It starts with a grunt. Then a samba beat. Before Mick Jagger even opens his mouth to introduce himself as a man of wealth and taste, you already know you’re listening to something that shouldn't work. Sympathy for the Devil is a weird song. It’s an anomaly in the Rolling Stones’ catalog that somehow became their definitive statement. It isn’t just a rock song; it’s a history lesson wrapped in a ritualistic nightmare that nearly broke the band during its creation.
Most people think it’s about Satanism. It isn’t.
Honestly, the track is much more interested in the mirror than the pitchfork. When the song dropped in 1968 on the Beggars Banquet album, the world was literally on fire. Robert Kennedy had just been assassinated. Martin Luther King Jr. was gone. The Vietnam War was screaming in the background of every evening news broadcast. Jagger wasn't trying to be edgy for the sake of it; he was trying to figure out why humans keep destroying each other.
The Russian Literature Connection Nobody Mentions
If you want to understand where the lyrics actually came from, you have to look at Mikhail Bulgakov. Specifically, his novel The Master and Margarita. Marianne Faithfull, Jagger’s girlfriend at the time, handed him the book. It’s a satirical masterpiece where the devil—disguised as a sophisticated professor named Woland—visits the Soviet Union.
Jagger took that sophisticated, "man of wealth and taste" persona and ran with it.
The song’s genius lies in its perspective. By writing from the Devil's point of view, Jagger forces the listener to acknowledge their own role in historical atrocities. He mentions the crucifixion of Christ, the Russian Revolution, and the blitzkrieg of World War II. It’s a travelogue of human failure.
Think about that for a second.
The lyrics don't say "the Devil killed the Kennedys." They say, "Who killed the Kennedys? When after all, it was you and me." That’s the punch. It’s a shared culpability. It’s about the darkness inherent in the collective "us."
How Sympathy for the Devil Almost Sounded Like a Folk Song
Believe it or not, the original version of this track was a slow, Dylanesque folk ballad. It was boring. You can actually see this transition happen in real-time if you watch Jean-Luc Godard’s documentary One Plus One (later titled Sympathy for the Devil). The film captures the grueling sessions at Olympic Studios in London.
The band spent hours—days, really—fiddling with the tempo.
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Keith Richards, who is often the secret architect of the Stones' best pivots, suggested the "samba" rhythm. He moved from bass to guitar and back again. Bill Wyman ended up playing the shekere (a West African percussion instrument), and Rocky Dzidzornu was brought in to play the congas.
Then came the "whoo-whoo" backing vocals.
That was an accident. It started as a spontaneous chant from the people hanging out in the studio—Anita Pallenberg, Marianne Faithfull, and the rest of the entourage. It added a primal, tribal layer that transformed a basic rock track into something that feels like a ceremony. It's the sound of a party at the end of the world.
The Keith Richards Solo That Shouldn't Work
Musically, the song is a masterclass in tension. It stays on the same chord progression basically forever. There is no chorus in the traditional sense. It just builds.
And then there's Keith’s solo.
It’s jagged. It’s sharp. It’s almost ugly. He’s using a 1950s Gibson Les Paul Custom through a Vox AC30, and he’s hitting notes that feel like they’re trying to cut through the speakers. It doesn't sound like a "guitar god" solo. It sounds like a frantic warning. Interestingly, Keith played the bass on the recording too, because he had a clearer vision of the rhythmic drive than Bill Wyman did at that specific moment.
Wyman didn't mind. He just picked up the percussion and kept the groove alive.
The Altamont Curse and the Media Panic
You can’t talk about Sympathy for the Devil without mentioning the 1960s' tragic finale: Altamont.
On December 6, 1969, the Stones played a free concert at the Altamont Speedway. It was supposed to be the "West Coast Woodstock." Instead, it was a violent disaster. A young man named Meredith Hunter was killed by Hells Angels (who were acting as security) during the Stones' set.
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A persistent urban legend claims Hunter was killed while the band played "Sympathy for the Devil."
That’s false.
They had actually stopped playing "Sympathy" minutes earlier because the crowd was already getting out of hand. They were actually playing "Under My Thumb" when the stabbing happened. But the media didn't care about the setlist. The narrative was too perfect: the band that sang about the Devil had conjured him up in the California desert.
