I just assume every attractive woman ever photographed with Mick has banged him. Why wouldn’t you? That’s one you tell your grandkids about.
“Wook, it’s Winda Wonstadt.”
You would be so interesting to talk to if you knocked it off with the accent.
“Yaw th’ one wivva ak-sent. Oi speak wivva Queen’s Engwish, Oi do.”
You’re unbearable.
ALSO
Who thought Linda was Mick for a couple seconds? They’ve got the same haircut, and Mick would absolutely wear her outfit.
O, those celebrities and their lithe thighs.
“Oi have no idea ‘oo this is.”
Carrie Underwood.
“Oi would.”
Well done. You just do these duets so you have a chance to hit on these women, right?
“An’ cross-demographic marketin’ concerns, but mostly you’re right.”
Good to know. Her name is Carrie and don’t mention American Idol.
“Fanks.”
No one needed to scroll down and find this. It was wrong of me to include in the post. Your anger is justified, and I suggest you take your business to some other Grateful Dead-themed website that goes weeks without mentioning the Dead. I’m ashamed of myself.
I can make this right.
Y’know, thinking about it: Keith’s cock does not make it right. I don’t know why I originally believed it would. Again: all of this is my fault. You shouldn’t have to sit through such silliness. You’re better than this.
Careful, Mick. I think she’s a druid or something.
“Utter bosh, that is. Wuv-wee wedhead.”
What if you just imitated an American accent?
“Well, hello dere. I be–”
NOT A BLACK AMERICAN ACCENT! It’s not 1971 anymore, man.
“We ‘ad sev’ral numbah one ‘its where Oi pretended t’ be a black man.”
That’s the biggest band-aid I’ve ever seen, David Lemieux.
“It’s a snowboard.”
Oh, good. Because any injury that requires a band-aid that large is an injury that requires more than a band-aid.
“Not a band-aid.”
Do you snowboard?
“Oh, no. Canadians have the ability to run on top of the snow. Kinda like a basilisk lizard on water.”
Like this?
“Yeah, just like that.”
Wow. You are a fascinating people.
“That’s how Gordon Lightfoot got his name.”
I’m learning so much. Dave–
“David.”
–I’m listening to the new Pick from ’76 for the third or fourth time, and it’s superb. Good work, man.
“1976 is a sleeper year. Big thick slow jams.”
Like maple syrup.
“Y’know, it’s kind of enough with the Canadian jokes. I have a personality outside of my nationality.”
Oh, hey, I’m sorry.
“I’ve got hobbies.”
Like?
“Socialism, cross-checking, that sort of thing.”
Universal topics.
“There you go.”
Getting back to DaP 28: it’s spectacular. And it’s just the lastest in a long line of wonderful releases. Bravo.
“Thanks, man. Means a lot to hear that.”
Pardon the pun, but I’m grateful.
“I see what you did there, eh?”
And to show my gratitude, I have decided that you can do gay stuff to me.
“What now?”
Gay stuff. And don’t hold back! Don’t make the stuff just sort of gay. Do the gayest stuff you can imagine to me. Fuck me, fist me, describe me as a “confirmed bachelor” in my obituary: gay it up, bro.
“I’m gonna pass.”
Is it that you’d rather receive the homosexuality than issue it?
“You have such an unpleasant way with the English language.”
I’ll mount you if that’s what you want.
“Passing on that, too.”
Is it the dominance thing? If you’d like, we can hand each other. That way, we’re equal.
“None of it. Don’t get anywhere near me. You really want to show your appreciation for the official releases?”
Is there any way I can get you to speak without your accent?
“You don’ loik me ak-sent?”
Now you’re leaning into it.
“You evuh b’n to Baaaa-wee?”
Where?
“Baaa-wee. The ay-wind.”
…
The island of Bali.
“Whot Oi said, mate.”
I’ve never been to Bali.
“It’s wuv-wee.”
We’re gonna keep the dialogues to a minimum.
This was 1981. The first all-stadium tour, and an all-daytime tour, too. It was cheaper to play in the afternoon–you didn’t need to tote your lighting rig around the country, for one thing–and so some of the gigs began as early as noon. The Rolling Stones did not employ a Jumbotron, and so Mick dressed this way in an effort to be seen. You’re not meant to look at this outfit up close. It’s made to be viewed from Section 322 of Soldier Field.
