Giving our hearts to Mick Jagger

(751 words)

My face bore a grave expression Sunday when I summoned the 12-year-old to the kitchen table. I took both her little hands in mine and looked her straight in the eye.

What was she doing tomorrow?

“Nothing.”

“Very good. Then I want to take you to the hospital to see if you can donate one of your heart valves to save the life of Mick Jagger.”

She teeters mostly on the edge of that whole honor-thy-father-and-mother thingie, but her seething reaction leads me to believe any day now that Biblical admonition will mean as much to her as “Be kind. Rewind.”

“I WILL NOT! I DON’T EVEN LIKE THE ROLLING STONES!”

I swear, I’ve never felt more like a fatherly failure. Her visceral reaction caught me completely off guard. I was so certain she’d be honored I’d spent the entire afternoon standing before the bedroom mirror practicing introducing myself as the father of the girl whose heart part now beats in Mick Jagger’s chest.

Now, I don’t know if it’s possible — much less advisable even — for doctors to transplant a healthy heart valve of a 12-year-old female into the ailing ticker of a 75-year-old rock star. For all I know the procedure could endanger the donor, whom I love despite all her sassy tastelessness. 

Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe they don’t use human donors. Maybe today’s replacement heart valves are constructed out of scissored cardboard or old twist off bottle tops.

But it would have been just so cool to have contributed to the endurance of the greatest rock band the world’s ever known.

I wonder if Jagger is having to haggle with his health care provider over things like deductibles and if he gets to see his primary care physician.

He’s fathered eight children with five different women. His public announcements emphasized his rockin’ eagerness to get back on the road with the band. I wonder if his more private consultations about post-surgical activities involved his eagerness to get back in bed with supermodels.

It’s no exaggeration to say I’ve probably thought about Mick and the Stones at least once almost every single day of my life for most of the past five decades.

I can’t remember a time when they weren’t an essential part of my life.

Music has always been very important to me. And because I’ve worked almost my entire adult life in a small room all by myself I’ve chosen to play loud (mostly) rock music to soundtrack my long, lonely days.

And on the days when that didn’t involve Rolling Stones music, it always included The Stones as an option. I’d read the books, study the documentaries and concert films, and race to share the news of band turmoil and reconciliations with my like-minded friends.

The Stones are as much a part of me as your heart valves are of you.

In hindsight, the wisdom of these decisions is open to question. After all, few are the criteria by which I can be considered a success.

Who knows? I might have a raft of best sellers under my belt had I decided years ago that cerebral rigor might be best achieved by writing in tomb-like silence or to New Agey whale sounds.

But my days would be so much dimmer without so much Stones. 

It’s an interesting time for the band. I anticipate any day now the combined age of the four key bandmates (301) will finally surpass their combined weight.

They last went into the studio in 2016 to record an album of classic blues covers. “Lonesome and Blue” is outstanding, but leaves me hungering for another overdue album of originals, something they haven’t produced since the truly stellar “A Bigger Bang” in 2005.

But as the Jagger news portends, we’re coming to the end of maybe the most vibrant story in the history of music.

 The Stones won’t live forever. They are mortal.

Well, not Keith, but that goes without saying.

We’ve never seen a performer like Jagger and there will never be another. I feel blessed to have shared the planet with him at a time when mass media gave us access to all his indelible talents.

Given these soulful adorations, you might wonder why I’m not the one offering my valves to extend the earthly duration of Sir Mick.

That’d be impossible.

For as long as I can remember, The Stones have always had my whole heart.

Related (Does anyone ever read these?) …

Mick Jagger: An appreciation

9th graders learn who’s better: Stones or Beatles

Stones 50 best? FeRRRget it

Keith’s bio: Warts ’n’ warts

Roll on, Stones

9th graders learn who's better: Stones or Beatles

(972 words)

My daughters know not to ask Daddy any homework questions involving subjects like algebra or biology.

I just don’t get it.

Same goes for humanity, sociology, civics, nutrition, astronomy, horticultural, automotive repair, personal finance, IT, physics, chemistry, fashion, hospitality, theology … 

And let’s not even get into why they know to run to Mommy anytime they have questions involving basic grooming and hygiene.

