life

In which I read Keith Richards’ autobiography.

So, the Rolling Stones were one of those bands that I just never gave half a hairy flying shit about, pretty much ever. I’ve spent plenty of time sneering at people in their 50s who are still stuck on the Stones as being the greatest thing, since ever, who seemingly have to relive their not-so-rebellious youth by taking off their Wall Street banker suits, throwing on a pair of $1,000 jeans and a vintage Stones concert tour t-shirt that they forced their beleaguered personal assistant to find and purchase for them (probably also for a ridiculously huge amount of money) and then pay more than $500 for a concert ticket. And talking about how they saw the Stones in ‘72 or some such nonsense, when you know damn well they were busy sucking cock for grades at Phillips Andover…

Yeah, because that RAWKS, yo.*

As previously mentioned, I was forced to watch Shine a Light on a plane once, between NYC and Dubai. I figured that Scorsese, plus a band that I didn’t totally hate (just felt ambivalent about), might equal a really awesome flick. 

NOPE.

It was the biggest bit of mutual ego cocksuckery committed to film that I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

In the 80s, despite the fact that I was getting educated in Rock and Roll by my friend’s dad, we somehow missed the Stones. He was way into Zeppelin, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Simon & Garfunkel (go figure), and not so much the Stones.

I was vaguely aware of them as some sort of huge countercultural deal, given the absolutely horrified way that my mother would mention them in conversation (she was a burgeoning PMRC member, if there ever was one). Her hatred alone should have sparked in my rebellious little heart a major interest in them, but somehow the Stones and I never really connected.

Still haven’t. I mean, sure, I can appreciate their music and everything, and I understand their influences and their influence, but yeah. Nothing. No emotional connections. Which is fine. I can deal with that. Other people can’t, but that’s just the way it goes. Everybody’s got a kink.

I like them a hell of a lot more than the Beatles, I’ll tell you that much. (Seriously, you can crucify my for the Beatles thing later when I write about it. Just let it go for the moment)

And there are songs here and there of theirs that I’ll listen to. For instance, I have a great deal of affection for Sympathy for the Devil. The Stones version. Not any of the covers. I really love that song. There, I threw y’all a fricken bone.

All this being said, I’m reading Keith Richards’ autobiography, Life. Dude is a funny motherfucker. He has always been pretty much the only reason why I’ve paid attention to the Stones. But then again, I’ve always gone for the dark, brooding, disaffected sort, rather than the hyperactive bouncing around frontman. (see: Joe Perry, Richie Sambora, Eddie VanHalen (sorta), Slash, the Edge, Jimmy Page).

I like the countercultural aspect to the Stones’ existence in the 60s and 70s. And the fact that they’ve managed to live this long, despite the insane amount of drugs they took is a testament to…something.

But back to Life. It’s a really gorgeous book. Richards, and I’m assuming, his ghostwriter, did a fantastic job of developing this intelligent, yet coarse, lower class English voice with wonderfully dry wit. It’s definitely the granddaddy of Russell Brand’s voice in his Booky Wooks. Both Richards and Brand have similar aesthetics (and drug problems, and childhoods, and love of tight pants, and crazy hair), and you can definitely see how Brand kind of grew out of what Richards and his lot were setting up in the 60s and 70s.

Richards is funny, and seems to be rather brutally honest about himself and the things he (and his various girlfriends) were doing at the height of the Stones’ fame: drugs, alcohol, sleeping around, stealing women from one another, fighting, and flouting of all social convention. In part, I found that this book is an intensive read about the utter selfishness and self-centeredness of the baby boomer generation taken to its logical extreme. I’ve long had the suspicion that the boomers used the whole peace and love movement of the 60s and 70s as an excuse to be utter assholes. I wasn’t there (Gen X all the way, baby). But boy, it sure seems that way.

I mean, granted, social conventions desperately needed some good flouting, but to use that as a reason to be an asshole is a titch despicable.

Interspersed among the stories of debauchery are some true gems regarding Richards’ creative process, how he approaches music and songwriting, and how he came to be the musician he is today. Which, quite frankly, has caused me to go back and listen closely to the Stones’ music. At one point, he writes “I find myself trying to play horn lines all the time on the guitar.” Which, now that I’ve read this, I can totally hear on the opening riffs of a multitude of Stones’ songs, notably Start Me Up and Brown Sugar. 

It was also exceedingly fascinating to read about Richards’ fascination with playing (and writing) songs on a five string guitar with open tuning. I’ve known so many amateur guitarists who just couldn’t quite get the Stones’ songs right, and learning this made it all clear to me. Yeah, he removes his bottom E. Awesome. 

So, do I like the Rolling Stones more? Meh… not really. While I have a much deeper appreciation for their music (and specifically for their guitarist), listening to their music is still, for me, the sonic equivalent of being brought nearly to orgasm over and over and fucking over again, but never actually GETTING there. 

(But I really enjoyed this book.)

*ok, so while I completely stand by my vitriol regarding Wall Street douchenozzles, I’ll give a pass to the other 99% of the world idolizing/obsessing about the Stones. Richards wrote this really sweet section as to why all these bankers and dentists are obsessed: “They imagined me, they made me, the folks out there created this folk hero. Bless their hearts. And I’ll do the best I can to fulfill their needs. They’re wishing me to do things that they can’t. They’ve got to do this job, they’ve got this life, they’re an insurance salesman…but at the same time, inside of them is a raging Keith Richards.”

Sigh.