Deep in the psychedelic wood, Where a rock-n-roll martyr plays You'll find the enchanted neighborhood Of Brian Jones's drug-haze days. Brian the posh, Brian the posh, A randy little dandy - all fine, divine. He's Brian the posh, Brian the posh, A ritzy little glitzy old soul. I'd hate like hell to be sued by the Disney Empire for parodying…
Today I extend a lusty black-and-blue birthday greeting - and a bouquet of the finest dead flowers - to Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards, the man who, for the past 50 years, has embodied the true spirit of rock-n-roll rebellion like no other artist. I love lots of rockers for lots of reasons, but Keith will always be my bad-boy fantasy object. "Oh, that old junkie!" you say? "How can you idolize a heroin-loving, speedball shooting hedonist who's snorted everything from the finest cocaine to his dead dad's ashes?" Well, if that's all you know about the man we fans call Keef, then you don't know diddly about the guy who can out-diddle Bo and just about everyone else when it comes to jamming out distinctive guitar licks. Here's my tribute to the seemingly indestructible Mr. Richards.
Bass players are the Rodney Dangerfields of the rock world, it seems. I tell ya, they just don't get no respect. And no wonder! On the day after God created rock stars (sometime around 4 am on a gin-soaked Saturday night in Memphis), he created groupies. And he commanded them: "Thou shalt honor thy singer and thy lead guitarist and have no false rock Gods before thee."
"Like Mick Jagger in exact reverse." That's the way Keith Richards has described Mick Taylor, the straight-faced guitarist who was sucked into the carnal vortex of the Rolling Stones at the tender age of 20. He did more than just replace guitarist and founding member Brian Jones, he added a whole new dimension to the Stones' dirty white-boy sound. His bluesy, melodic playing and ability to read a song were crucial to the success of the band's three masterpiece albums: "Let it Bleed," "Sticky Fingers," and "Exile on Main Street." He turns 67 tomorrow.
"Cold fanged anger." That's one of many disturbing lyrics from the Rolling Stones' classic "Midnight Rambler." It's a song about a black-caped killer -- a knife-sharpening hit-and-run raper who'll smash your windows, put his fist through your door, and stick his knife right down your throat. That character sprang from the mind of Mick Jagger. And on December 6, 1969, the monster turned on its maker, turning a day of free music into a night of chaos and killing. This is the story of the murder at Altamont.