Keith Richards “Under The Influence”

GUEST REVIEW BY GARY PIG GOLD

(Netflix, 2015)

Friday, December 18, 2020

KEITH TURNS 77

I love Keith. You love Keith. We ALL love Keith Richards. In fact, very personally speaking, if it wasn’t for my first encountering the hallowed words “Chuck” and “Berry” on some extremely early Rolling Stones record, then seeking out “No Particular Place To Go” in particular, I probably never would have ventured past the second fret up my own childhood guitar. 

Which leads us, quite logically and musically, to Morgan Neville’s Keith Richards: Under the Influence, right there alongside the main offender’s grand new Live at the Hollywood Palladium pandemic-friendly Anniversary Edition(s). Needless to say both – and we would never expect anything less from these guys – provide a much-welcomed, not to mention sorely needed blast of stark, whiplash winter air across our masked, anonymous world. 

Strictly cinematically speaking if we may, Under the Influence opens not in spotty, smoky pirate black-and-white, but awash with stately timbered blues and greens as we find The Man Himself strolling barefoot yet regally through his lush lower forty or so. Keith similarly skulks – remember, even when this guy walks he looks like he’s cradling the nearest Telecaster – through the remainder of this superlative documentary, engaging along the way mentors (Buddy Guy), idols (Mr. Berry) pals (a typically articulate Tom Waits) and adversaries (yep, Chuck again) as Neville’s camera wisely takes a fly-on-wall approach to all splendid proceedings. Thankfully we’re spared most of the usual backstory clichés [cue grainy WWII London blitz newsreel] as it’s assumed, quite correctly, we already know the tale …hopefully via Keith’s very own Life. Much better, you see, to take a look behind, beside and yes, under just what makes this man, his music, and even his long and often inexplicable existence still so utterly fascinating and somehow inspirational. 

Where better to start, I ask you, than in loving stylus-on-vinyl close-ups of Rockin’ at the Hops and Best of Muddy Waters as our journey unspools from a Dartford railway platform to St. Louis, 2120 South Michigan Avenue, the Ryman Auditorium (via Hatch Show Print) and beyond. And speaking of Music City, we’re soon treated to a nice little glimpse of Keith’s Crosseyed Heart “Trouble” being crafted on six purely non-electrified strings …and sounding quite “country” indeed. Also, we feast eyes and especially ears as a vintage-’68 portable cassette recorder with condenser microphone is plopped onto a tabletop and Keith savagely strums into it the bargain-basement – “production”-wise, that is – origins of none other than “Street Fighting Man.” Of course that song, and that guitar foundation, basically paved the way for countless killer riffs, man, which propelled the Stones etc. into arena-rocking Seventies to come.

Throughout all and then some, Morgan ensures Keith’s trusty confidant and right-hand wrist Steve Jordan is never too far from the action …nor should he be, as from Talk Is Cheap onwards Steve has expertly facilitated some of the very best Rolling Stones records they never made. Fellow X-perienced Wino Waddy Wachtel pops in and out of the proceedings too; always wise to have an old Cowsills associate on board, yessir. Nevertheless, and not surprisingly at all I guess, several of Keith’s Greatest Myths (e.g.: spotting a whitewashed Muddy Waters painting the Chess Records ceiling when the Stones first arrived there in 1964) are spun into their second half-century of fictional service. But at least one, um, influence upon the subject matter is given due screen time …finally: While for some reason Gram Parsons seems to forever be AWOL from the The World’s Greatest Rock and Roll Band’s own documentaries (Stones in Exile most obviously), at least Keith now seems to have no reservations citing the source of and for, oh, “Dead Flowers” for starters.    

