Keith Richards
Keith Richards, the Devil's cat
by Alberto D. Prieto
Those who haven't heard of him wouldn't be
wanting to cross his path on the corner of Edith Grove.
On a wet and lonely
night, the only signs of his presence are his footsteps, up until the moment
when his imminent arrival is presaged by a hormonal discharge that impregnates
the air, a rancid smell that only bodies that have been soaked in liquor for
years can emanate. In such a case, your only chance of saving yourself from a
fright is if the man about to cross your path shares the same runes as yours
and sees a kindred spirit behind your eyes. Suddenly, it's difficult to
breathe. You could cut the air with a knife. Your heartbeat accelerates.
Painted eyes, a dishevelled bandana, diabolical smile. One, two… One, two,
three, four…
Right up to number nine.
The bad luck that a cat can give you if it
crosses your path in a dark alley is compensated for if that black cat is one
of your own; indeed, some cultures believe that having one in the home is a
good omen. God himself sent an extra
pair of them to Noah in order to rid
him of a plague of rats that were threatening to overrun the ark…
Their
proficiency in carrying out such dark deeds sullied their reputation, even
identifying them as the alter ego of the witches that the medieval Catholics
were so keen on on burning at the stake. The black cat was symbolised with the
Devil, with black magic, but also, since ancient Egyptian times, seen as a
deity with the power of longevity. Because of its self-sufficient and
independent character, its enigmatic and magical aura, in many countries a cat
is said to have seven lives. Or nine.
To be born, to
grow up, to reproduce, to die… or not. When you fall in with the Devil and a
pact is made, it may go on eternally… half a century perhaps? Longer? The
post-WWII generation is perhaps the most prolific in popular musical culture,
the one from which legends have risen, rising up out of the loneliness and pain
of stark, broken families and tormented, shell-shocked fathers, hidden away in
their bedrooms, getting out through their guitars what they are incapable of
saying through their mouths, the pain of forced maturity and hard living.
This
army of children taught themselves how to exorcise their fears. Scraped knees, potato
peelings and boiled sprouts, cold nights practicing chords between secret puffs
on cigarettes, hidden away. Quiet, pensive grandparents, determined to make
their grandchildren tough, testing them, turning a blind eye to their
mischievous deeds, even encouraging them. They want strong kids, survivors;
they luckily (or not so luckily) survived the first war, but their children
didn't manage to come back from the second one - or if they did, only in body,
not in spirit. If you don't harden their souls, they see no chance of escape from
this living death.
Working mothers with only, lonely children, brought up in
the streets, dodging cars, rival gangs, the police, bustles, brawls and bust-ups,
lunchbox thieves, post-war kids who grew up surrounded by single mothers and
aunties, red marks on their hands or bottoms from when they couldn't do their
sums right, who learned to sing with Sunday hymns and the national anthem in
the church choir, growing up to be adolescents wanting to create their world
with all the things they had learnt to love and hate as youngsters –
cobblestones, rats, rubble and unexploded bombs, walking back from school or
from bunking it, forming bands whose reputation was often worse than the noises
they made, seedlings that would in time grow up to be our legends, hard nuts
that won't die even if you dropped a car on them – at least that's the way it
seems, because if their lives began in that hell, with who are they going to
best sympathise with if it isn't the Devil? The Devil's work for all eternity.
Like the hits of the Rolling Stones. Like the unmistakable sound of Keith, as unreal as the world that brought him up in was. Because
who could believe that this old, crooked man, his back bent from the weight of
countless wrinkles, slow in movement from the weight of the passing years, the
drugs taken, the liquor drunk and the women had, who could believe that this
weird, raggedy, spaced-out old man can make a Gibson sound like a wild pack of bluesmen?
Richards defies all logic simply by beating it, creating the
atmosphere that Jagger, Watts and Wood breathe. And heaven forbid, we all
would love to one day sniff his ashes, just to see if there is some dark
alchemy in there that we might be able to imbibe.
Until then, all of us, grandfathers, fathers
and grandsons alike, venerate him, to see if we a little of his dark magic
might rub off on us. Until one day we may introduce ourselves to him, he laden
with riches and exquisite musical taste, ready to show us the secret of his
game. Or ready to tell us to take a walk. Who knows?