For years after Altamont, the band stopped playing the song live. Jagger felt the weight of the imagery. He eventually brought it back into the rotation, but the "Lucifer" persona haunted him for decades, fueling the "Satanic Majesties" reputation that the band—honestly—mostly used as a marketing tool.
Misconceptions: Is It Actually Evil?
Religious groups in the late 60s and early 70s were convinced the song was a recruitment tool for the occult. They missed the point entirely.
If you look at the lyrics objectively, it’s a deeply moral song. It’s a warning against apathy. By pointing out that the "Devil" is present at the execution of the Romanovs or the death of the King of France, Jagger is arguing that evil isn't a supernatural force from below. It's something we allow to happen.
Expert musicologist and author Sheila Whiteley once noted that the song functions as a "socio-political critique." It’s Jagger playing the role of a witness. He isn't celebrating the violence; he's documenting the fact that humanity is often its own worst enemy.
The "devil" in the song is just a metaphor for our own capacity for cruelty.
The Production Magic of Jimmy Miller
The secret ingredient to the Beggars Banquet era was producer Jimmy Miller. He was a drummer himself, which is why the rhythm section on "Sympathy for the Devil" is so prominent. He pushed the band to embrace the "messiness."
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If you listen closely to the isolated tracks, you’ll hear mistakes.
The piano (played by Nicky Hopkins) is slightly frantic. The percussion is layered in a way that’s almost chaotic. But Miller knew that a "perfect" version of this song would be a failure. It needed to feel like it was about to fly off the rails. It needed that friction.
Miller’s ability to capture the "shambolic" nature of the Stones is what makes this track feel alive even 50+ years later. It’s not a sterile studio product. It’s a room full of people getting sweaty and loud.
Cultural Legacy: From Guns N’ Roses to The Sandman
The song has been covered a thousand times.
The Guns N’ Roses version for the Interview with the Vampire soundtrack is probably the most famous, though it famously caused a rift in the band (Slash hated it). Jane’s Addiction did a sprawling, psychedelic version. Even Bryan Ferry tried his hand at it.
None of them capture the original’s menace.
In literature and film, the "man of wealth and taste" archetype has become a trope. From Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman (where Lucifer looks suspiciously like a young David Bowie but acts like Jagger’s Devil) to various cinematic depictions of the "gentlemanly" Satan, the influence is everywhere.
The Rolling Stones didn't just write a song; they rebranded the Prince of Darkness for the modern age.
Actionable Insights for Rock Fans and Historians
If you’re looking to dive deeper into the history of this track or understand its impact on music production, here are some specific steps to take:
- Watch the Documentary: Find Jean-Luc Godard’s Sympathy for the Devil (1968). Don't expect a standard concert film. It’s a weird, split-narrative experimental movie, but the footage of the Stones in the studio is the only way to truly see how the song was built from scratch.
- Listen to the Mono Mix: If you can find the original mono mix of Beggars Banquet, do it. The layers of percussion hit much harder than the standard stereo remaster, which can sometimes feel a bit "polite" by comparison.
- Read the Source Material: Pick up The Master and Margarita. You’ll immediately recognize the "sophisticated visitor" vibe that Jagger was channeling. It provides a massive amount of context for why the song is written as an introduction.
- Study the Bass Work: If you’re a musician, pay attention to Keith Richards’ bass line. It’s not technically complex, but his "pocket"—the way he sits just behind the beat—is what gives the song its sinister, driving feel.
- Check the Timeline: Look at the news headlines from June 1968. The song was recorded just as the world was reeling from the RFK assassination. Knowing that the band was literally rewrite the lyrics ("Who killed Kennedy?" became "Who killed the Kennedys?") in the booth makes the track feel much more urgent.
The song remains a masterpiece because it refuses to give the listener a "safe" place to land. It doesn't offer a happy ending. It just leaves you with a request: to be met with "some courtesy, some sympathy, and some taste." It’s a reminder that the most dangerous thing in the world isn't a demon in a red suit—it’s a person who refuses to acknowledge the darkness they’re capable of.