Glimmer · 27 July 2001
I like a handful of Rolling Stones songs, though of course it’s impossible to like the Rolling Stones, as they perpetuate (still!) the illusion that they bear some remote resemblance to a rock ’n roll band, schlumping in private jets between stadiums every three years, spending tens of millions to make hundreds of millions, groggily switching on the consensual hallucination of dionysian excess and gushing testosterone as the crowd smiles politely through the new songs and the Krug chills backstage.
Two truths:
1. My old rooommate Steve used to sing when drunk
I shouted out
Who killed the Kennedys
When after all
It was Dean and Steve
2. I owned a copy of Hot Rocks, 1964–1971, which had a divot in its grooves that caused a perpetual skip in the middle of “Get Off of My Cloud,” which I recorded for 45 minutes straight as side two of a mix tape I gave out as gifts
And I’m sick and tired...
And I’m sick and tired...
And I’m sick and tired...
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