So I was taken aback when our 9th grader approached and said she needed my insights on a subject she’d been assigned to argue for debate class.

Who’s better: Stones or Beatles?

Now, it was my turn to be taken aback.

This is what they’re teaching in our middle schools?

I couldn’t believe it. This isn’t a subject that ought to be discussed in a classroom.

It ought to be discussed in a dimly-lit bar with a really cool jukebox.

And I should be the teacher!

In fact, my entire life has been something of an honors tutorial on the subject. I remember spending hour-after-hour in the Athens bars going point-by-point over every song in their glorious catalogs to divine the answer.

It was Ohio University where I graduated with a .23.

That wasn’t my GPA.

It was my BAC.

I started my answer with a question: Who did you choose to argue: Stones or Beatles?

“The Stones.”

Hallelujah.

If she’s learned anything from me it is musical tastefulness, a realm which to me is far more important than all that scholarly crap that winds up on the resumes.

She was correct.

The Stones are the better band.

I plugged a Stones playlist into the stereo and as the first iconic chords of “Jumpin' Jack Flash” began to play I commenced my illumination.

“First of all, the Stones are the better band merely on the basis of longevity. They’ve been thrilling the world for 54 years.”

That cannot be overlooked.

“Brown Sugar,” “Wild Horses,” “Shattered,” “Sweet Virginia,” “Memory Motel,” “Miss You,” “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll,” “Waiting on a Friend” and “Honky Tonk Woman” are just a handful of the hits the Stones recorded after the Beatles hung it up. And if I had the opportunity, I’d play for each of you the outstanding 2005 “A Bigger Bang” album to prove the Stones are still in their fifth decade capable of great studio work.

Many great bands burn out or fade away within five years due to ego, addiction, artistic differences, death, suicide, envy or the other many pitfalls of fame.

The Stones have overcome all those and reign still.

Second, the Stones are more inspirational.

Ask Bruce Springsteen.

I heard an apt interview with him where he summed it up perfectly. He said it changed his world when he saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.

“I remember looking at them and thinking, well, there’s only four guys in the world who can do what they’re doing and there they are. No one else can do that. Me, included. But when I saw the Stones they were more gritty, more real. They weren’t smiling. They weren’t pretty. I thought, man, I can do that. The Stones are what made me want to be in a band.”

Every musician in the world wanted to listen to the Beatles, but they wanted to be a Stone.

Another point: the Stones were dangerous.

When the Beatles were playing it safe singing, “All You Need is Love,” the Stones were releasing, “Sympathy for the Devil.”

I played it for Josie and emphasized the lyrics with historical context about crucifixions, Russian revolutionaries and WWII holocausts.

I watched with glee while your kings and queens fought for 10 decades for the gods they made

I shouted out “Who killed the Kennedys?” when after all it was you and me

The world in 1968 was raw from war, strife, injustice and the monumental assassinations of JFK and Martin Luther King Jr. And here comes Mick Jagger beseeching sympathy for the devil.

They didn’t shy away from confronting this. In fact, when Robert Kennedy was murdered during the recording sessions, the Stones had a historic choice to remove the Kennedy line in the name of taste.

Instead, they made it plural.

Even today, it’s incredibly incendiary.

I told her the Stones are the better band is because they are a true band.

I love that about them.

I contend if the Beatles had never met you still would have heard of John, Paul, George and Ringo. They all had the gifts to be famous.

John, Paul and George all went on to individually make tremendous and indelible solo music. They were a trio of geniuses.

And Ringo, well, Ringo would have made a dandy game show host.

Had the Stones never met, the only one anyone would have ever heard of is Charlie Watts and the only people who would have heard of him are the handful of obsessives who can name famous jazz drummers.

Mick would have become a financier, Keith a junkie, Bill Wyman a gynecologist and Brian Jones still dead.

Instead, they had each other and became something the world will never see again.

That Stones solo work is either obscure or sucks just bolsters my point.

