What makes the Stones' arrogance so divine is that we all believe

Host: The bar was old — the kind of place that refused to change, where the wood smelled of spilled whiskey and the jukebox still played vinyl. The walls were lined with faded posters: Morrison, Hendrix, Joplin — ghosts of rebellion turned into icons. Smoke drifted lazily toward a slow-spinning ceiling fan, slicing the haze into layers of time.

Jack sat in the corner booth, nursing a beer, his gray eyes reflecting the dim glow of the neon sign above the bar — “LIVE TONIGHT: THE STONES TRIBUTE.”
Jeeny slid into the seat across from him, the vinyl creaking softly under her weight. She had a notebook in hand, the edges curled from years of use.

The first chords of “Gimme Shelter” began to echo through the room — the guitarist half-drunk, half-devout, playing as if salvation were still possible in a bar like this.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Jon Landau once said, ‘What makes the Stones’ arrogance so divine is that we all believe that long ago and far away they weren’t rich and famous but poor and struggling, just like us.’”

Jack: raising his glass slightly “So, arrogance as empathy. I like that. Only rock ‘n’ roll could pull that off.”

Host: The bass thrummed through the floor, low and imperfect. The bartender wiped down the counter with slow, circular motions — ritual more than cleaning. The music felt alive, even in imitation.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way we worship rebellion once it’s safe. The Stones were the outlaws, the sinners. Now their faces hang in museums.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy of success. You can’t be dangerous once you’ve been framed.”

Jeeny: “But we still believe the myth. We need to. Landau was right — we want to think they were once like us. Hungry. Lost. Fighting for a song that nobody wanted to hear.”

Jack: chuckling dryly “You mean we want to believe that money didn’t ruin them.”

Jeeny: “No. We want to believe it didn’t change them. That the rebel survived the riches.”

Host: The singer at the mic — a man twenty years too old to be playing covers — belted out the chorus with a voice full of cigarette smoke and sincerity. The crowd of a dozen clapped like believers at a forgotten church.

Jack: “You ever notice how rockstars and prophets have the same problem? Both start revolutions they can’t live up to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes them divine — the failure. The fact that they tried at all.”

Jack: “Divinity through hypocrisy. That’s a new one.”

Jeeny: grinning “No. Divinity through survival. They never claimed to be saints, Jack. They just kept playing. Even when the world tried to turn them into relics.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the light from the jukebox flickering over his face — red, blue, green. He looked both tired and alive, like a man who’d seen enough truth to doubt it, but not enough to stop chasing it.

Jack: “You think that’s why we still listen to them? Because we need proof that the wild ones don’t all disappear?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because we want to believe that success doesn’t have to sterilize spirit. That fame can polish rebellion instead of burying it.”

Jack: after a beat “You sound like someone who still believes in art.”

Jeeny: “I do. Not the art itself — but the artist who can’t quit. That hunger. That ache.”

Jack: “You mean the one who still thinks they’re struggling, even when they’ve made it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The divine arrogance Landau talked about — it’s not about pride. It’s about pretending the fire’s still burning, even when you’re warm.”

Host: The band stumbled through the solo. Someone shouted for another round. The neon buzzed like a lazy wasp. The bar felt like the inside of a heartbeat that had slowed down but refused to stop.

Jack: “You know, I saw the Stones once. I was eighteen. They came on stage late, drunk, and loud. I remember thinking — these guys don’t give a damn about perfection. They just wanted to feel alive.”

Jeeny: “And did they?”

Jack: “Yeah. And for two hours, so did we.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, isn’t it? Art as borrowed aliveness. You take someone else’s fire and hold it long enough to remember what warmth feels like.”

Jack: “Until it burns out.”

Jeeny: “Or until it passes to someone else.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his expression softening — that rare, fleeting look of agreement between two people who’ve spent too long arguing with the world.

Jack: “So, divine arrogance. You think that’s what keeps the legends alive?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s what keeps them human. Because arrogance is just confidence that’s survived disappointment. And the Stones — they outlived theirs.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the secret. Don’t change the world. Just outlast it.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Spoken like a true cynic.”

Jack: “Realist.”

Jeeny: “Romantic in disguise.”

Host: The song ended. Applause rippled through the bar — ragged, sincere. The singer took a bow, laughing into the microphone. The moment hung in the air, brief and eternal.

Jack: finishing his drink “You know, Landau wasn’t just talking about the Stones. He was talking about all of us. Every person wants to believe their struggle means something — that if they ever make it, it won’t erase who they were.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the divine part isn’t the arrogance, but the memory — that echo of hunger that never really leaves.”

Jack: “You think that’s what’s divine about them?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The arrogance isn’t vanity — it’s survival. It’s the artist saying, ‘I remember where I came from, even if you don’t.’”

Host: The bartender turned off the jukebox. The room fell into that rare kind of quiet that comes only after music — full of echoes, full of ghosts. Jack and Jeeny sat in it, letting it settle.

Outside, the snow had begun to fall, dusting the empty street in white. Through the window, their reflections shimmered faintly in the glass — two faces, older than they felt, younger than they’d admit.

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s all any of us want, Jeeny — to believe we were once poor and struggling, but divine enough to keep going.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only real rock ‘n’ roll left.”

Host: The camera panned out — the dim bar lights glowing like dying stars, the faint hum of the city beyond. Somewhere, another band started to play, another crowd started to believe.

And as the scene faded, Jon Landau’s words echoed like the final note of a song still finding its way through the dark:

The arrogance of the artist is not in thinking he’s a god —
it’s in believing his struggle was sacred.
And that we, in watching, might find our own reflected in it.