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| steel driving hammer |
Never saw this, I found it yesterday and printed out about 50 pages and read alot of it while sitting on the pot at work.
It's good stuff.
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| steel driving hammer |
I'm a Stones fan. That's the first thing you need to know before reading this book.
Second, you need to know that I'm a trained philosopher. Two PhD's. Seems I spent half my life in college, and then the university. I taught Philosophy for many years � first as an Assistant at Yale University, finally as a tenured Associate Professor at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts. That was years ago, of course. But I still have a philosopher's brain, and am always trying to "figure out what's really going on," under the surface of things. That's basically what philosophers do.
Finally, you should know that I'm a businessman. Some people call me an "entrepreneur," although all that seems to mean, when you come down to it, is that I don't work for anybody else, but for myself instead. Big deal. My most recent business undertaking has involved Long View Farm, a residential and somewhat glamorous rock 'n' roll recording studio in the hills of Central Massachusetts. I own it.
Here's how all this concerns you. Last summer � the summer of 1981 � the Rolling Stones came to Long View Farm in order to prepare for and rehearse their long-awaited and possibly last concert tour of the United States. That event found me � Gil Markle � the right guy, in the right place, at the right time. I don't have to explain to you that the odds against finding a philosophically trained Stones fan posing as a rock impresario � one who just happened to be called upon to host the Rolling Stones for a two-month period � are very high indeed. On the basis of odds alone, it's much more tempting to believe that these things never happened to me at all. But they did, and I took notes as I went, and when my friends finally said to me, "Gil, why don't you write a book?" I had my answer fully prepared. I would.
This is the book that resulted: a collection of fifty or so essays on the general subject of people and power, and the ways in which lives turn topsy-turvy whenever they are drawn into the long shadow of a living myth. That's what the Rolling Stones are � an active, living myth.
I've used dialogue form whenever possible, in order that you hear the people speaking in their own words. I tried to remember these words as best I could. Couldn't carry a tape recorder, though. They told me not to. So I had to conjure a lot of stuff up out of a memory which is pretty good, but not perfect by a long shot.
Let me confess further that I've changed some names and dates whenever there seemed to be humane reasons for doing so, and have invented � yes, totally invented � an "Editor" whose name is Bennie Strange. Bennie contributes footnotes to the text whenever I feel that another point of view is required � even one antithetical to my own � and whenever I think that I may have misremembered things a bit in my zeal for essay writing and storytelling. You might say that Bennie's my conscience talking. But he's a literary device only. There's no such person. There. I've said it.
I hope that you enjoy these pages � Stones fans and philosophers alike � and that they quicken in you an appreciation for myth, and for the power it wields within our lives.
This book is about that power.
Mick Jagger is one of the most famous people alive. If there are, say, fifty people alive in the world today whose names and faces elicit immediate recognition among individuals young and old alike, the world over, then Mick Jagger certainly is one of them. Near-savages in jungles respond to the mention of his name, and almost always in an overwhelmingly positive manner. Semi-literates in farflung regions know of this man, and they like what they know of him besides.
And so it was a stirring exercise for me to commission my airplane and crew of pilots in the service of this luminary, as I was called upon to do one or two days into the gig. It was a Tuesday, I think, because Ian Stewart had "sat in" on the performance of the band Roomful of Blues the night before at the El Morocco, and jazz night at the El Morocco is always and only Monday.
"Mick wants to be picked up at Teterboro at 4 PM and he's got four people with him, plus baggage. His daughter Jade is one of them."
"Bianca's, right, Kathleen?"
"Right. Mick and Bianca's little girl. Jade's her name. She's nine years old, I think."
"Tell them no problem about the airplane, Kathleen," I said, and made a note to myself to check on a thing or two as soon as I got to work, in Worcester. First of all, my liability coverage on the airplane. Had it been tripled according to my instructions to the agent, a week ago? And had "This Is Something Else, Inc. d/b/a/ Long View Farm" been specifically named as insured? That I'd check on right away. Today's passenger was particularly well-known. Also, that damned attitude indicator. Had pilot Bob Adams replaced this faulty instrument, so he'd fly level in the clouds; no ifs, ands, or buts? I'd check on that, too.
