The Rolling Stones’ youthful vigor and druggie, sexy swagger helped defined rock ‘n’ roll.

It’s such a common point of contention among music lovers that it has almost become a cliche, but there’s no denying the power and the importance of the immortal (well, since 1962, at least) question: Beatles or Stones?

And as Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood and Charlie Watts prepare to launch another North American tour this May (and with most tickets already bought out or priced in the hundreds), I find myself once again pondering the question that so many before me — from Metric’s Emily Haines to Paul Rudd in I Love You, Man — have tackled.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. the Beatles are no more, and the Rolling Stones that sell out arenas today are — at least on the surface — a different beast entirely than the scrawny British kids who cut their teeth covering Muddy Waters in dingy London joints. And once you move past the general — and ineffective — “British Invasion” label and a certain predilection for illicit substances, the Stones and Beatles don’t have much in common.

For all their brilliance, the Beatles were pop artists through and through: melodic, catchy, cute and endlessly lovable. The Stones, on the other hand, were dirty, sexual and more than a little bit threatening. If the Beatles were LSD, the Stones were heroin. If the Beatles were a fine wine, the Stones were a shot of cheap whiskey. If the Beatles made love to you, the Stones hired you for the night, took you to the bathroom of a pub and then left without paying.

That is to say: The Beatles were pop, while the Stones were — and remain — only rock ‘n’ roll. And I like it.

Few discographies in rock are as consistent and as relentlessly solid as that of the Rolling Stones. From the band’s early self-titled albums of R&B and blues covers (see “Under the Boardwalk,” off of The Rolling Stones No. 2, or The Rolling Stones, Now!’s driving rendition of “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love”) to its first forays into songwriting (Aftermath, the band’s first album of entirely original material, graced us with the ethereal hits “Paint It Black,” “Under My Thumb” and “High and Dry” — all on one album!) to the slithering, skittering classics (Sticky Fingers, Beggars Banquet), the Rolling Stones always seemed like a band on a mission.

1972’s Exile on Main St. — arguably one of the greatest rock records of all time — may be the epitome of that ethos. It’s the soundtrack to being young and reckless, a rousing, bittersweet chronicle of a night on the town. From the kinetic, life-affirming opening (“Rocks Off,” “Rip This Joint”) to the lackadaisical groove of “Tumbling Dice,” to the aching, end-of-the-night balladry of “Shine a Light,” Exile is everything that makes the Stones the Stones: brash yet sweet, classic yet modern, loud and wild and deceptively simple.

Though members came and went and their contemporaries experimented all around them, Richards and Jagger have admirably stuck to their guns: sneering, pulsing rock ‘n’ roll at once both timely and deeply indebted to the bluesmen of old. They do it so well that, at times, the band can almost feel like a parody of itself: Even now, as septuagenarians, Jagger smirks and struts and screws everything that moves, while Richards pushes the limits of his distinct guitar sound and snorts everything he can find.

But rather than feeling tired or spent, the Stones still feel vital; the group still bursts with the same anarchic, sexy energy that propelled them to fame. They may be elder statesmen who effortlessly sell out the biggest venues in the country, but Richards and Jagger still seem hungry.

And as long as they stay relevant, the question will linger: Beatles or Stones? And even if I can’t afford tickets to the Rolling Stones’ latest (though almost certainly not last) tour, I’ve made my choice.

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