And though their lifestyles contradict the opinion, I contend the Stones would to this day still be playing music together in shabby clubs and theaters if they’d never become famous.

I still believe — despite all the inflatable dolls, the private jets and the disposable supermodels — with the Stones it’s the music that matters.

And because this was a school project and I want my darling to succeed, I needed to share with her the one irrefutable reason that would blow away anyone arguing the Beatles — and I love the Beatles — are better.

None of the Stones ever got anywhere near Yoko.

Class dismissed.

Related …

Roll on, Stones

Stones 50 best? ForGrrrt it

“USA! USA!” and why we all whoo

Listening to classic rock with my senile Mom

Lennon vs. McCartney

The divisive Paul McCartney Christmas song

The Boss for God

September tweets of the month

(422 words)

Looking forward to a day of televised sports and remote parenting. On deck for tomorrow: “Trouble with the Critics,” my take on the widely slammed new Clint Eastwood movie, “Trouble with the Curve.” I liked it!

And, yes, I still like Clint, too!

Check out the tweets @8days2amish and have a great Sunday!

• I plan on spending tomorrow saying same things over and over, repeating ad nauseam & beating proverbial dead horse. It's Happy Belabor Day!

• Can anyone explain why in San Francisco there's a big orange bridge right where everyone told me to look for a golden gate?

• The word clusterf*** is very misleading. Sounds like something we should all enjoy. "We're having a big clusterf***! Bring a casserole!"

• There are just two true rock stars left on the entire planet. One of them is Mick Jagger. The other is married to Hillary Clinton.

• God knows all/sees all. I wonder if He reads http://www.EightDaysToAmish.com .

• I'm thinking it's physically impossible for someone who is Finnish to hitchhike.

• Another absurd story saying men think about sex 250 times a day. C'mon! I thought about sex 250 times in the time it took me to type this tweet.

• I’ve cut my nose off so many times to spite my face it’s become physically impossible for me to stop and smell the roses.

• A single splash of water killed the Wicked Witch of the West. Logical conclusion: Not only was she evil, she also reeked.

• If Three Dog Night had performed before Caesar they would have been called Tres Canis Nox.

• I wish Apple would cease making new iPhones and instead develop an engine that runs on all the iPhones they’ve snookered us into discarding.

• My mother looks at the new TV remote the way the ancients must have looked at a solar eclipse

• It'd be neat if our sneezes revealed our personalities. Cheerful people would sneeze confetti; sweet people jelly beans; politicians, crap.

• Chefs with rashes are the best at cooking from scratch.

• “Live and learn” is a popular phrase with no practical application. Most people live and stay stupid.

• Runways among our most illogical words. Planes never run on runways. If we named them after what happens most on them they'd be waitways.

• Can't prove it, but I'll wager Superman was the first person to ever say, "I see London, I see France ..."

• When is some entrepreneur going to seize the obvious opportunity and open a set of chain stores that sell nothing but chains?

• The problem with most people isn’t just that they have their heads up their asses. The problem is how many can’t stop admiring the view.

• That which does not kill me usually leaves me with one whopper of a hangover.

• Let's find homeless Happy Days star Erin Moran work. How about an antiquing show? "Joannie Loves Tchotchke!”

Related . . .

• I am now the bar’s official Twitterist

• Twitter = Wit confetti: Holland Taylor follows my Tweets!

Mick Jagger: an appreciation

This is bound to be controversial, but I’d rather watch Mick Jagger stand still and read “The Cat In The Hat” than look at most supermodels naked.

The calculus changes if the supermodels are in motion on a trampoline or if Jagger is singing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” something I’ve heard him sing about 1,000 times.

He is the most mesmerizing performer in recorded history.

I realized this after watching for a second time him host “Saturday Night Live,” a show that’s been so uneven for the past 15 or so years I usually find it unwatchable.

It’s all there in the opening monologue. His every gesture, his phrasing, his posture, his winking acknowledgement of his scandalous history -- it’s impossible to take your eyes off him.

Hoover Dam is less electrifying.

