So, I spent the last couple of weeks with three gentlemen (and I use the term loosely): Keith, John, and Jack. I liked two of them; the third frustrated and annoyed me a bit. Let me tell you a bit about them in case you want to spend some time with them too.
First and best, prepare yourself to spend a few days in the charming, laconic company of that great raconteur, Keith Richards. Yes, Keith Richards—he of the grinding guitar riffs, swashbuckling lifestyle, gorgeous women, and notorious addictions. That guy, the one everyone is amazed is still alive. You’ll be even more amazed about that when you finish reading his hugely enjoyable autobiography, “Life.”
By the time I was old enough to know who they were, the Rolling Stones were already an iconic rock ‘n’ roll band. I’m not a devotee; I like them fine and own the greatest hits but was never crazy for them. In fact, when I had the chance to see them live in Paris, I passed. I appreciate the Stones, of course, in their position as one of the formative bands of rock ‘n’ roll. But I never gave them much thought, and only casually noted news about the band members as they made headlines over the years.
Then Johnny Depp modeled a large part of his Captain Jack Sparrow after that real-life rock ‘n’ roll pirate, Keith Richards, and a bunch of people like me said, “Oh yeah, I see that. Huh. That’s funny.” We thought about Keith, if at all, with a kind of bemused affection. “That guy’s still alive? Go figure.”
Then I saw an interview with Keith, now living the life of the lord of the manor in semi-retirement, and who had decided to write it all down. The whole thing, soup to nuts—from his earliest childhood right up to present day. Keith came across as so warm and funny and self-deprecating in his interviews in the weeks before the book was released that although I am not usually very interested in celebrity autobiographies, I decided I had to have this one.
Well, he didn’t write it, exactly. He pretty much dictated it to his co-author, journalist James Fox, who has done a masterful job at crafting a coherent narrative of it without losing any of the delightful flavor of Keith’s storytelling. You feel as if you are actually sitting with him in the garden or his beloved library, listening to his stories. His voice is retained intact. Once you get used to the slang and the profanity and the rumination, it’s a delightful ride.
And what a ride. Let’s just say it up front—pretty much everything you’ve heard is true, up to and including the fact that Keith snorted some of his father’s ashes. There are some rumors he lays to rest, but the reality of Keith Richards’ life is so outrageous that it needs no urban legends to spice it up. The guy should by all rights be dead many times over, as he himself cheerfully admits. He is the first to assure you that had he not had the good fortune to have access to very pure government-issued heroin and cocaine, he’d be very dead. (Trust me, it’s true, and you’ll be amazed.) He describes in detail the horrors of going cold turkey—which he’s done many times—and insists you should NOT try this at home. For a teetotalar like me, the drug stories alone are fascinating, as he goes into some detail about the whole thing—how he got hooked, which drugs he did, their different effects, how he got them and how he used them, how he eventually quit. Let’s just say nothing I read changed my mind that my decision to never try drugs was the right one.
But there is so much more to Keith than the drugs (and by the way, he’s been clean now for 20 years). He is, I was delighted to discover, an intelligent, well-read, cultured, and witty man I could easily see myself spending a pleasant afternoon chatting with. He loves to read, especially English history (like the Patrick O’Brian novels, which I also love). He was from the start a natural-born leader, at school and in the Boy Scouts, and was very close to going to work for an advertising agency when instead he decided to give rock ‘n’ roll a try. He has never had any other job since. He attributes the success of the Rolling Stones in part to his ability to keep a group on track and working together (even if it had to happen on “Keith time”).
If you’re a guitar nerd, there is a lot in this book for you. Keith goes into great detail about his guitar playing: his influences, his style, how he modified or experimented with different tuning, stringing, and sounds (in musical terms I don’t understand), his favorite guitars, the various musicians he’s played with and who have joined the Stones lineup for recording sessions or tours, from the very first days to now. As with most talented artists, he was obsessed with his instrument from the first and loves his guitars above all. And he’s happy to share tips and tricks with aspiring guitarists trying to emulate his sound.
Then there are the women, and the spouses—first the gorgeous, magnetic, crazy, heavily addicted Anita Pallenberg; then the gorgeous, loving, stable Patti Hansen. (The tale of his ill-starred first visit with Patti’s very traditional American family will have you in stitches.) Before and in between, there were lots of women, of course, but Keith is charmingly self-deprecating when it comes to his irresistibility. He claims that he never “pulled a bird,” in his life, but always let them come after him. Women, it seems, have always wanted to take care of him, whether that meant sleeping with him, feeding him supper, doing his laundry, or just letting him crash at their place and delivering him safely back to the band in the morning. He is sweet about them all, even the crazy ones. He seems honestly bemused at their desire to be with him.
And there’s Mick Jagger. Oh yes, I count Mick Jagger as a spouse, as their relationship preceded and outlasted all the others (except Hansen, so far) and is more like a marriage than anything else. Keith pulls no punches when it comes to Mick, and Mick reportedly read the manuscript and had no problem with anything Keith wrote (except for one mention of the comparative size of Mick’s, shall we say, instrument). They are the products of postwar Britain, a hardy pair, generally down-to-earth and impervious to bullshit. They love each other, that’s for sure—deeply. And there were times they hated each other bitterly. Mick did go through a diva phase, and Keith has no patience for such antics. But he makes it clear that from the start he has considered Mick the greatest rhythm and blues singer alive, and side projects notwithstanding, he has never wanted to write for or work with anyone else. Like most married couples, they’ve settled into a relationship that works, even though they are no longer inseparable. They’ve grown up, but they haven’t grown apart.
There’s a lot more to love in this book—Keith’s recipes, his run-ins with the law, his beloved dogs, the cars he's owned, his friendships with other musicians like Gram Parsons and John Lennon, the surprising revelation that the closest he’s come to death was actually from falling off a ladder in his library and out of a tree in Fiji. But I'll let you discover all that for yourself. Get a copy of “Life,” and settle down for a few days with Keith. You’ll feel like you made a new friend, and you’ll never listen to the Stones the same way again.
Next time: John.
0 comments:
Post a Comment