Car washed, chilled bottles of wine in the back, change the cassette in the Nakamichi (which contained notes for the eventual writing of this book, dictated by me on my way to work only the day before).
No word of Mick's arrival to anyone else in the area, except Wendy who'd stay in touch with Teterboro for me and let me know exactly when to expect him on the ground.
Finally, forget all that unsolicited advice I'd been getting about "what not to say," "what not to do," in the presence of one of the world's fifty most famous men. I'd had people telling me what to do in the men's room if I was ever in one with Mick Jagger. (See if you can go in the urinal next door, and offer him some "blow.") I'd had other people warn me that Mick Jagger was moody. ("Don't get your feelings hurt, Gil. He'll love you and make you feel like a king and then, bang, he won't talk to you for two years.")
I was sick and tired of this sort of advice. My job was simply to deliver the goods. The services required. No touch. No relate-to-me-please. No "just sign this for my little girl, Mick... " No nothing. Smooth and effective delivery of first-class services. World-class services. Period. That was my job, and that's mainly what I had to be concerned about. Right?
The fact is I was thrilled to death, and I had the big black car cooling and anointed an hour before I had to. Mick Jagger was coming!
Mick was punctual in his arrival at Teterboro Airport, and met up with pilot Bob Adams and the Twin with no problem. Their take-off was slightly delayed, however, when a maintenance truck temporarily blocked them from passing from the apron onto the runway. The maintenance men were Stones fans, and they simply wanted to get a closer look at Mick, who they knew was in the airplane. So they blocked the airplane for a few minutes, and gawked.
75 X-Ray landed at the Worcester Airport about 5:15 PM. It was a beautiful day � a clear day � and Bob Adams taxied the airplane to a halt with particular grace and verve. The passenger door swung open; first to the top, then to the bottom, and the stairs folded out onto the ground. There was movement in the cabin, a canvas strap temporarily caught between one of the rear seats and the door, and finally a figure appeared in the door, set to descend.
I approached the aircraft with long, self-posturing strides, extended my hand, and spoke.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Gil Markle."
"Hi," he said. "I'm Mick Jagger."
He said it in my voice, using my words, and the exact inflections I had assigned to them. He had successfully mimicked me. I knew he was Mick Jagger, after all, and didn't need for him to tell me. Of course he was Mick Jagger. I knew that. He knew that I knew that, too. Let's face it, he wasn't informing, he was imitating. He was getting things straight out front. This was his arrival, his rehearsal, his world. And that was all fine with me, and as I've already said, I just wanted things to go well.
"Car's over there, Mick," I said.
"Hmmmm... show me to the little boys' room first, will you?"
"Little boys' room?" I asked.
"Little boys' room. The toilets."
"O.K.," I said. "Let's get your little girl and Charlie into the car, and I'll bring you inside."
"Great," Mick said. "This is Charlie Watts." Charlie looked at me, head slightly canted, through a somewhat quizzical grin. He extended a hand to me in a perfunctory manner. It was limp, but on time.
"Hi, Charlie," I said, "I'm Gil Markle."
Charlie did not imitate me. He smiled, shuffled his feet a bit on the ground, and stood waiting for instructions.
"Car's over there, Charlie. Unless you want to take a walk to the little boys' room with Mick and me."
"The what?"
"The little boys' room. The toilets."
"Nah, I'll be here in the car. You go ahead."
I motioned to Mick, he nodded, and we proceeded across the grass toward the building, which contains our offices, and a large and very complete little boys' room. I looked over my shoulder and saw Charlie Watts, and Jade Jagger � who does look about nine years old, and who's a very beautiful little girl � easing themselves into the Long View limo.
"This way, Mick," I said. "This way."
"This is ridiculous," I said to myself, standing guard outside the men's room at the Worcester Airport. Hyper-educated male, teacher, entrepreneur, and show business impresario, pressed into service at the pinnacle of his career as a water closet footman. "At least I didn't go in there with him." I didn't want to be in the urinal next door, or offer over drugs on a silver spoon, or anything like that. I was a show business professional.
Mick burst out the door, his face now less creased and more relaxed, and we ducked out the front entrance, jogged past a small but growing crowd of admirers, and jumped into the Cadillac.