I love both Elvis and Frank Sinatra, but we’ve never seen anything like Jagger, a singer songwriter of some of pop culture’s most indelible hits and the frontman for the band that’s performed live for more people around the world than anyone in history.

Biographer Laura Jackson wrote, “It is impossible to imagine current culture without the unique influence of Mick Jagger.”

Hollywood will be unable to make a credible movie about Jagger or the Stones until the minds of anyone who’s ever seen them have gone mushy. Because no actor can play Jagger.

Only Jagger can be Jagger. He cannot be duplicated

I thought about saving this for July 26 when Jagger will turn 68, but he could be dead by then. So could I.

Heck, we all could.

Well, all but Keith.

But here are some performances and essential Jagger references, trying to avoid the obvious, that never fail to start me up:

• “American Pie,” by Don McLean, 1971 -- Jagger, at the time a self-described anarchist, dominates this classic, one in which he’s never mentioned by name. 

So, c’mon, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

 Jack Flash sat on a candle stick, ‘cause fire is the devil’s only friend

And as I watched him on the stage, my hands were clenched in fisted rage.

No angle born in hell could break that Satan’s spell

And as the flames climbed high into the night

I saw Satan laughing with delight

The Day the Music Died

This is prophetic allegory. Forty years later, nothing has broken Jagger’s spell and a recent chart topper is Maroon 5’s hit “Moves Like Jagger.”

• “You’re So Vain,” by Carly Simon, 1972 -- Throw out all the speculation about who the subject of the song is, the star of the song itself is Jagger. He’s the background singer that really kicks it into a higher gear and steals the song -- and I’m always surprised how few people realize it’s Jagger so distinctively singing background.

I love how Carly has maintained the mystery of the song’s subject, and has often denied it was Mick. Of course, she, too, denied she and Mick were ever lovers while she was married to James Taylor, a lie that’s since been acknowledged. So he did sleep with Carly -- the rascal -- and is rumored to have modeled the “Hannah Honey” character after her in the sublime, “Memory Motel” from 1976.

• “Ned Kelly,” 1970 -- One of the most fascinating aspects of Jagger is his utter inability to convincingly act like anyone other than himself. No where is this more apparent than in this, one of the worst movies ever made. It’s about the Robin Hood-like antics of the historic Australian bushwhacker and features a soundtrack by Waylon Jennings. So it’s 20th century movie about a 19th century Australian starring an English rock singer featuring songs by an American country outlaw. It’s proof drugs were prevalent in Hollywood long before shows like “The Flying Nun.” Yet, I always tune in for even a little bit whenever it’s on. It’s Jagger.

• “Don’t Tear Me Up,” Mick Jagger on SNL, 1993

The only thing derided more than Jagger’s acting are his solo albums. I don’t find them as objectionable as most but, like Keith’s solo efforts, each seems like something is missing -- and that would be the other Glimmer Twin.

But in 1993 Jagger released the credible and entertaining, “Wandering Spirit,” which bats a little better than .500 in catchy tunes, the best of which might be “Don’t Tear Me Up.” He performed it live on SNL with what Keith Richards later described as “some little jerk-off band.” But his performance is fantastic. The song starts off slow and then, like so many great Stones songs, explodes in exuberant fury.

This show also features a hilarious skit where Mick pretends he’s Keith and Mike Myers plays Mick as the two feud over street cred: Best line: “Keith” argues one point by starting, “Mick, you ignorant slut.”

• “Champagne & Reefer,” The Rolling Stones, “Shine a Light,” 2008 -- This is the kind of song that convinces me the Stones will be playing the blues in dive bars if the crowds at the arenas stop showing up. It features the harmonica-wielding Jagger trading riffs and vocals with the great Buddy Guy. Two giants playing the blues.

• “Tattoo You,” music videos, 1981 -- Music videos were in their infancy when the Stones filmed these stark videos of “Start Me Up,” “Hang Fire,” and “Worried About You.” Done in one take, they barely bother to lip sync the vocals. It’s gloriously haphazard with just the band pretending to play instruments in a barren room. It shows just how dominant Jagger can be without even the slightest of props. The best is the often-overlooked gem, “Worried About You,” a song that starts out sweet as Motown and ends up being a massive musical monster. It remains to me among their most compelling videos, second only to the playfully sexy “She Was Hot.”

