh pit, fighting
is intense as Jagger sings to Satan’s vice
and Charlie cracks the cans. “Who’s figh’ing?”
Jagger asks. “Wut fauwr?” A young girl’s fighting
back her tears. The Karamazov Brothers
pull together on the stage, which brothers-
up the tripping bikers tipped to fighting
as a pea-green leisure suit draws Angels
with a handgun. Hand it to the Angels.

Gram gets to the chopper, through the Angels,
flying to an early grave. The fighting
rockers take it easy on the airplane,
coming down from Belli’s mad advice,
believing, still, that All Men Shall be Brothers.