Goats Head Soup
More insomnia, more Rolling Stones, more much maligned Goats Head Soup and standing with a slack guitar in one hand and a cigarette in the other with my back to the speaker - can you hear the music? - and letting the heat build humid like the thick scented air from Montserrat - "We got a nice view of the sea didn't we?" glancing up from the grand piano.
"Yeah we did."
And the sun beating through the curtains, another sunny afternoon for the boys - this is a playground after all, just ask the war weary women peering through the yellow haze. "I think - I don't think - but I was - there, I think…" Amnesia as self defence - invisibility cuts both ways. Revenge comes from the ones already exiled - Marianne Faithfull who will make more important records than the Stones a few years down the line. Invisibility cuts.
"Talking of cuts, shouldn't we be laying something down?"
"Yeah man." Fat cat bass you can feel that fucker purr, big fat lazy cat with a diamond tooth, fit for the rich and their flesh bitten to the quick, "Ere comes Keef" junky legs clicking like a switchblade out in the darkness of the jungle. "Is there a jungle here Mick?"
The King waves a hand towards his courtiers, "Well we got some potted plants didn't wave" big grin, suburban small boy made good. More than good, Greatest Rock n Roll Band in the World. They say.
But Charlie's enjoying a holiday and his drumming is a mystic thing, you could power the whole damn studio off him. Keef puts anther headscarf over a tom-tom. "How did you get here anyway Keef? I thought you were stuck?"
"Me?" Ghosts can learn to laugh, "Parachuted in from the il de Ray didn't I? hurh hurh hurh!"
Mick’s face splits again, his teeth are like ivories off the piano he's toying with.
"Bloody hot though innit?" murmurs some polite British flunky.
"This'll cool you down!" chuckles Keef, he's forgotten they're supposed to be playing INSTRUMENTS, he wants to play RECORDS, taut bone fingers plucking the black vinyl from it's sleeve, the light catching a black chipped nail bitten to the quick, kicking over the lipstick traces of the last glam flash. "Well I'm glad it's over."
Keef nods approvingly, looking up from the deck and holding the LP cover aloft. "Pretty chilly huh?" Free Wheelin' Bob Dylan clutches his coat and his muse to him as he heads down the New York winter street.
Mick scowls, then he says, "'Ere there's a song in that," and in the middle of the Caribbean he quickly scrawls lyrics about cold winters, Central Park and keeping people warm...
Keef's eyes are closed as the music plays and he's far away. And Charlie's thinking about going for a swim and Bill's thinking about tonight's sacrifice. And the lettering on the album cover spells Brian Gysin - if you look real close.
And it's a drowsy kind of feeling - till Keef's Magnum slides out from his pants and goes off as it hits the floor.
"FUCKIN' HELL KEEF!"
And Richards just laughs looking out the window and hearing a drum beat in his head, Charlie's drum, and Mick Taylor's guitar, all innocence lost finally, is scrawling lines like poisoned veins throbbing and scratched - and somewhere in the thick of it all is an album, soft and heavy - like a bullet from Son of Sam who will take the lyrics to heart - just not his own. And every single chord from Keef kicks like the iron hoof from the Mendes goat himself and every sneery vocal from Jagger curls and twists like the smoke from my cigarette and it's only rock n roll but...
"Yeah we did."
And the sun beating through the curtains, another sunny afternoon for the boys - this is a playground after all, just ask the war weary women peering through the yellow haze. "I think - I don't think - but I was - there, I think…" Amnesia as self defence - invisibility cuts both ways. Revenge comes from the ones already exiled - Marianne Faithfull who will make more important records than the Stones a few years down the line. Invisibility cuts.
"Talking of cuts, shouldn't we be laying something down?"
"Yeah man." Fat cat bass you can feel that fucker purr, big fat lazy cat with a diamond tooth, fit for the rich and their flesh bitten to the quick, "Ere comes Keef" junky legs clicking like a switchblade out in the darkness of the jungle. "Is there a jungle here Mick?"
The King waves a hand towards his courtiers, "Well we got some potted plants didn't wave" big grin, suburban small boy made good. More than good, Greatest Rock n Roll Band in the World. They say.
But Charlie's enjoying a holiday and his drumming is a mystic thing, you could power the whole damn studio off him. Keef puts anther headscarf over a tom-tom. "How did you get here anyway Keef? I thought you were stuck?"
"Me?" Ghosts can learn to laugh, "Parachuted in from the il de Ray didn't I? hurh hurh hurh!"
Mick’s face splits again, his teeth are like ivories off the piano he's toying with.
"Bloody hot though innit?" murmurs some polite British flunky.
"This'll cool you down!" chuckles Keef, he's forgotten they're supposed to be playing INSTRUMENTS, he wants to play RECORDS, taut bone fingers plucking the black vinyl from it's sleeve, the light catching a black chipped nail bitten to the quick, kicking over the lipstick traces of the last glam flash. "Well I'm glad it's over."
Keef nods approvingly, looking up from the deck and holding the LP cover aloft. "Pretty chilly huh?" Free Wheelin' Bob Dylan clutches his coat and his muse to him as he heads down the New York winter street.
Mick scowls, then he says, "'Ere there's a song in that," and in the middle of the Caribbean he quickly scrawls lyrics about cold winters, Central Park and keeping people warm...
Keef's eyes are closed as the music plays and he's far away. And Charlie's thinking about going for a swim and Bill's thinking about tonight's sacrifice. And the lettering on the album cover spells Brian Gysin - if you look real close.
And it's a drowsy kind of feeling - till Keef's Magnum slides out from his pants and goes off as it hits the floor.
"FUCKIN' HELL KEEF!"
And Richards just laughs looking out the window and hearing a drum beat in his head, Charlie's drum, and Mick Taylor's guitar, all innocence lost finally, is scrawling lines like poisoned veins throbbing and scratched - and somewhere in the thick of it all is an album, soft and heavy - like a bullet from Son of Sam who will take the lyrics to heart - just not his own. And every single chord from Keef kicks like the iron hoof from the Mendes goat himself and every sneery vocal from Jagger curls and twists like the smoke from my cigarette and it's only rock n roll but...