It was back in 1959 when an adolescent lad with a prominent jaw registered at Sidcup
Art College. He had gone there driven by his ability to express himself through
drawing and the small detail of having burnt some dustbins trying to cover up a
petty theft at school. A mate of his from the Dartford area also went there and
in his spare time played various instruments in a band with a name that today
is quite ridiculous, but back in the 1950s was de riguer: Little Boy Blue and the Blue Boys.
Although Mick Jagger was also out and about at this time, it wasn't until a
year and a half later that Keith and
Mick would bump into each other on a
train and started reminiscing about their days in primary school, before life
separated them – but that the Chuck
Berry and Muddy Waters records
that the boy with the thick lips and lascivious eyes had under his arms would
bring back together, the hot-headed guitarist inviting him for lunch that same
day. That was in the spring of 1961, when the stones started to roll…
Keith
Richards has never let life dictate what to do.
Sick of his life at home, at the age of 19 he packed his bags and moved to
Edith Grove, a neighbourhood a fair way beyond Chelsea, a cold, hard dive of a
place, where he preferred the company of his friends, sweaty from always being
on the lookout to play (with guitars and women), than the bland warmth of his
family home, where he felt suffocated. At home, there was not a penny to be
had, but he took with him a great inheritance.
A descendant of French
Protestants that fled to England in the 18th Century, grandfather Theodor August Dupree, played several
instruments and his seven daughters, one of who was Keith's mother, Doris,
sang and also played some instruments. Young Keith had learnt to sing when he was just two years old and when he
was four he was already correcting his mother whenever she sang out of tune…
Adolescents are wont to try out whatever
crosses their paths, to go with the flow, follow a something or a somebody and
when the time is right, to lead a group of people with the same interests. This
has never been the case with Keith
Richards. In a way, still an adolescent at 70 years old, all he breathes is
the Rolling Stones, the reason why
he has been able to miraculously escape death so many times. The kohl-eyed
guitarist, fourth-best in the world according to the magazine with the same
name as the group that he quite literally lives and breathes for, has forever been
a hardened, skin and bone man, scuppering all possible attempts to reign him in
or settle him down. The most that you can do with him is accompany him along
the way, as did Gram Parsons, that
American guy who came onto the scene towards the end of the 60s with his Byrds to show him the secrets of white folk and the southern harmonies to
be found with wind and strings, understand his syncopated, off-beat riffs, show him the way towards the
creation of his very own chords in open
G tuning and accept that he, and only he, can play the song of his life,
And yours, if you want to stay close.
Before, on 9th May 1965, after squeezing some late-coming spots in
the bathroom mirror of a Tampa hotel (Florida, USA), Keith had shown Mick an
idea as yet in its embryonic state. Neither men at that moment nor once the
birth came about four days later at Chicago's
Chess Studios were over the moon with their creation, but Brian Jones, who was back then just
about lucid, Charlie Watts, forever
the thinker, Bill Wyman, the eternal
Ian Stewart and their current
manager Andrew Oldham, all gave it
the nod. 'Satisfaction' had it all;
it would be a winner.
And a winner it was. Just two months after
the song came out, it was already an anthem all around the world: the song's
eternal riff, according to Richards,
was based on something he heard in 'Dancing
in the Street' by Martha & The
Vandellas. This would be the very same song that would motivate Mick to turn his back on Keith during one of his many resurrections,
giving as an excuse a project in which his alter ego would have another
opportunity to massage his ego – this time, bathing in the glory with Bowie.
The song had a sound that hit
you square in the face, with rebellious, generational lyrics sang by
misunderstood inheritors of an alien world, by youngsters that wanted to take
control of their world, all the world. And then there is the name. It may or
may not be a coincidence, but the song, although the lyrics are negative, has a
title that is expressed positively, within the central message of being fed up,
there is hope. If there is no satisfaction in your life, become a Stone, sing it with us. Let's make this
hell at least our hell. Maybe this is the secret of being born, growing up, having
a romp and not dying. Be crafty, be tough, rule your own destiny, beat time at
its own game, get up from under that fallen car and stroll on, an eternal smile
on your lips, a guitar on your back.