However – and, dare I say, this is a MAJOR however – is the next to zero mention, credit, or even significant name-check given whatsoever to the young man who, with all apologies to the late, exceptionally great Ian Stewart, put the Rolling Stones together, gave them their name, gave them their mission and, lest we ever forget, gave our very Birthday Boy himself his first-ever job as a professional musician (and a place to live in London when he finally plucked up the courage to leave home and art college, truth be told). Sure, we do briefly spot him blowing “I Just Want To Make Love To You” harmonica into Dean Martin’s face at The Hollywood Palace, and then most eagerly introducing Howlin’ Wolf to us young suburban North Americans at a long-ago Shindig. But we should ALL try to remember, as Morgan Neville seems to have neglected to, that there but for the grace of Brian Jones went… Keith Richards. Among others. To say the very, very least.

That gargantuan quibble aside, Under the Influence should still be considered Absolutely Required Viewing for all you rock ‘n’ archaeologists out there. If only to show our favorite Stone entering his 77th year not only alive, but as happy, productive, insightful, witty, personable, charming and downright entertaining as always. Why, he may even outdo Chuck Berry in at least several of those just-mentioned criteria. So there! 

Walter Carlos "By Request"

(Columbia, 1975) This record is so good! A nice stretch after "Hooked on Bach," and a few years after the Clockwork Orange soundtrack, Carlos delivered the equivalent of a crowd-pleasing lounge set, covering some Classical greatest hits (I have heard enough low budget canned Nutcracker soundtracks that these versions don't even sound particularly electronic to me), a Beatles cover, "What's New Pussycat," the actual wedding march song, and some delightful originals that are just endearingly pleasant. She woul make magnificent space age futuristic art sounds soon after (not to mention a record with Weird Al) but this is just old fashioned fun!

Hot Dog Diary by Nathan Holzmann

 

(https://nathantolzmann.com/hotdogdiary/, 2018-2021) Since 2018 I have been avidly reading this lavishly illustrated journal comic documenting a decades ago ago bike trip across the country by artist Holzmann and his buddy, and I am thrilled every time a new chapter is released. Thrilled is a funny term here, because while the trip is certainly a journey, and I guess a series of tasks, and perhaps is epic by some standards, it is certainly not an adventure. Like, I imagine, any very long bike ride, this is mostly about appreciation of and endurance of the mundane. Thousands of miles of road, changing flats, eating at diners, finding a place to pee, getting rained on, meeting a few characters but mostly regular-assed boring people...all of this is a soothing, enjoyable, lovely non-narrative. These healthy, relatively well-adjusted dudes are not on a journey of discovery, are not engaging in debauchery, and face little adversity. But because Holzmann can draw 50 times better than he can bike (and he clearly can bike his ass off) it is just beautiful to see the road and the country and characters, and he really conveys how it feels to be tired or cold or exhausted. There are a few nice encounters along the way (meeting alum of their college amongst some wise monks, visiting a rope trick bar, appreciating outsider art) but mostly this comic, like the trip, is short on big meaning and l-o-n-g on just generally appreciating beauty (of this country's landscapes and of Holzmann's bad assed linework). Since he arrived at the Wisconsin Dells in the most recent installment I felt he may be wrapping it up (though now it occurs to me he might be heading to the East Coast, I assumed he was going to Chicago because he lived here for so long, but I can't remember the beginning of the story anymore). So jump in now to catch up before it concludes, or before they eat some Italian Beef at Portillo's and get slowed down.