There’s no excuse for the quality men’s hosiery. I’m gonna call that shade “peach.”
The ’81 American tour–they didn’t bother naming it, like they would later productions–was 50 shows in 80 days and in addition to being the first all-stadium tour, it was the first sponsored tour in Rock history. Jovan Musk ponied up for the right to say, I don’t know, “Instead of showering, Ronnie Wood sprays his taint with Jovan Musk.” Something like that.
This was also Bobby Keys’ first appearance with the Stones in eight years. He had grown so close to the band during the late 60’s and early 70’s that he began to think himself a Rolling Stone. But Bobby Keys was not a Rolling Stone, and so having room service bring up enough Dom Perignon to fill the bathtub was a poor choice. Bobby was put in a cab and sent to the airport. Mick’s direct orders. The help needs to know its place. But Bobby wasn’t wicked, just excitable, and everyone missed him, so he came back in ’81 and didn’t leave again until his death in 2014.
Keith may be going to jail, but he’s not going without his scarf. There are also, if history is our guide, nine or ten other scarfs secreted on his person. And then there’s Mick.
“You woik me wuffles?”
I told you not to talk.
“Wook at me hawwwwse.”
Goddammit. Nice horse, I guess.
“‘E’s named Waffles.”
Waffles?
“No, Waffles. After th’ gentleman-thief.”
Oh, Raffles.
“Wight. Waffles.”
I’m, like, 85% sure this joke doesn’t work in print.
“WIDE, WAFFLES!”
Stop that!
Mick’s skinnier than she is.
Mick made a run at her. Mick hit on her, Mick hit on her hard, and for all we know Mick got in there. The fact that she’s “America’s Sweetheart” or whatever only made Mick try harder.
This is the Steel Wheels tour in ’89, and Mick is wearing a toppermost. This was their first tour since ’81; they had spent the past eight years sniping at one another in the press and making poor albums, but now the Stones were back, baby. The biggest concert tour in history, and also a new record which wasn’t too bad. (Legacy acts can hit the road without a record now, and the Dead always did, but the Stones needed a new album to promote.)
Did I say big?
You see the rightmost spire, the one that gets cut off at the top? The FAA made ’em put a flashing red light on it, because otherwise planes would crash into the Rolling Stones. The stage was 280 feet across and weighed 180 tons, requiring twelve trucks to haul.
You made those numbers up.
I did.
Why?
I don’t care exactly how big a fucking stage was in 1989, and no one else should, either.
Yeah, okay.
A reminder: this is how the band performed in 1976:
I’m sorry, but I must drop into bullet points for this bullshit.
What are you doing, Billy Preston?
Oh, no, Billy Preston.
Do not.
Do not that.
If you performed on a stage that shape nowadays, conspiracies would abound.
It folded up.
And opened when the show started, the band hidden within.
Like a flower.
You may guess as to whether or not it worked perfectly every night.
You may also guess as to how the fuck anyone on that stage heard anyone else.
But this might be the stage that most succinctly sums up the band:
This is the A Bigger Bang tour, which lasted from 2005 to 2007; Mick achieved the Full Jagger on this endeavor. The Stones had always sold every part of the animal. First, there is the Product. Cannot have a Promotional Tour without a Product. Then there are tickets, and if you are willing to pay more for better seats and/or access to the band, then the band is willing to allow you the freedom to do so. At the concert, you may buy souvenirs Byzantine in their variety, but spartan in their branding: the Rolling Stones will slap those fucking lips on anything. Yes, the Dead is bad about slapping Stealies on shit, but no one beats the Stones for licensing their iconography to janky crap.
Oofah.
Anyway, while you could purchase any Stones-branded tchotchke you desired, you could not bootleg the show. This is an old Stones rule–an old everyone-in-Rock-and-Roll-except-the-Dead rule, to be precise–because it was believed bootlegging cut into official revenues and confused the teens. If the kids were gonna buy a live album, it would come from us, the Stones thought, and so there’s been a live release for every one of their tours; they’ve all been deadly except for Get Your Ya-Yas Out.