Mick immediately cranked open his window, defeating the efforts of the air conditioner, and making the Long View limo his.
"How far is this ranch of yours?" Mick asked.
"Twenty minutes, Mick. Farm, though. It's a farm. You're thinking about Caribou Ranch," I said, alluding to a studio somewhat like ours located in Colorado.
No reply.
Instead, Mick was nudging little Jade on his left, and Charlie Watts on his right, and getting a feel for his new car.
It was time for the Rolling Stones to leave Long View Farm. Their first really big show � the first of two back-to-back performances, and in front of 80,000 persons, was scheduled for Friday, in Philadelphia. So they would leave Long View on Thursday. It was now Monday, or Tuesday if I'm wrong. Dr. Rose, who's Jane Rose's father, and a semi-retired physician, had stopped by with his wife and had given vitamin B-12 shots to all the members of the band. That's a no-nonsense measure designed to eliminate the possibility of any sore throats, fevers, or other infectious diseases. It's almost impossible to get sick once you've had a shot of vitamin B-12.
Billy Maykel, the local Svengali and chiropractor, had stopped by and had cracked all available backs. Mick requested the treatment, but once Billy was on the premises, his popularity spread like wildfire. Keith, once "cracked" and relieved of a bothersome shoulder pain, instructed Woody to "get cracked, too." Bill and Astrid came next. Patti Hansen officiated at the assembly-line back-crackings, which occurred downstairs in the barn, just outside the sauna. She "got cracked" herself, and immediately joined the ranks of the proselytizers and converted. The Rolling Stones thought Dr. Billy Maykel was a genius, and he's still prescribing adjustments and diet changes for them by mail. I "got cracked," too, over in the Flat, and was briefed by Maykel on the state of the spines of the members of the band.
" Mick's the worst," Dr. Billy said, gravely. "Don't see how he can carry on, in the state he's in. Internal organs? I don't want to talk about it. He's better now, though. Three consecutive sets of adjustments I've put him through, and he's obviously improved. Now, Gil, breathe out. That's it. All the way out."
"CRACK!"
"Hmmm. Not doing too well yourself, if you want to know."
"How so, Billy?"
"Liver, Gil. I've been telling you this now for years. Liver."
"Whaddaya mean, 'liver'?" I asked Dr. Billy Maykel.
"You know, Gil. Without my telling you. You're also not doing the pressurepoint exercises either, like you've been told. There, get up. That should loosen you up for a while. Your fourth lumbar was way out. Not as far as Mick's though. His was practically out of joint. Keith, he had another problem altogether..."
"Please, Billy, don't tell me things like that. They're all better now, though, you say?"
"No problem. They'll perform in Philly, if that's what you're asking."
That was good for me to hear. Didn't want it said that we'd sent the Rolling Stones out into the world in anything less than fighting shape. I thanked Billy, and made my way across the driveway to the Farmhouse, feeling particularly light on my feet. The cracking had been a good one. It was now suppertime, or just a bit later than that.
Cracking of the back loosens up the mind, that's why I'm a fan of chiropractics. I was thinking particulary well, all of a sudden. Hallucinating for a start; then tying the rush down to earth, in the form of a determination � of an intention. Always works, that. If you start with an hallucination, and then focus, you're home-free-all. The thing will then happen. Some shrinks will charge you $250 per hour, and still not tell you that.
Tonight, I intended to say goodbye to Mick Jagger.
Mick and I had been circling around one another for almost two months now � keeping our distances, playing our roles, each very well. We had only good things to say about each other, but had never done so directly, to the other, one-on-one. That would have been superfluous, and possibly dangerous to boot. Mick Jagger wasn't a person for me; and I wasn't a person for Mick Jagger. We were instead two intelligent men caught up in rock 'n' roll, with clearly defined objectives. Mick figured temporarily on the horizon of my objectives; I figured temporarily on his. And that was fine with the two of us.
All this aside, I still wanted to say goodbye to the man, and had been rehearsing my goodbye speech for at least a month now � tinkering with it, scrutinizing it for any remaining traces of ego, bombast, and bravado, and waiting for my moment. It was now very shortly to arrive.