Peter Stampfel's 20th Century in 100 Songs

 (http://peterstampfels20thcentury.com/, 2021) Decades (if not 120 years) in the making, Peter Stampfel's wonderful project celebrates 100 years of 20th Century music with spare, lovely interpretations of one song from each year. For the first four decades of this I am reminded of the second career of recently departed genius dandy Ian Whitcomb, who quickly swapped out being the Harry Styles heartthrob of his day for a weird lengthy career as an earnest revivalist of early 20th Century popular music. While Stampfel's background in the trickster-adjacent Holy Modal Rollers, and his imperfect voice, should invoke Tiny Tim, I get more of Whitcomb vibe because, while frequently whimsical, there is no calculated novelty or goofing for attention here. This is an exercise in sincerity executed over many years with a handful of equally reverent collaborators.These are not just recreations; Stampfel explores the humor of Bert Williams' "Nobody" without mimicking Williams' delivery or touching on his pathos; his "Ragtime Cowboy Joe" is more wildly anarchic than even the Chipmunks version; I have never heard "Wedding of the Painted doll" before, but no one could have made anything that sounded like this. As we enter the rock era it gets interesting in certain ways ("Running Bear," "I Sold My Heart To The Junkman," and "Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep" are delights) but it gets REALLY interesting as the Century wraps up. Apparently Stampfell took  a break on this project a decade ago because he had a hard time getting excited about the late 80s and 90s, but more dramatically, he then completely lost his voice and struggled to learn to sing again, eventually being able to create a more frail, shakier, lower delivery. Thus, but the time we hear the Spice Girls, Beck, Fine Young Cannibals, and "Tubthumping" we hear them delivered with an extra sense of mortality and fragility, as if this record started with Baby New Year and ended being sung by the scythe holding bearded version. While some of the later tracks are a little over-produced, they are still lovely, and overall this is, dare I say it, the Record of the Century!

Chuck Charles "Hiya"

 

(www.chuckcharlesmusic.com, 2020) Talk about Normcore! This dude is rocking and mocking about watching TV, grocery shopping, and adult (not in the dirty way) relations, all mildly satirical, but mostly pretty much straightforward. Hiya right back.

Death Factory "Drone Image"

(NoSides, 2017) Futuristic electro free jazz screech-scapes that are more noisey than it is Neu-sy, but still get the art-rock A+ in my grade book.*

*I am notorious for inflated grades and passing trouble kids through so someone else can deal with them, but an A is still an A.

The Shoe Birds "Origin"

 

(Waxsaw, 20200) I had a hard time figuring out what kind of birds these were but I settled on Henery Hawk, grown up and mellowed out, and getting into insurgent country and indie pop in college. But I'm pretty sure what kinds of shoes it is...Crocs made out of moccasin leather! This one's for the birds...in a good way!

"All Ages - The Rise and Fall of Portland Punk Rock 1977-1981" by Mark Stern

 

(Reptilicus Press, 2015) This hefty volume tells a history of punk rock in the Pacific Northwest that is, in some sense, broad and comprehensive, but is actually ultra specific. The three best known acts of the region are represented, yet remain kind of remote -- Fred Cole's  pre-Dead Moon bands help birth the movement (Stern is in King Bee with Cole), are constantly playing, and Cole's music shop and gear are integral to scene developing, but he manages to live in his own world despite being a key scene builder; the Poison Idea boys are just coming into their own when this book wraps its story; and Greg Sage, of the Wipers, was so serious about his art that he was above the nuts and bolts (and pettiness) of the punk production and politics this book is really about. What gets covered in this exhaustive document (culled partly from latter day interviews but largely from memory and meticulous archived clippings, meeting minutes, accounting ledgers, calendars, and studio notes) is exactly how much work goes into putting on shows, creating space for underground music to develop, and producing a scene-documenting a compilation. There is some genuine ridiculousness (a committee deciding which bands qualify as punk), some brutal slaps of reality (the treachery of partnering with legit venues vs. the chaos of creating a functional punk space), and, most vividly, some Real Housewives-type drama that resonates and defines the development of Portland punk (including a guestlist snub that splits the scene). The book does a good job demonstrating the way self-destructive individuals can't help but spread havoc (yet still get welcomed back...there's only so many people to play the music) and the way outcasts and weirdos and genuine artists (Smegma is well represented) need to come together, however precariously, proving that the "Y" is always a lie in D.I.Y.. 