And a movie, too. Gimme Shelter (the one where someone died)and Let’s Spend The Night Together (the one Hal Ashby directed)and At The Max (the one in IMAX format) and Shine A Light (the one Scorsese directed) and Ladies and Gentlemen, the Rolling Stones (the one they played the best in) and bunch of others.
That was it. Nothing else to sell, right?
Look again:
Do you see where Mick found more money yet? Do you have it?
NO. STOP IT. Do not be woke at Robocop. You may not.
Just pointing out the fact.
Watch it.
Shush.
It is, though, a deeply masculine film; the one major female character reads as male whether you believe in the death of the author or in authorial intent.
The bitches (the ones who are instructed to leave) read as female.
One pours cocaine all over her boobies.
That is a pointedly female gesture.
And it’s all about dicks.
The dicks are guns.
The cops’ guns are not big enough.
The criminals’ guns are long and thick and go THABOOM.
Bing! goes the cops’ guns.
But now here is Robocop; listen to his gun: BRAAPA! BRAAPA BRAAPA!
And then the dad from That 70’s Show gets a bazooka.
Is Robocop’s gun powerful enough to withstand a pounding from the dadzooka?
Yeah, so: all about dicks.
That Paul Verhoeven guy will tell you it’s about Jesus, but the movie’s about dicks.
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
(Wikipedia says that the proper spelling of Robocop is “RoboCop” and I’ll be damned. I’ll be tied up tight and plugged just right before I use that heathen orthograph. The man’s mamma called him “Robocop;” I’m gonna call him Robocop.)
Robocop was like Predator or Highlander in that every single offering after the original was shit: all the movies, cartoons, comics, teevee shows, reboots, and children’s bedsheet sets.
The worst was the sheets.
They were actively flammable.
They would seek out sources of ignition.
No one could explain it.
Anyway, Robocop is more like Predator than it is Highlander; first, it is a good movie.
Highlander was crap.
Go watch it again.
I dare you.
Second, like Predator, Robocop is only superficially a science-fiction movie.
It’s an action flick.
There isn’t a massive Robocopiverse to play in.
I don’t wanna go back to the Predator’s home planet, and I don’t wanna go on any more adventures with Robocop.
What’s he gonna do?
Fight a bigger robot?
Evil versions of himself?
I don’t need to visit the Robocop Extended Universe.
I guaran-fucking-tee there exists a story in the REU wherein they scooped Dick Jones up after he got shot and fell out of the building, and then they turned him into a Jonesocop and he and Robocop fought.
Or maybe they put Miguel Ferrer in an ED-209.
RIP, buddy.
If I could, I would have implanted your consciousness within a stair-averse deathmonster, but this was not within my power, Miguel Ferrer, and so you died like the rest of us have or will one day.
You snorted cocaine off the bitch’s boobies so darn well.
So: if you haven’t seen the film in a while, the ED-209 scene–you know the one I’m talking about–comes waaaaay earlier than you remember it.
Right up front.
You just settled into your seat, you watched a trailer for The Running Man, or perhaps Teen Wolf, Too, and DAKKADAKKADAKKA there’s a yuppie getting bulletized with great plumes of explosive blood all over the place.
Oh, it’s gonna be that kind of movie.
And it is: pre CG squibs and actual discharging guns and real vans driving into vats of toxic waste, helpfully labeled “TOXIC WASTE.”
This is not a subtle movie.
Nor does it bear any scrutiny; Robocop‘s logic is that of a lethal fairy tale.
OCP brought the fucking dead back to life.
This point is not explored.
They’re a company.
In it for the bucks.
Aren’t there a trillion more lucrative markets for your breakthrough lazarus-tech?
Didn’t you just change the fucking nature of existence?
Again: this point is not explored.
Instead, Robocop shoots a guy in the dick.
In addition, you do not adequately recall just how much action there is in this action movie.
So fucking much.
You’re never more than five minutes from a big boom.
Cars, gas stations, town hall, the ballpark, the international arrivals loading zone at the airport, all the laundromats: they went boom, big boom SHVAAM! and it was all rather flustering to me.
All the hoopla, my word.
It’s a relentlessly simple movie: there are no subplots and there’s no love story.
Robocop gets himself made.
Robocop kills some motherfuckers.
Robocop kills some more motherfuckers.
Now Robocop is the motherfucker.