And, in conclusion, some of my favorite Mick vocals on Stones classics, again hoping to avoid the obvious:

• “The Storm,” b-side from Voodoo Lounge, 1994 -- The gritty kind of song that makes me wish they’d huddle in the studio for 10 days and bang out nothing but blues. With apologies to Carly Simon, nobody does it better.

• “Rough Justice,” A Bigger Bang, 2005 -- One of my favorite Stones lines:

One time you were my baby chicken, now you’ve grown into a foxxxxxx . . .

One time I was yer little rooster, now am I just one of yer cockssssss . . .

• “No Spare Parts,” Some Girls, 1978/2011 -- I almost had to pull the car over when I first heard this on satellite radio last year. It’s a country leftover re-release snagged from the “Some Girls” sessions. Jagger re-recorded the vocals to this and others like the equally great “Do You Think I Really Care?” He’s never sounded better. It’s taken more than 40 years, but he’s actually learned how to sing. 

• “Monkey Man,” Let It Bleed, 1969 -- If for no other reason other than to hear him sing the incendiary line, “Well, I hope we’re not too messianic or a trifle too Satanic . . .”

• “Star Star,” Goat’s Head Soup, 1973 -- Hard core gangsta rappers have never managed to be as reliably filthy as every line in this song. The profane title’s sanitized so they could include it on the album. Like “You’re So Vain,” only with dozens of obscene references, this one debases Steve McQueen, John Wayne, Ali McGraw, Polaroids and tricks with fruit. It’s Chuck Berry’s music, but it’s Mick Jagger’s life.

We should all be glad we’ve been able to see so much of it.

Culling the happy hat herd

I admire mothers because the primary motivation for much of their existence is the love of a child. Truly, a mother’s love is one of the most awesome forces in nature.

Sure, many fathers feel that way, too. We’re rah-rah for nurturing, bonding and all the rest of that blahbidy, blahbidy, blah crap.

But it’s dawned on me that men might be superior to women in one regard: we’re imbued with a selflessness that gives us the capacity to love more than just our children.

And I, of course, mean in addition to loving ourselves.

We love our ball caps.

I can tell you exactly where I was and what I was feeling the moment I decided to pull the trigger on a ball cap purchase. I can tell you what I shot golfing the scorching day that white saline line started creeping up the bill.

Unlike my daughters, my hats have never told their friends I’m weird, smell bad, or done anything to make me look stupid -- other than resting atop atop my head and that’s an entirely passive act so I don’t begrudge the hat for that.

I understand women enjoy shoes, purses and dresses, but I think it’s deeper with men and hats. Go ahead and assume it’s only seems deeper because we’re more shallow.

I became stuck on this hats-as-children analogy when I began to realize I was becoming the Octomom of hats.

Hats have been spilling out of closets, from under car seats and off shelves whenever my head went.

I counted and, damn, if I didn’t have one hat for every day of the month: 31 hats.

I figured I needed to ditch a bunch of hats or brainstorm a controversial medical procedure that would leave me with 30 additional heads.

And think for a moment what I’d be like with 31 heads. If done properly, I could wind up 31 times more intelligent than I am now. Or else my current brain power would be divvied up among the number leaving me intellectually diminished, besides really freaky.

Either way, the development would probably thrill my barber.

But I took the easy way out and cut the herd in half. I spent the morning strolling down memory lane and conducting what amounted to the Sophie’s Choice of headgear.

I started with the beige brigade: I had nine beige hats and always keep a couple in the car. They’re good because they’re very neutral and don’t draw attention to my face when it’s suffering from the effects of hangover.

But nine? Five had to go.

Getting rid of one of my late father’s Olde Stonewall golf hats seemed like such a betrayal. But I have to be honest: it looked stupid on the old man and I’m sure it looks stupid on me. It has way too much of what an old friend of mine used to call “Fuddage,” the gap between the head and the inner hat ceiling. Plus, it’s all sweat stained. To hell with it.

