It's Only Rock and Roll

Noreen's son Dan bought me the new Keith Richards memoir for Christmas. Despite the fact that it's quite a doorstop (564 pages), I gobbled it up in three days. I'm a sucker for these sorts of trashy tell-alls, at least when it comes to rock and rollers. Paris Hilton ... I'll take a pass.

There are people who will turn their noses up at such fare, but will then extoll the virtues of James Joyce's work, which is usually also about Celts gone horribly wrong. Oh, well. To each his own.

Plus, I maintain there are valuable lessons to be learned from Mr. Richards and other rock dinosaurs as they churn out this stuff. To wit:

• Gourmet dope. If you're going to turn yourself into a stark, raving dope fiend, only use the good stuff. Keith attributes the mystery of his continued breathing to his consumption of "clean" and "pharmaceutical quality" dope. Apparently that long list of "died young" rockers were just poor shoppers.
• Write ... the ... songs. As Keith correctly points out, it's the dudes and dudettes with their names on the sheet music who make the real dough and have the staying power. It was Brian Jones's total inability to pen a tune that began his long, ugly spiral to madness and an early grave (see above).
• Don't mess with the drummer. Keith describes an episode where Stones stickman Charlie Watts -- in a perfectly-tailored Savile Row suit no less -- enters a hotel room, walks straight to Mick Jagger and lifts the lippy one off his feet by the lapels. "Don't ever refer to me as MY DRUMMER again," Charlie says menacingly. He then places the lead singer (they do have an ego surplus, don't they?) back on the couch, spins on his heel, and he and his gorgeous banker suit exit the room. I learned this same lesson the hard way in the '60s with my younger brother, who I used to routinely beat up until he learned to play the drum solo of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" while on his way to rock semi-stardom. I'm telling you, these rock drummers have upper bodies like NFL linebackers.
• Pray for inept cops. Nearly every chapter has Keith getting busted by police of every nation. At various times he gets nailed for all kinds of narcotics and contraband and he has a surprisingly strong affinity for weapons of all kinds, especially guns. Just as Noreen blows a gasket because I get stopped constantly by cops for speeding and never get a ticket (I expect her to shriek some day, "He's GUILTY, officer! I was watching the speedometer!"), Keith ALWAYS skates. Yes, of course he's got terrific, very expensive lawyers, but the cops invariably overreach in their panting desire to nab a legend and the judge ends up rolling his eyes and throwing the whole thing out.
• Tell women that you're actually quite shy. This strategy (he's certainly not the first or last to use it) coupled with being one of the top 10 rock and rollers, has resulted in Keith having had sex with most of the women on the planet born between the years 1940-1990. The biggest howler in the book for me -- I actually guffawed out loud for a bit -- was when Keith put to paper that, most of the time in bed, he prefers cuddling and chatting to actually doing the dirty. Before you guys get too envious, he "cuddled" with the the truly terrifying Anita Pallenberg for quite a few years. I guess unlimited access is no guarantee of taste.

In conclusion ... if you're planning a misspent life or are approaching the end of one and just want a yardstick for comparison, this book is for you. These guys don't usually live long enough to pass this stuff along. Good luck waiting for the Jim Morrison memoir.