That’s it.
You got the fake teevee show interstitials with “I’ll buy that for a dollar” and the newscasts, but they’re just window dressing.
It’s Robo’s show.
If any part of the Robocop character fail, the whole movie dies, but the costume designers and Peter Weller kill it.
The guy walked just like a robot.
And when he talks?
Also robotic.
There were several scenes wherein Robocop drove, and I did not spot any cyborgian affect to the driving; it should be said, though, that it was not actually Weller behind the wheel in those shots.
He would not fit in the car.
And even if he did, the helmet rendered him blind.
He also couldn’t hear in there, or poop.
And now he’s a professor of art history.
Good for you, Peter Weller.
Assorted thought:
One of the criminals played the sad gay kid in Fame who sang Out Here On My Own in the window, and it was tough to take him seriously when he was holding up a gas station.
This is Arrow, and he sang Soca music. Soca is what happens when you give delinquent teenagers in Trinidad & Tobago electric guitars. The injection of electric guitars into a pre-existing culture parallels the introduction of Christ: syncretics emerge quickly. Give electric guitars to delinquent teenagers from Queens and you get The Ramones. Culture rules all.
Culture does not, however, explain why Arrow–a lifetime resident of the West Indian island of Montserrat–would be wearing a replica Phillies helmet. That’s one of those old school shit plastic ones, too, that affixed to your skull via a similarly-shit plastic adjustable strap. The strap was attached to the helmet via four prongs sticking out from the interior of the crown. This means that if someone WHAPPED you on the head real hard, your own hat would trapanate you. Quadruply, if the WHAP were in just the right spot. I don’t know if they still make this product.
Hey, guys. I had an idea. Why don’t you cover an album by a fictitious band? Like, you write a whole record’s worth of new material and pretend it came from another band. Maybe a comically foreign band, I don’t know. And then you seed the internet with information about the fictitious band to further the ruse. How about that?
“That sounds like a lotta work, man.”
“What are we, fuckin’ nerds?”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
“Tell me more about the drums.”
“I’m happy with whatever the decision is.”
“Look how handsome I am.”
You do look handsome, Bobby, but what do you think about the idea?
“Of being handsome? Thought quite a bit of it. Then, uh, I ran with it.”
Well there you go and don’t it make you feel so good with the teens–chickies, man!–down front clamoring and caterwauling and soiling themselves, piss running down the floors of the auditorium–Li’l Anthony anna GOTdamned Imperials nevuh fucked lahk we dew, Bobby Keys sweats out backstage–and the cops are in their fish-front hats downstage with wild eyes praying to St. George: Help a white man in need; it stunk off them, but Mick didn’t notice (Mick never noticed cops) going up the steps via flashlight beam here they are here they are here they are, Houston (or wherethefuckever), the Rolling Stones, the Rolling Stones.
There was something about the band that forced writers to produce paragraphs like that.
Shake Your Hips
They started as a Blues band. The hip English kids were into the Blues in the early 60’s. At first, the UK had to import all of their Blues, possibly under the terms of the Lend/Lease Act, as the British had not treated their black people cruelly enough to have produced the Blues. (Luckily for music lovers, the British government did treat white people cruelly enough to produce Punk.) Rather quickly, the island’s musicians said to themselves, “I could do that,” and they did so, terribly. No English person has ever played the Blues right: the English don’t get the Blues, they cause them. There’s an inherent disunion. Not Clapton, not Jeff Beck, not one of the public school wankers.
And, you know, there’s the meeting on the bus where Mick notices Keith’s bundle of hip records, or maybe it’s the other way around, and the filthy apartment with the slobbish roommate nicknamed Nanker Phelge. The Marquee Club. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Oldham. Stu, can we talk to you over here? The Crawdaddy and Decca. 1963. All the men in their jackets and ties.
Charlie’s not mad, he’s just disappointed. Keith, on the other hand, is furious.
Casino Boogie
Enduring beauty of Exile #181: Mick’s incomprehensibility. Go ahead, put the record on your turntable and glue it down, listen to just Exile on loop for the rest of your days: you’ll still never figure out what the fuck Mick’s on about. He picks his spots, though, bobbing like Ali deep in the mix and POW hitting you with Judge and jury walk out hand in hand and then sinking back into wide-mouthed flipperty-yamp.