People were just getting up from the table, after an evening meal which must have been fish, since there was a profusion of empty wine bottles in evidence. White wines, from Bordeaux. I know. I selected most of the titles. A fire � large for the month of September � was raging in the fireplace. Keith would occasionally throw on a log. So would Woody, and Charlie Watts. One of them, at least, had done so. I rounded the corner by the fireplace, toward the table, just as Mick was rounding the fireplace, empty plate in hand, heading toward the dishwasher. It's a sign that guests are fully at home at Long View, and aware of what has to be done to keep the place running, when they take their empty plates back to the dishwasher. Mick was doing just that, which impressed me. Now was the time. He knew this, too, and we stopped, facing each other some six feet in front of the blazing fire.
"So," I said, jauntily, "looks like you're on your way. Seems like you just got here."
"Right, Gil," Mick said. "Very pleasant stay, I'd like you to know. Very pleasant."
"Something I wanted you to know, Mick, on your way out. Something I've been meaning to say to you, for some time." Mick's eyebrows arched. He's still holding his empty plate in one hand. I could see that this was going to have to be quick. Just time enough for the abridged version of my prepared speech.
"Thought you'd like to know that you've made me a free man.
"People often say the opposite to you � I know that. Complain that the Rolling Stones captured them, dragged them along, imprisoned them in a series of events they couldn't control � burned them out. I've heard it all." Mick was now listening intently.
"But you did the opposite for me, I want you to know. Finally, after years, I don't have to worry any longer about bringing a bigger and better band to Long View Farm. That cross is off my shoulders, once and for all. And that's a very liberating feeling, and I wanted you to take the credit for it. There's one man, at least, whom you've made free."
"Very nice, Gil," Mick said. "A very nice thing to say."
I believe Mick would have said more, had he known that this little ceremony was going to occur. We smiled at each other, we shook hands, and he continued on his way to the dishwasher. He was thinking about what I had just said as he slid his plate onto the counter. I could tell.
Keith ambled out of the airplane, legs stiff from the 45 minute trip from Teterboro. He smiled. Keith looked like warm, friendly leather. Soft eyes.
"I'm Gil Markle, Keith. Welcome here."
"Hey, yeah. Nice, man. Nice trip."
"And I'm Alan Dunn, Gil. Sorry for the delay, but here we are."
I was then introduced to Jane Rose, who was talking to Keith and looking at him while shaking my hand, to Alan's comely wife Maureen, and to a smiling Patti Hansen, who looked me right in the eyes.
"Let's go," I said. "Black car, over there. "
"We all going in one car?" Keith asked.
"Yes," I said. "We'll all fit." I made a mental note to investigate the purchase of a second black Cadillac. (Except they didn't build big ones anymore.) We squeezed into the car. Keith, Patti, and Jane Rose in the back seat; Alan Dunn and his wife up front; me driving.
"Car got a radio?" Keith shouted up.
I flipped to WAAF, The Police; then to WBCN, an old J. Geils cut; then to some Hartford station, Jerry Lee Lewis.
"Yeah," Keith erupted. "Yeah."
I turned up the volume, and by the end of the tune, which was "Personality," we were gliding up Stoddard Road, past the Long View pond and rowboat, and up the long gravel drive. The Farmhouse glistened white, and the enormous barn glowed cherry red under a dark but very starry summer's night sky. There was a new moon. It was silent, except for the crickets.
"Welcome to Long View, Keith," I said.
"Yeah," Keith replied. "Nice place."
We were scarcely inside the house, drinks ordered up but not yet in hand, when Alan Dunn motioned to me and took me aside, behind the fireplace. "Look," he said, "this has got to be quick tonight. I've got to be back in the city for a day's work tomorrow. So does Jane Rose. Keith's got to be in Rome before the weekend, and he's nowhere near ready to go. Just got evicted from his apartment, and there're a lot of loose ends to tie up. So give him a quick tour, and let's take a look at your plans for the loft. Don't get your hopes up. There's just not time for us to do much tonight."
"Here's your wine, Alan," I said. "And here's a screwdriver for Keith. Where'd he go?"
