by Keith Richards |
REVIEWED BY ANDREW ABRAHAMS
In a rollicking and raw autobiography, the Rolling Stones guitarist hits the expected notes: sex, drugs, booze, arrests. More surprising is the detail and poetry with which this often seemingly addled rocker (“It’s 30 years since I gave up the dope!”) recalls his life. Groupies, he writes, were “like the Red Cross. They’d wash your clothes … bathe you.” He takes readers into the back of the Bentley for his first hook-up with Anita Pallenberg, but also gives them “the smell of the orange trees” outside. Richards has bitter words for boyhood mate Mick Jagger, whom he dubs “Her Majesty.” In the end he allows that “Mick and I may not be friends…but we’re the closest of brothers.” A dad of four, Richards now lives with his wife of 27 years, Patti Hansen, in Connecticut with a “fully equipped and battle-hardened Winnebago” for vacations. The book also includes his recipe for bangers and mash. ‘Cause that’s how this Stone rolls these days.