There are lyric sheets available, but I still hold that the man’s just making noises half the time.
Tumbling Dice
Younger Enthusiast, let me tell you about a rarified level of the Rock Star status stratus: the Tax Exile. This was an exclusive club. First, you had to be British. The tax rates for high-earners were so onerous–upwards of 90%–as to be confiscatory. (And I’m saying this as a goddamned socialist who actually does want to start confiscating wealth. Especially since the rates didn’t apply to real estate and holdings and stocks and all that other old money posh fucker rich person shit. The taxes just applied to income. And that’s racism, man.) So the Rock Stars had to leave, pausing briefly to write nasty songs about Members of Parliament, and find a safe haven for themselves and their sweet, sweet cash. (But, seriously: 90% is fucked up. Denmark’s top rate is only 36% and they’re full-on Leninists.)
And so Britain sent forth its young men once more, to plunder and poke and yell at locals for not speaking English and crash many fine automobiles. Los Angeles was popular, but you’d run into Rod Stewart. Bowie went to Switzerland because David Bowie was far more European than most Americans remember him as being. Cat Stevens went to Rio because Cat Stevens was always a fucking weirdo.
The South of France. Yes. We’ll get chateaus. That sounds quite pleasant. We’ll do that, yes?
A visa can be procured. This is no problem. Regardless of past busts, or even convictions, and certainly with no regard for low gossip about one’s character. It can be handled. There will be a fee. The fee will be exponentially less than the price of remaining in London, but it is not small. This is no problem. Keith and Anita (who’s pregnant) are deep into junkiedom and sloppy beyond mortal limits, disappearing into and out of rehab centers and getting hassled by the cops every time they leave the house. This is no problem.
Mick and his new wife Bianca move to Paris. Suitable arrangements are found for the other Stones, and Keith is procured a villa on the Cote d’Azur called Nellcôte. It is a grand home in the Belle Époque style, with 16 rooms and a pool and a view of the sea. Keith proclaimed the house “cool” and immediately filled it with guitars and drug dealers.
Nellcôte would go on to be the most famous vacation home in Rock history.
Sweet Virginia
Don’t talk to me about Brian Jones. Toad-faced little creep with a dumb haircut. Couldn’t write a song and never learned how to swim. He’s beating women in heaven now, Brian Jones is.
Torn And Frayed
The Dead went to Europe in ’72, and the Stones came here; it was like the continents exchanged dirtbags. The Stones’ tour was a different caliber, though; a better class of people, doncha know. Jackie Onassis’ sister and Truman Capote and Terry Southern and all the fabulous people, darling. And writers who actually wrote something, too, and a mid-tour stop at the original Playboy Mansion in Chicago.
And riots. The Stones used to cause riots everywhere they went.
These guys:
Those friendly grandpas! They made the little girls piss their pants and the little boys get to fighting. Everything changes; nothing lasts.
Sweet Black Angel
“Oi, Keef.”
“Grumblemumblecoughcough.”
“Oi’m finkin’ ’bout writin’ a sawng ’bout Angela Davis. Th’ Black Panfer chick.”
“Do it.”
“Oi’m finkin’ ’bout puttin’ th’ N-word in th’ sawng.”
“Trus’ yer instinc’, Mick.”
Loving Cup
STOP ENUNCIATING THE GODDAMNED WORDS, PHOSH. Yes, technically the line is “What a beautiful buzz,” but Mick pronounces the word “buzz” with a long A. No one knows how the fuck he pulled that off but he did. You guys sound like a second-rate gay men’s choir. Try it again with some gum in your mouth.
…
What?
…
You’re pulling my dick.
…
They covered the whole album?
Jesus Christ, they covered the whole album. There’s too much freedom in this country.
Happy
Keef the Immortal. The knockabout urchin with the messy hair and the blonde. The blood-changeling. Mistuh Rockyroll himself. He’s a pirate. He’s a dracula. He’s a cold Italian pizza. He could use some lemon squeeze-a. Just imagine the scent. Someone find Keith. Someone wake up Keith. Someone bail out Keith. What do you mean, there’s no shepherd’s pie?