"Into the control room, I think. With Patti. Let's meet up in the loft in ten minutes, and you better call your pilots and tell them to be ready to depart Worcester for Teterboro at eleven, at the latest. Sorry it's got to be so rushed, but this was your idea, not mine."
"Ten minutes, Alan, in the loft."
It took us twenty minutes to get up there, not ten. Keith was in no hurry, and neither was I, if you want to know the truth. We hung out in the control room for a while, and I explained to him how we have tie lines between the two studios, and how we sometimes record over across the way, in the barn, but mix here in Control Room A. We then took a look at the bedrooms upstairs, the balcony overlooking our antique Steinway, and our collection of records.
"You keep all your fifties in one place, too," he remarked with apparent relief. "Easier that way, isn't it? That cassette deck work?"
"Sure does, Keith. What you got there?"
"Bunch of stuff all mixed up. Starts with some Buddy Holly, I think."
Keith slammed the cassette into the cassette deck, which hangs at eye level just as you enter the kitchen, and hit the "go" button.
"Select tape two on the pre-amp," I shouted over to him, which he did.
On came Buddy Holly, as expected. Keith turned it up, loud, very loud, until it began to distort the JBLs hanging overhead, then down just a notch. Maximum undistorted volume, that's called. He extended his glass to me, which now had only a bit of yellow left in it, way down at the bottom of the glass. He needed a refill.
"Good idea," I said. "Then let's go across the way and I'll show you what we have in mind for the stage."
"Yeah," Keith said. "Let's go over to the barn. Got to find Patti, though. Hold on a minute."
Patti materialized, and we headed out, through the library, under the moosehead, past the fish tank, and out onto the driveway.
"Look down there, Keith," I said. "Those lights down there are Stanley's, and he's our nearest neighbor. Farmer."
"Hope he likes rock 'n' roll," Keith laughed.
"He better by now," I said. "He's been hearing it from us for almost eight years now. Up these stairs here, and straight ahead."
Alan Dunn and Jane Rose were waiting for us in the loft, and had already been briefed by Geoff Myers, who was talking in an animated fashion, and moving his arms in wide arcs. He was explaining how deep the stage was going to be, and how strong. Keith listened for a moment, then walked over to one of the massive support beams, and kicked it. He looked up, whistled softly through his teeth, and spun around slowly, on his heel.
"Yeah," he said. "What's down there?"
"Come on, I'll show you," and I scrambled down the rickety ladder into what we now call the Keith Richards bedroom suite. Keith followed, with Jane Rose telling him to be careful.
"We don't really know how strong that thing is, now, do we? Gil, are you sure you need Keith down there? Why don't you just leave Keith up here and you can talk to us from down there. Keith, are you all right? Keith!"
"Figured we'd do a bedroom and living area down here," I said. "Right beside the chimney here. A place for people to hang out during the rehearsals, but still be out of the way. Look up there. The stage will be on the level of those transverse beams. You'll be able to see the whole thing from down here. We'll build staircases, fix it up nice. Cassette deck will be over there; speakers hanging so, on either side of the chimney. Should sound good down here."
Keith looked up at the chimney, then back at me. I saw a gleam in his eye. We had this one.
Keith and I made our way back up the ladder, Keith first, much to Jane Rose's pleasure and relief. Geoff Myers was jumping up and down on the plank floor, trying to make it move.
"See? And this is just one layer of two-inch pine on top of two-by-eights. Nothing compared to the strength of the stage, which will have three layers: beams of hemlock, pine sub-flooring, and oak finish. You could drive a truck up there and the floor wouldn't give a bit."
And that's all Keith needed to hear. He walked up to Geoff, and gave him a friendly slap on the lapel with the back of his hand.
"It won't bounce, right?"
"No bounce, Keith."
"We're coming, then. What a place I found!"
"We're what?" Alan interrupted.
"We're coming to this man's barn. Where's Mick now?"
"India, Keith."
"Let's go ring him. What a place I found!"
"How's your screwdriver, Keith?" I asked. It was plainly down to its ice cubes, and needed refreshing.
He looked at me, and at my screwdriver, which was still quite yellow, and full of Stolni'.
I poured my glass into his; he laughed, and we walked back across the driveway to the Farmhouse. Keith and I were getting on just fine.
