The Christmas spirit has pervaded this house as it does every year. My wife’s mood changes, she is lighter and wildly generous. Everyone in my wife’s clan is giving one another Keith Richards’s autobiography (James Fox’s literary creation) for Christmas, it is going back and forth, there are two copies in this house now. I dipped into the first 30 pages and am hooked. It’s great writing, it captures a world that is over. There is not a ponderous word in the book. The voice is salty and alive.
This was the tour of the giant inflatable cock. It came rising up from the stage as Mick sang “Starfucker.” It was great was the cock, though we paid for it later in Mick’s wanting props at every tour after that…
When I asked my wife why they’re passing it around, she said it makes our generation feel young again. And that Richards is an old and happy guy. The book is generous. He likes everyone, he gives everyone credit. He does not take himself at all seriously, and he is constantly complimenting others, and describing everything that the Stones took from American black blues players to make their music. My wife read Dylan’s Chronicles and hated it. It told the same story as Keith does, at heart, but it was sour and self-involved, seemed inauthentic, made himself the hero, and gave nothing to anyone else.