Who invented Rock and Roll? I do not know. Wasn’t Elvis, that’s for sure. Fat, old Bill Haley? How about Johnny Good Times himself, Ike Turner, playing the fuzz guitar on Rocket 88? Easy enough to say Chuck Berry. It wasn’t him, but it’s easy enough to say he did. I do not know who invented Rock and Roll, and no one else does, either.
But the Rolling Stones invented being a Rock Star.
Ventilator Blues
The album was due. Let It Bleed came out in December of ’69 and it was the middle of 1971 already, which was forever in the music industry of the time. A few tracks had been cut at Mick’s house back in England, Stargroves–houses all have names when it comes to the Stones–but now they needed to get down to it.
The French recording studios were found to be wanting.
Call in the Rolling Truck Stones Thing! Call in Jimmy Miller and Andy Johns to produce! (Both would emerge from the sessions with debilitating drug habits.) We’ll put on the show right here!
So they did. Nellcôte had a basement, a chambered and dank cavern that you’d half-expect to come upon a Minotaur in, and they wired it for sound and waited for Keith. He was putting his boy Marlon to bed. Some nights, that would take all night.
There are swastikas engraved on the faces of the air vents. The locals say that Nazis headquartered here. The locals say a lot of things. The locals rip off the Stones and steal from them and accept their bribes only to pretend no money was exchanged. There are beatings and rapes and people are packed up into cabs and disorbited from the band and John Lennon throws up a whole bottle of red wine on a perfectly lovely rug.
Put the horns down the hall.
Put the piano over there, and the drums in that room. They’re rolling in the truck. Keith will be down any moment.
I Just Want To See His Face
The best choice you can ever make in life is to be fuckable. Smart is good, lucky is better, but fuckable means you get to go to the best parties.
Let It Loose
Nicky Hopkins. Allen Klein. John Jaymes. Marianne Faithful. Spanish Tony. Jim Price. Rupert Louis Ferdinand Frederick Constantine Lofredo Leopold Herbert Maximilian Hubert John Henry zu Löwenstein-Wertheim-Freudenberg, Count of Loewenstein-Scharffeneck. Anita Pallenberg. Freddie Sessler. Sam Cutler. Jo Bergman. Gram Parsons. Andrew Loog Oldham. Tommy Weber. Bianca. Marshall Chess. Bobby GOTdamned Keys.
And Ian Stewart.
All Down The Line
Watch the men all workin’, workin’, yeah. Keep that motor runnin’, yeah. Charlie holds it together, but Charlie follows Keith–this is the way of all great bands, the drummer follows the guitarist–and Keith can’t keep it together, so the groove is raggedy and half-ruined and speeds up as it goes–Rock and Roll is supposed to end faster than it starts, anyway–Christ, it sounds like a bar fight and Mick Taylor’s slide is steel just like a knife is; this is before the gargantuan stages, the backup singers, the support musicians, it’s just the lads and the horns and Nicky and a spotlight and a spotlight and all the cocaine in Texas; no one has any loose skin; no one has hips at all; and high heels and eye makeup and all that throbbing, and that which isn’t kohl is shiny and that which isn’t shiny doesn’t exist, dig: the Stones, baby, the Rolling fuckin’ Stones!
There is something about the band that forces writers to produce paragraphs like that.
Stop Breaking Down
You can’t mix in the mobile. That’s a Rock and Roll Rule, kids. Gotta go to Los Angeles to do the final mixes, and so Mick and Keith dragged the rest of the band–who were both unnecessary and unwelcome in this part of the process–to Los Angeles, where the weather is just as fine as in the South of France and everyone speaks English. Mick Taylor hates America and takes up cocaine to pass the time; this would prove a poor strategic decision. Bill Wyman fucks teenagers and scrapbooks. Charlie Watts takes care of himself.
At one point, Mick and Keith want to hear how the record sounds over the car stereo. They send Ian Stewart to the local radio station with an acetate and called him from the limo.
“Okay, Stu. Play it now.”
Such was the life of the Rock Star.
Shine A Light
It’s about Keith. Mick wrote it about Brian Jones, but it’s about Keith. Hunter write He’s Gone about Lenny Hart, but the tune’s about Pigpen. Songs choose their subjects sometimes.
Soul Survivor
What do you mean “Liz Phair told this joke first?”
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