So I wake up and it’s, what, 1972 already? I mean, really. You could’ve flown me higher than First Class from Ocho Rios all the way to a secret Swiss clinic in the middle of the night, baby, and it still wouldn’t have prepared me for this.
Think about it: I escape Merry Very Olde by the skin of what’s left of my teeth and end up making records in some Nazi-forsaken French basement. There’s Mick Taylor (sometimes), there’s that other Mick (rarely), and of course there’s Charlie and even Gram Parsons whenever my five strings need a chorus. The old lady’s got the kid asleep upstairs, I’m assuming, and downstairs it’s as hot as an ungrounded amp in Sacramento. Nevertheless, the Stones manage to crank out a double album’s worth of material in record time, pun possibly intended, and then it’s time to return to America – the land of nothing’s for free – and mount The Tour To Top All Goddamn Tours. Or so we thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen, The Rolling Stones!” went the announcement for the next two months, seven weeks, and sixteen songs in thirty-one cities over fifty-one shows. Not to mention, while we’re doing numbers here, one hundred and thirty-one arrests – including my own on of all places Rhode Island, perhaps not entirely coincidentally – and probably a hundred Altamont’s worth of injuries and OD’s to top it all.









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