An old rocker has much to atone for in a life, and I am no exception, though I am exceptional in my excesses. But my atonement, if I can call it that, is different. You see, kiddies, I have issues in remembering my sins. Years of booze and pills have withered the little grey cells so that now I am as likely to remember my breakfast as the name of that journalist who I shagged, took Polaroids of in her starkers, then sent to a tabloid. Come to think of it, those photos might have helped her career, but I doubt she named any children after me.
Well, Billy, you ask, how can a person atone for what s/he cannot remember? Very easily, I say! My body is too wasted to be donated to science, except maybe as a study in the effects of debauchery. Keith (Richards) and I have an ongoing bet as to which one of us will get cirrhosis first; the loser has to buy the winner a Salmanazar of champagne. But I digress . . . . My atonement comes in the form of work.
The penance I have set for myself is the Sisyphean task of keeping myself relevant in a world that long stopped recognizing me. Madonna, a fawning Anglophile if ever I have heard one, equates relevance with reinvention, but that is really a producer’s game. My efforts are more of the auteur’s variety, meaning that I endeavor to take in the world with fresh eyes and then share my vision with others. Granted, I use good old-fashioned rock and roll as my medium, but I think you get my 60’s era analogy. The trick is to use a rather moribund musical form to express the dynamic changes I see in a society grown more youthful by the day. Here is where collaboration comes into the equation, and trust me that one needs good collaborators. Paul Simon helped to popularize a group of African musicians back in the Eighties and the Buena Vista Social Club did the same for Cuban musicians several years later, but I have nothing so cross-cultural or grandiose in scope. My own background makes me partial to disaffected youth, which is why I haunt the streets of London in neighborhoods that are both seedy and sexy. If someone catches my fancy then I invite the person into the studio where we cut a track. Usually the individual performs the role of backup singer, but once in a while someone takes control of the microphone and then I find myself outside of my comfort zone, which has become, not to be contradictory, oddly comforting. When my erstwhile collaborator is a(n attractive) woman, our efforts may lead back to my flat so that we can work up more material. After my butler escorts the lass out in the morning, I find myself in need of further atonement. Thus the cycle of sin and salvation is renewed. Which is to ask, dear readers, if any of you are looking to make a record? I work with all types, just know that I am not good with names and guarantee that I will not remember numbers.
Yours in collaboration,
Uncle Billy
'Ello Keith. I thought I paid you back for that bridge; did I not help you write the first three chapters of your book? Also, as I recall, you stole a few of my studio "assistants" last time you came round. As for the little "rash" I had, it was not herpes and my local took care of it some time back. Thanks for bringing up the matter, though. And, how is your Hep C? Wanker that, you git.
ReplyDeleteGit? Have you forgot your place boy? What book are you talking about? [Assistant whispers in ear] Fuck, you haven't been able to hold any thing in your hand other than your pecker for several decades, let alone a pencil to "help" me write a book. And I haven't stolen pussy since the '62 gig at the Marquee. Dodgy Bugger. THE Keef, remember that next time.
ReplyDeleteKeith: I thought this was just a bit of good natured ribbing between old mates, but I see your skin has gotten thinner over the years, rather like my hair. Anyway, since you cannot seem to hold yourself in check--no wonder you cannot get a bloody knighthood--then I am going to talk with Mick. How that old bugger was able to put up with you for so long is beyond me, but anything is worth a try. I admit you have more chops on the guitar than I ever will, but you are clearly not my peer when we are talking about polish and poetry. Hold a pencil? You don't even have a free hand, as one is busy with a needle and the other is held by your assistant. Grow up, Keith. Better yet, grow a sense of tact. The peace between us is now over, which means you better keep an eye out for someone really from the old streets and far more capable of pulling a bird in any pup you can name, let alone spell.
ReplyDeleteAh bloody hell man, just havin' a good laugh, eh. By the way, to whom am I talking, where am I, where are me dad's ashes? Fcuk fvsogskmndsgvv mothalmvs ngads asoafnmksadv nkdadgpkgndasg booaslfmdgdg g adfmdfddadsagdkmadg. Goo nighttt.
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