Ron Wood, who's sometimes called "Ronnie," and at other times "Woody," is by far the friendliest member of the Rolling Stones. He will always say hello to you, for example � even go out of his way to do so. And he will address you using your first name, and in a manner which is always upbeat, happy, confident, and selfless. Selfless. Yes, that's exactly the word I wanted to use. Woody � who's a most talented guy � doesn't make you wrestle with this fact day in and day out. He seems interested in you, instead. He hangs out with fellow guitarist Keith Richards almost all the time. Keith beats on Woody, which is funny most of the time, and a concern to Woody's friends for the remainder of it.
The door to the Game Room was closed, and I figured no one was in it, since it was 11:30 in the morning, so I burst through as though I owned the place, figuring I'd check things out a bit, and see if the Advent TV was working. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn't.
"Woody," I said. "Fancy meeting you here!"
Woody was prowling around the pool table, taking an occasional shot. He'd not yet been to bed, as I could tell from the prowl, which was a touch unsteady. He relaxed his aim on the ball, which was teetering on the edge of falling into a pocket, straightened up, and smiled broadly.
"Hi, Gil!" he said. Woody was genuinely happy to see me. "Howya doing?" he asked me.
"O.K., Woody, I guess. You'd know the answer to that question better than me. I'm just hoping things are going well for you guys, and that we're doing a good job for you... "
"You mean, you don't know already?"
"Well, Ronnie, I've been staying out of sight, mainly � not jumping into the middle of things, you know?"
"Gil. The band loves it here. Loves it here. Honored to be here, Gil. First time I heard talk like that from any of 'em."
"Lemme tell you something. I've been in the band for years now. I never ate with them all before. All at one table, I mean. I never saw 'em all together over a bottle of wine before I came here. Here, take this."
Ron Wood passed me a large and healthy-looking cigarette. I can only assume it contained English tobacco and black hash. Then he grabbed a cube of blue chalk off the shelf, applied it to the business end of his cue stick, and continued his playful taking-of-shots at whichever ball seemed closest to him on the pool table.
"Never happened under one roof before," Ronnie continued. "No problem if more than one roof is involved. Bill and Astrid, they'll disappear almost right away. Mick'll be up in his penthouse with his friends, and his telephone. Charlie not far away probably. Keith and me'll be messin' up in some dungeon downstairs letting out our energy. People in different places, usually. But under one roof? Never saw it before."
BLAM! The door to the Game Room flew open, propelled by Keith Richards's right boot. It slammed against the wooden wall, and bounced back again, catching Keith on the elbow, and partially spilling the orange juice and vodka Keith was carrying in that hand.
"Ronnie, that was yours. Always carry yours in my right hand."
Keith gave the half-filled drink to Ronnie, slapping him on the back as he did, and causing him to spill even more of the screwdriver onto the cement floor. He spied me on the other side of the large TV couch � an infrequent visitor here in the Game Room. "Hey, Gil, whaddaya doin' here in the crypt?"
"Just checking out that everything's working, Keith," I said lamely.
Keith swings a leg up and over the couch. It lands right in the middle of the cushion. Keith steps up onto that leg. He's now standing in the middle of the couch on one foot, Advent video projector immediately to his right � three circles of blue, red, and green, shining cone-like through the air, and illuminating Keith Richards in three basic colors. Keith lands on the floor beside me, cat-like, and now on two feet. "Haven't seen you to talk to since the time before, when Patti and me were here."
"I know. I've been concentrating on the gig. There's not been much time. I want to talk to you about that tape of yours, however. I haven't found time yet to do the edits. So how are we doing, Keith? I mean, the Farm and everything."
"Yeah," Keith said. "Everything's fine, man. Just don't schedule any more 'a those meetings down here, or Ron and me'll revolt."
Ronnie looked up, smiling over his cuestick.
"Meetings? You gotta be joking, Keith," I said. "You must be joking."
"Wasn't much of a joke in here yesterday. A dozen of Mick's clothes designer friends in here watching videos on that damned wide-screen TV of yours. Who brought 'em down here anyway?"
"I did. Keith," I confessed.
"Yeah," Keith acknowledged. "Good thing you like rock 'n' roll, or Ronnie and me'd gang up on you."