That's how you can get over Oxford Street's
Marquee banning your group just when
you need to make a name for yourself in the most important London club of 1962,
and that its owner reports you for vandalising his property and trying to make
him swallow your Harmony Meteor.
It's the only way to bear the rivalry imposed by the fans, the managers and the
press with the fabulous four from Liverpool, who, by the way, you go out
drinking beer with after the gigs to talk about the inner secrets of the Epiphone Casino. Only by letting it go
with the Les Paul can you deal with
the fact that your girl, Anita
Pallenberg, has gone to bed with your best friend and the whole world can
see on the big screen how realistic those oh so 'rehearsed' scenes are.
In this
way, you can keep on your feet after drinking such a quantity of vodka, bourbon
and God knows what else that it would put the millions of people waiting to see
you strutting out with your Flying V
onto the Hyde Park stage of 1969 on their backs.
Only a tough character like
yours can recover from the death of your one-month old daughter, Tara, while in the middle of an
American tour and even carry on gigging, playing your G with five black strings. For a hard man like
you, having eleven of your prized collection of Gibsons, Ampers, Telecasters and Guild Bluesbirds - valued at $40,000 back in 1971 - doesn't bring
you to your knees; in fact you couldn't care less.
Without your Strat and your SG, how could you have gotten through your dad Bert's absence for nearly two decades? Without them, it'd have been
impossible to forgive and forget after reuniting in 1982, (in a bar,
naturally), accepting him as one of your drinking buddies…
It's this attitude that has resulted in the
endless mayhem of fights, bust-ups, arrests and trials for illegal arms
possession, public disorder, aggression against authority and drugs trafficking
serving as an inspiration for the world's best luthiers like Ted Newman Jones. An attitude that has
ensured that all these accusations, every single one of which would in time be
confirmed, did not end up with you rotting in a prison cell like any other
mortal would. A personality like that is what allows you to climb out of the
abyss admitting in a moment of passing insight in June 1993 the merits of Ronnie Wood, who managed to take care
of things when you needed it, playing lead guitar on your Firebird when you could not play more than rhythm on the Black Beauty and giving you the space
and time necessary to sort yourself out, climb out of the darkness, while the
other half of the Richards/Jagger
duo wiped your name of his projects and gave you the cold shoulder, wishing out
loud that you got back to taking smack. The same man that, when you have spent more
lives than the devil himself could offer you, and it looks like there's just this
one left, gets you to send the world and his wife packing, and you pour a drink
for the man and say, "ah, what the hell"… and Mick understands you. And you're both laughing again.
And that is the essence of the Stones, the only group where the
drummer admits that he, Charlie Watts,
is not the man who sets the rhythm, but in fact everyone is following Keith Richards, that crazy looking guy
whose war-weary veins are guitar strings, who has in him all the qualities
necessary to be a person who breaks boundaries, travel new ground. In fact,
it's just the one quality: that of not trying to do more than to go your own
way. I'll go where I want to, I'll do it with whomever I feel like and I'll
only stop at places where I can give and get a little pleasure.
The women that
gave him some love could only do so because they limited themselves to walking
with him down his road (and helping him along the way). Among his great hits as
a rocker, there are also some tender ballads full of love and others defiant
against the cold world into which he was born.
Over the last 50 years, up on the stage,
under the bright lights, the pedals and strings of Keith Richards have conjured up real wizardry, alternating between
rhythm and lead like a magician, mixing it up the most diverse styles
imaginable. He is an enigmatic player, creating riffs inspired by the fans' choked
screams on recognising them, and also an independent and self-sufficient one,
knowing when to take the lead and when to go walkabout to exorcise his
miseries. This eternal spirit of the Rolling
Stones was lucky to have been born in England, where the cats have nine
lives. And also those that congregate to see his sorcery, too. Material spirits
that have been rewarded with untold riches from the practice of sympathising
with his exquisite charms, bewitched by his magic.
One, two… One, two, three,
four.
Only God knows if he is already on number nine.