Various Times: November 7, 2012 by Eugene V. Booth with Chrris Kuck and Jack Henrie Fisher

 

(Dum Ditty Dum, 2020) Yesterday I was marveling at the audacity of committing to do a podcast summarizing each of Bonanza's 431 episodes, but the ambition of this project really blows me away. Each book in this series covers a single day in the rock era, so this is a proposed 25.550 (and counting) volume set!  Though the dates are randomly generated this one happened to fall on the somewhat historical Obama reelection date, and though most of the material here is not Obama related, race relations and systematic racism have staring roles in this musical snapshot curated by Booth (and his consultants). For the most part this book focusses on Kendrick Lamar's triumphant 2012 LP, which was #1 that day, and the Peter Brotzman Tentet, which was on A European tour playing one of their final shows. For the former, Booth researches and analyzes the artist's history and the album's contents, and for the latter he interviews Fred Lonberg-Holm, and challenges Amiri Baraka's rejection of Brotzman (and other white improvisors), in part because Baraka dismisses some of these groups upon hearing their goofy names (which is, incidentally,  how this book opens, with Booth deciding not to dig deeper into the #2 Billboard song, "Some Nights," by fun., which he is unfamiliar with, not interested by, and gives up on partly because of the name. I don't know the song either, but I recall being impressed by their hit "We Are Young," which sounds pretty but is about genuinely miserable people getting blackout drunk because life, which includes a protagonist regretful for beating a his girlfriend, is terrible. AV Club once summarized the song as a celebration of how great it is to be young, so judging by names gets around). Anyhoo, this book kind of reminds me of The Best Show bit about the Rock, Root, and Rule book (I'm unsure of, but endorse, that Oxford comma). While this is the opposite (detailed analysis vs. a column of band names facing a column of rulings on ruling [or not]), they share the premise of publishing a book about the pop music musings you and your friends shared at length over coffee. This is not only because Booth recounts discussing these matters with knowledgable co-conspirators, and includes a Q and A with a cello fellow he admires, but because the premise and execution of this series feels more like an exercise than an academic pursuit. Specifically, it feels like the exercise of indulging in minutiae and exploring broad themes and making crazy comparisons (what rock opera does To Pimp A Butterfly most recall?) in the act of fellowship with your fave record collector buddies over beers, a bong, or brewed java. And it's nice to be invited to clink steins, take a hit, or pass the Splenda.

Bonanaz for Bonanza

 

(Earwolf, 2020) This is pretty much the funniest podcast I have ever heard. I was always supremely impressed by Andy Daley's optimistic, yet inevitably suicide and/or homicide (and hell) bound characters on Comedy Bang Bang, but to be honest 2020 has been so gruesome that I just couldn't take some of my favorite larfs. Early in the lock down I tried re-watching Review and I needed to pause the Ashley Tisdale episode every one minute, and eventually just had to abandon it. I really don't need extra cringes this year. But for Daly to find such a rich, life affirming outlet for his most murderous character has been a genuine delight. Cowboy poet Dalton Wilcox (spoiler: his poems are about dirt hole fucking), his musician pal Mutt Taylor (Matt Gourley, being as funny, charismatic, and weirdly knowledgeable as anyone can pull off while in trainwreck character) and Maria Bamford as a Christian entrepreneur (the brilliant comic's best character ever...literal out loud laughs every week) watch every episode of Bonanza in order. That's the show. Their characters feign obsession with and loyalty to the Cartwright boys, while week after week Daly, Gourley, and Bamford become more and more genuinely impressed by how actively strange, offensive, and confounding the program was. One running theme is Gourley's conviction that the show is recycling pilot scripts from un-produced Westerns  and just plugging in as many Cartwright boys as they need to fill the script. There are guests that watch along with them, and when they appear as wacky characters it's being extra, it proves better to just be yourself and genuinely react to this grand, strange show. The best guest was Brooklyn 99's Dirk Blocker, son of Dan "Hoss" Blocker, who was rightly treated like royalty. The chemistry, the abundant funniness, and the confounding tech (Daly, in quarantine, fumbling to call up the audio from Youtube clips, which they need to describe visuals-wise, is an unexpected pandemic pleasure) make this a can't miss. Of course like most of my fave podcasts, when they cut to commercial there is no commercial, as sponsors have better places to sell their fancy underwear and collapsible mattresses, but if this can hold on just 416 more episodes we can get the whole series in!