In between the hits, we find Rolling Stones songs that are not about the usual sex’n’drugs crap. All that strutting would be a pretty meaningless posture if Mick Jagger didn’t occasionally show glimmers of vulnerability and self-awareness. Nobody, not even Jagger, can maintain eternal cockiness as a full-time job, and it’s endearing to think that he may mope and worry about his hair turning grey. (It’s hard to imagine Jagger maintaining his longevity without a fluffy head of hair.) It’s also endearing to know that Jagger, like anyone else, just wants a little sympathy and a pat on the head. You can have sex with thousands of people, but not all of them will pat you on the head afterwards.
The baby Bowie of the sixties was dorky, earnest and notably uncool – exactly the opposite of everything we’ve come to associate David Bowie with. It was adorable. It was also odd that out of all the exciting things going on in music at the time, Bowie was writing twee little narrative songs in music hall style, probably the least hip possible direction to go in. It does show that he was already an iconoclast with a nose for the unexpected. He just hadn’t figured out how to channel that in a way that people actually liked. Of course it also means that, in his absolute failure to get attention, he really dodged a bullet. Imagine an alternate universe in which something like this (or worse, The Laughing Gnome) became the novelty hit of the summer. It would have been an absolute career dead end, not a reputation one could easily shake or move on from. We would then have enjoyed decades of David Bowie, composer of cute novelty songs and writer of middling West End musicals, perhaps with a lucrative sideline banging out power ballads for vocal divas. That’s not a world I’d much like to live in.
I’ve often wondered about who Emily is and what she’s doing. I’ve read that she was everything from a British socialite to a child Syd Barrett encountered in the woods, both of which things sound legit. Either way, she sounds like kind of a sad person. If she’s a figment of Syd’s imagination, she’s clearly got to be pretty sad. Or, she’s a socialite, and her socialite life is hollow and meaningless and filled with miserable parties.
Save me from myself, Aretha Franklin. What was Aretha herself trying to get saved from? Bad men, as always. It’s always bad men. The root of all sin, if you will. A gospel singer’s job is to help save souls from earthly sins and inspire them towards God. Aretha Franklin started as a gospel singer; as a secular musician she left most of the Jesus talk behind but never lost touch with the spirit of gospel. What she brought to secular music was the ability to rouse the soul, though it may have been mundane emotions that were being elevated. It certainly helps get through those mundane life problems when we see them as a metaphor for a higher struggle. It’s not money or love trouble, it’s a battle with sin and a journey towards a better state of being. The ups and downs are just tribulations on a broader metaphysical path. They’re there to be overcome and you’re there to be redeemed.
I want to disappear into a dark tropical lagoon now, because Donovan has done more for my imagination than any number of cruise lines or fancy resorts with their advertising. Maybe he should strike a deal with the national tourism board of Mexico. I don’t condone selling out like that, but there’s nothing like a good tune to make me want things I didn’t think I wanted. I’ve never even been anywhere tropical but I can feel it. I want rolling waves and luminescent beaches and – it’s not expressly in the song but you know it’s implied – psychedelic drugs. Okay, when it comes down to it, I mostly want the psychedelic drugs. I want everything to be luminescent and full of magic.
In 1967 a few dozen people stumbled upon an LP with a lewd banana on the sleeve, and got their heads all turnt by the revolutionary sound of the Velvet Underground. They all went on to form groundbreaking bands of their own, as the old adage goes. By the time my generation rolled around, kids were absorbing The Velvet Underground from lovingly packaged box sets, not to mention hundreds of bands that have aped their influence. Going back to the original source, it still tastes as fresh as that banana (which was, of course, more than just a banana.) Everything about it remains on-point, from the distorted noises that could only have been made by highly skilled musicians only pretending to have never seen an instrument before, to the storytelling, to the iconography. Especially, I think, Lou Reed’s storytelling. It may be garbled in delivery and veiled in feedback, but it speaks plainly. You may have never set foot in Union Square, and if you have it probably wasn’t in 1967 and it was nothing like it was in Lou Reed’s day, but you probably know of a rough part of town where the junkies hang out. You may have been there and you may even have wondered what their stories are. And if you’ve never seen a corner of that world, this is a record that opens up a window there.
Whoever the muse behind Ruby Tuesday was – and accounts differ – she sounds like a real cool person. Songs very often come out of the ether without anything specific for inspiration, and just as often what inspiration there was gets forgotten while the tune lingers. Especially when the composers were, not to put too fine of a point on it, tripping balls, as was often the case with the Rolling Stones. We can surmise that somewhere in the past there was a groupie or a fling or a brief encounter with some free-spirited woman who lived a life far more exciting than what most women were curtailed to, and she made one hell of an impression on Keith Richards. She certainly, in her musical incarnation, exemplified the psychedelic era, in which the young broke away from the landmass of convention and floated out to sea on an iceberg of drugs and big ideas.