By all rights, Keith Richards should be dead several times over. After decades of abuse and outrageous behavior, he’s still the poster boy for decadence. Keith shrugs it off, “yeah, it’s just me and the roaches now.”
But beneath the gnarled, wrinkled façade, there’s deep wisdom. Keith is savors the gifts of life. I can imagine a few quotes on his headstone:
‘After food, air & water, music is the next necessity of life.’
‘If you’re going to kick authority in the teeth, you might as well use two feet.’
‘Hey, it’s good to be here. It’s good to be anywhere. It’s a privilege just to wake up.’
Keith Richards turns 77 tomorrow, with no signs of slowing down.
Here’s my take. There’s a story in my book about a red-eye flight I shared with Keith Richards. By chance, we were seated together…and he wanted to talk. So, we chatted all night about life and music…as Keith drained tiny bottles of vodka.
Keith would drop everything to play music. “Anytime, anywhere. I don’t care about the money, Mick’s the business guy”. He’s not concerned about aging. “The idea of retiring is like killing yourself.” Keith’s obsessed with delivering for his fans. “When my songs are taken to heart, they’re a connection that runs through us.”
I couldn’t resist asking Keith about the rumors. No, he can’t read a lick of music. Yes, he wrote the riff to Satisfaction in his sleep. And yes, Keith snorted his father. “He was cremated and I couldn’t resist grinding him up with a bit of blow.”
Live it up, my friend. Wild horses couldn’t drag you away.
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