• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Because Keith is just a dumb shit who never figured out that there was anything good to be said on guitar after Chuck Berry, the worst kind of oldies-fetishist, fuck his image, you could look like that if you were a rich junkie too, outlaw my ass, he's boring, a word I seldom invoke because there's too many good books to read to ever get bored and too many fine fine records to listen to but this ain’t one of them.

I won’t even comment on the lyrics because they don’t mean shit. They’re stupid and deserve to be. Not even “Memory Motel,” which I could get a cheap shot off by saying the line “You’re just a memory, that used to mean so much to me” applies to the Stones, but I don’t believe that, I just love ‘em for getting wasted, as they are, and slowly dying with such immaculate sense of timing, I mean they still can do no wrong, except if you really are dumb enough to expect a Statement, well, NO STATEMENTS HERE. They even copped out on the s&m cover packaging originally envisioned, for which actually I am glad, gladder than about any of the music herein, because there is plenty enough too much ersatz plethora of s&m culture around as it is, and even s&m freaks probably gotta resent the Stones for not really contributing to it but always playing at the most chichi trendy formulaic cuffs of bondage. When really they were always in bondage to some stupid idea of themselves. I mean, Jagger and Townshend—who cares if they’re 30 years old? Even a single reader of this magazine? No. Nobody gives a shit about their hang-up about that but Jagger and Townshend. Patti Smith is 30, the author of this piece is 27 and still stands upon his head on occasion cartwheels for the party, Charlie Mingus is 54 and still breathing fire in his stance if not his most recent music. He learned the obvious lesson that old can mean Duke Ellington mellow, not the garbage heap, but the Stones want to be on the garbage heap, where else you gonna pitch outlaws, but sorry, I can’t take it for anything but product, a year and a half in the making too, ha, what a joke, what a great laugh, what a band what a group what a charge what a rock ‘n’ roll band what a band what a band what a band, goodbye.

P.S. (of course)

But and then at that time also, I recall with my old bud Mick, swam out scenes a good drifter cannabisalt off the boardwalk entirely, and we listened a tune a time or two, and to conclusion we did come, most specifically that this here makes hay jump and spindly-leg jeckyl hustle because it's funny and good as gone can be—“Hot Stuuff”— when Mick comes on with that jive Rasta growly blab and actually nerves up to “Allayoupeapalinnyaksitay, I know yall goin’ broke, to everybody in Jamaica, livin’ workin’ in the sun, yer hot stuff,” yeah, hot hicks wack on down, let those Jaymochan rude boys get their mitts on your gullet dad, they’ll squeeze till you forget about tryina be anybody's badass, but slopfingered wimp as you are you’re all right. Because for one thing we figured out that Bianca is smarter than you and it blew your mind that such a phenomenon could exist so you write all these mushy love ballads your last alpees while she fucks off with Ryan O’Neal. “Hey honey would you like to get something to eat… ?” Chick sal san on rye, quick or slow don’t make no, gone bleared kid you are in the age you have declaimed yourself, hand of fate sureshot horseshit, you still could if you would but you won’t but that's okay because we love you for what you are. Less than nothing, because you were something once. So thank you for not aspiring: you are an inspiration to the blank generation whole.

Creem, July 1976

Kind of Grim:

Unraveling the Miles Perplex

Ihave been wrestling with this Miles Davis thing for what has amounted to years now, and even though I still haven’t gotten it figured out, perhaps an expository dissection of my confusion can be instructive to you, if you care. Certainly Miles has been leading quite a few of us along by the nose, tying our tympanics and