I saw the Stones back in 1989. Steel Wheels tour. A friend of mine owed me a substantial sum of money (as I defined it in my college days, anyway), and he paid me back by doing the show for me: Ticket, t-shirt, ride, the works.

The show was impressive, rock and roll as grand opera. The guys used every piece of the stage, with the climax coming when Mick climbed one of the sixty foot towers as the first strains of "Sympathy for the Devil" began. The stage turned bright red, and then the song began.

It was a real show. But it was also terribly safe. Arrowhead Stadium provided great sight lines, and the sound was pretty decent, considering. But the forty and fifty-somethings around us weren't about to puke on us or even spill their Chardonnay on our shoes. Was this really rock and roll? I've always wondered.

So when the 30th anniversary re-issue of Gimme Shelter hit the town for a week, I knew I had to check it out. And I saw the real spirit of rock and roll.

Back in those days, the biggest rock and roll band in the world (I'd say this an accurate description of the Rolling Stone in 1969) played on stages four or (at most) five feet above the audience. It wasn't difficult for fans to jump on stage, and many did. The set-up at Altamont reminded me of many small club shows I've seen: Cramped stage, fans on top of the band and chaos just waiting to erupt.

The difference at Altamont, of course, was that 300,000 people were there. And somehow the folks lucky (and unlucky) enough to be at the front of the stage had to somehow survive the crush of fellow fans behind them and Hell's Angels in front.

In other words, danger. Justifiable fear, a feeling that (along with excessive alcohol and dug use) probably heightened the experience for many. An electric charge of wondering what would happen next, both on stage and off.

Four people died at Altamont. That's not funny or anything to make light of. I'm not going to go so far as to say the potential loss of life is essential to experiencing a real rock and roll experience. But there should be a sense of danger, a feeling that you have to watch yourself. It does open the input valves of all the senses, and that has to create an indelible memory.

The hardcore kids with their slam pits have the right idea. Now a lot of those guys are merely out to excise a little homoerotic steam or they simply enjoy pounding on someone else. But when a guy jumps off the stage into the crowd, there's someone who has embraced the danger of the moment. I have often seen crowds part rather than catch some idiot who hurled himself into the sea of hands. Invariably, the kid got up, dusted himself off and plotted his next move.

Rock and roll's big attraction is the energy of the moment. That energy can turn, as the failed stage-diver or the fans at Woodstock last year found out, but moves to excise any danger out of the moment simply sanitizes a vital force. Kinda like chopping Elvis off at the hips or telling James Brown to quit strutting around and just sing.

Maybe this is what was going through the minds of the Stones as they watched the footage from Altamont. I don't know. They didn't say much. Mick wanted to see the gun, and then after he did, he was satisfied. Absolution, perhaps, for the actions of the Angels on his behalf.

And I don't think it was his fault. Blame it on rock and roll. There's a reason some parents have always feared its power. Because even when the music is co-opted by the establishment and sanitized for your protection, there's always the chance a spark will erupt.

Which is why I simply cannot get enough.

Jon Worley has seen hundreds of bands live. His fondest memories are of shows where he took home soiled clothing or a few bruises.