I ditched a Rolling Stones tongue logo hat that’s always been special to me because it reminds me of a fun prank. I had the hat sent to my 8-year-old Josie and in the personalized message part had them write: “Dear Josie, Me and the band want your Dad to have this rockin’ hat for Father’s Day. Be sure to tell him we all love his blog! Rock on, kid! From Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones.” The hat gift from a band she’d seen perform at the Super Bowl seemed to impress her and had her looking at me more reverentially. Lasted about 20 minutes.

Took me two hours this morning to cut the hat count in half. Then I spent the whole afternoon giving pep talks to each hat like the career councilors do with employees moments before security shoves them out the door.

Now it’s off to the Salvation Army with the whole bunch.

The task was emotionally grueling, but gives me confidence that one day I’ll be capable of taking on some of life’s other challenges.

But it’ll be years from now before I’m ready to tackle the T-shirts.

Keith's bio: Warts 'n' warts

Today is a momentous day in my life: I'm about to admit I made a mistake.

My first.

And it’s one of those whoppers that will for better or worse forever alter perceptions of me.

Ready? Here goes.

I read the Keith Richards book, “Life.”

I spent a week learning about his decades-long incapacitations so thorough he needed teams of flunkies just to keep mopping up the vomit and changing his soiled bell bottoms.

I learned how he reacted to the death of his 2-month-old son Tara with the same nonchalance as he did critical slams of “Emotional Rescue.”

It’s tarnishing all my enjoyment of my favorite band.

Of course, it could be worse. I could have written the Keith Richards book “Life.”

Talk about career-killing mistakes. Keith may have killed the only thing he loves more than himself: The Rolling Stones.

He violated the number one rule of the warts ‘n’ all autobiography genre: He actually makes himself look worse than the public perception of him.

His book is warts ‘n’ warts.

I know it makes zero sense for me to be disappointed when a man I’ve always admired for his defiant excesses writes a book defiantly celebrating those excesses, but that’s how I feel.

I might feel differently if he was even the least bit deferential to Mick Jagger, only the greatest performer the world’s ever known.

He devotes four pages to how he wrote the riff for “Satisfaction,” and barely credits Mick as the song’s lyricist

“Satisfaction” is maybe the most important song in rock history. But “Brown Sugar” is a better song.

Here’s all Keith had to say about that one: “‘All Down the Line’ came directly out of ‘Brown Sugar,’ which Mick wrote.”

That’s it. Five words.

He writes about Jagger as if he were the bass player, not the man without whom he’d be nothing.

Keith makes it seem like he did all the writing, all the performing and he’s the reason we keep showing up to see the band perform.

They aren’t true brothers so any Freudian interpretations must be shelved. This isn’t a sibling rivalry.

It’s a sniveling one.

He accuses Jagger of diva-like behavior. He says he acts entitled. He insists on posh frivolities. He demands perfection of those performing with him.

Good heavens. Who does he think he is? Mick Jagger?

Jagger performed a Solomon Burke tribute at last year’s Grammies. It was mesmerizing.

He is electrifying. He is lithe. He moves like quicksilver across polished marble.

He is 68.

There are 1,000 guys like Keith who make great, memorable music that stay true to the roots of rock ‘n’ roll that will forever inspire.

But, c’mon, there’s only one Mick Jagger.

Today Mick is making forgettable music with disposable musicians. Keith is re-forming the solid, but unremarkable X-Pensive Winos.

I wonder if they’ll ever write or perform together again. Jagger hasn’t said a word of graceless rebuttal about the tawdry book, proving he’s truly a man of wealth and taste.

I used to believe Keith was the swashbuckling heart and soul of the Stones, the one who kept them blues-based and more about the music than the giant inflatable hookers Mick liked to bounce around in on stage.

Now I’ve come to believe Mick’s the heart.

Keith’s more like the sole.

With this book, he’s certainly proven himself to be a real heel.