Ronnie had just got off a shot from the far end of the pool table which had miraculously put three balls into three different leather pockets. He smiled up at us once again.
"Don't listen to him, Gil," he said.
"Charlie Watts," I said. "What are you doing up this early in the morning?"
It was 7 AM, and I was getting no sleep at all in the water bed in the Flat. I had been dreaming my nightmare, which had been recurrent for me now ever since the Rolling Stones arrived. Was always the same. Nancy, my sweetheart, making love to some other guy, yet smiling at me with her tender, enigmatic Mona Lisa smile � checks becoming ever more flushed � until I would end the dream and wake up terrified in the heaving, sloshing water bed, aware once again that it was the Rolling Stones playing upstairs on our new and gleaming sound stage, and that I had gotten my wish. I mean, that the Rolling Stones had come to Long View Farm.
Charlie Watts was alone in the kitchen in the Farmhouse, looking out over the valley toward the east, and toward a sky which was now gray, streaked with orange, just a few moments after sunrise.
"How'd the practice go last night, Charlie?"
"Gil," he said, "let me look at you."
Charlie was swaying slowly back and forth, seated on the wooden bench overlooking the front porch and the deep valley below. There were patches of mist in the low spots in the valley.
"Let me look at you," Charlie continued. "I want you to tell me this one thing, Gil."
"What, Charlie?"
"What . . . and I want you to tell me the truth . . . what are you going to do, Gil, when . . . when . . . "
"When what , Charlie?"
"When you grow up, Gil. What are you going to do when you grow up?"
Charlie said each word by itself. Distinctly, and without any consideration of count, or cadence.
"Jesus, Charlie," I said. "I'm already forty-one."
"Know that. Know that, Gil. Know that very well. But the question still remains, what, Gil, are you going to do, when you grow up ?"
"Think about getting out of rock 'n' roll, for a start. I can now." I was amazed that I had said that.
"Ha, ha! Watts spoke. Ha, ha. That's already a beginning my good man. A beginning for us to con-tem-plate, the two of us. Out of rock 'n' roll. Which way, Gil? Which way is out of rock 'n' roll? That way? Down past the riding ring? Ha! You really forty-one?"
"I don't know, Charlie. Sometimes I lose track. That's what it says in the papers � in the articles. I guess that's how old I am."
"Treated you easy so far, rock 'n' roll did. Unless you have an aging portrait upstairs in the attic. Ha! Knew someone like you once. Looked great, he did. Didn't show it all as much as me. And I've been showing it a bit. But was that bastard ever miserable! You miserable, Gil?"
"Charlie," I said, "what kind of a thing is that to ask?"
"Aw, fuck," Charlie said. "Wasn't asking. Trying to say something. Trying to say something to you, Gil, who's just forty-one. Played drums all night, trying to say something in the morning. In Massachusetts. I don't know why they make such a fuss over us. Never did understand it. Still don't."
"You're the Rolling Stones, Charlie. That's why."
Charlie Watts turned, looked me straight in the eye, and lifted his glass of Tequila. "Think if I ever grew up I'd get out of rock 'n' roll, too," he said.
He then rose unsteadily to his feet, acquired some stumbling momentum in the direction of the fireplace, the staircase, and his bedroom two flights above us, just across the hall from Mick's bedroom.
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| Hannalee |
This is the url for the author's introduction; the links to the rest of it are on the left.
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| Zeeta |
Where is that last photo of Mick from?
In Mojo it is credited as being from the 80s when he was performing as a solo artist?
But I'm not sure? |
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| gomper |
That pic is from the 81/82 tour, in fact tha photo is part of a collage on a wall of the subway station Insurgentes in Mexico City, that collage includes an image of Lennon and a pair of punk boys, the collage theme is "London". |
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| jb |
It's way too long to read SdH..PLEASE BRIEF IT AND REPORT TO US. |
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| steel driving hammer |
quote:
jb wrote:
It's way too long to read SdH..PLEASE BRIEF IT AND REPORT TO US.
Josh print it out and read it on the shitter.
The last pic is Mick Conn 81 singing GET IT ON RIDER! |
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CHAT
ROOM aka THE FUN HOUSE] [
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