Our thing was playing Chicago blues; that was where we took everything that we knew, that was our kickoff point, Chicago. Look at that Mississippi River. Where does it come from? Where does it go? Follow that river all the way up and you’ll end up in Chicago. Also follow the way those artists were recorded. There were no rules. If you looked at the regular way of recording things, everything was recorded totally wrong. But what is wrong and what is right? What matters is what hits the ear. Chicago blues was so raw and raucous and energetic. If you tried to record it clean, forget about it. Nearly every Chicago blues record you hear is an enormous amount over the top, loading the sound on in layers of thickness. When you hear Little Walter’s records, he hits the first note on his harp and the band disappears until that note stops, because he’s overloading it. When you’re making records, you’re looking to distort things, basically. That’s the freedom recording gives you, to fuck around with the sound. And it’s not a matter of sheer force; it’s always a matter of experiment and playing around. Hey, this is a nice mike, but if we put it a little closer to the amp, and then take a smaller amp instead of the big one and shove the mike right in front of it, cover the mike with a towel, let’s see what we get. What you’re looking for is where the sounds just melt into one another and you’ve got that beat behind it, and the rest of it just has to squirm and roll its way through. If you have it all separated, it’s insipid. What you’re looking for is power and force, without volume—an inner power. A way to bring together what everybody in that room is doing and make one sound. So it’s not two guitars, piano, bass and drums, it’s one thing, it’s not five. You’re there to create one thing.
Jimmy produced Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers—every Stones record through Goats Head Soup in 1973, the backbone stuff. But the best thing we ever did with Jimmy Miller was “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” That song and “Street Fighting Man” came out of the very first sessions with Jimmy at Olympic Studios for what would become Beggars Banquet, in the spring of 1968—the May of street fighting in Paris. Suddenly between us this whole new idea started to blossom, this new second wind. And it just became more and more fun.
Mick was coming up with some great ideas and great songs, like “Dear Doctor”—I think probably Marianne had something to do with that—and “Sympathy for the Devil,” although it was not in the way he envisioned it when it started. But that’s in the Godard movie—I’ll deal with Godard later—where you hear and see the transformation of the song. “Parachute Woman,” with that weird sound area like a fly buzzing in your ear or a mosquito or something—that song came so easily. I thought it was going to be difficult because I had that concept of that sound and wasn’t sure it would work, but Mick jumped on the idea just like that, and it took little time to record. “Salt of the Earth,” I think I came up with the title of that and had the basic spur of it, but Mick did all the verses. This was our thing. I’d spark the idea, “Let’s drink to the hardworking people, let’s drink to the salt of the earth,” and after that, Mick, it’s all yours. Halfway through he’d say, where do we break it? Where do we go to the middle? Where’s the bridge? See how long he would take this one idea before he turned to me and said, we’ve got to go somewhere else now. Ah, the bridge. Some of that is technical work, a matter of discussion, and usually very quick and easy.
There was a lot of country and blues on Beggars Banquet: “No Expectations,” “Dear Doctor,” even “Jigsaw Puzzle.” “Parachute Woman,” “Prodigal Son,” “Stray Cat Blues,” “Factory Girl,” they’re all either blues or folk music. By then we were thinking, hey, give us a good song, we can do it. We’ve got the sound and we know we can find it one way or another if we’ve got the song—we’ll chase the damn thing all around the room, up to the ceiling. We know we’ve got it and we’ll lock on to it and find it.
I don’t know what it was in this period that worked so well. Maybe timing. We had barely explored the stuff where we’d come from or that had turned us on. The “Dear Doctor”s and “Country Honk”s and “Love In Vain” were, in a way, catch-up, things we had to do. The mixture of black and white American music had plenty of space in it to be explored.
We also knew that the Stones fans were digging it, and there were an awful lot of them by then. Without thinking about it, we knew that they’d love it. All we’ve got to do is what we want to do and they’re gonna love it. That’s what we’re about, because if we love it, a certain thing comes across from it. They were damn good songs. We never forget a good hook. We’ve never let one go when we’ve found it.
I think I can talk for the Stones most of the time, and we didn’t care what they wanted out there. That was one of the charms of the Stones. And the rock-and-roll stuff that we did come out with on Beggars Banquet was enough. You can’t say apart from “Sympathy” or “Street Fighting Man” that there’s rock and roll on Beggars Banquet at all. “Stray Cat” is a bit of funk, but the rest of them are folk songs. We were incapable of writing to order, to say, we need a rock-and-roll track. Mick tried it later with some drivel. It was not the interesting thing about the Stones, just sheer rock and roll. A lot of rock and roll on stage, but it was not something we particularly recorded a lot of, unless we knew we had a diamond like “Brown Sugar” or “Start Me Up.” And also it kind of made the up-tempo numbers stand out even more, against a lovely bedrock of really great little songs like “No Expectations.” I mean, the body of work was not to smash you between the eyes. This was not heavy metal. This was music.
“Flash!” Shit, what a record! All my stuff came together and all done on a cassette player. With “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “Street Fighting Man” I’d discovered a new sound I could get out of an acoustic guitar. That grinding, dirty sound came out of these crummy little motels where the only thing you had to record with was this new invention called the cassette recorder. And it didn’t disturb anybody. Suddenly you had a very mini studio. Playing an acoustic, you’d overload the Philips cassette player to the point of distortion so that when it played back it was effectively an electric guitar. You were using the cassette player as a pickup and an amplifier at the same time. You were forcing acoustic guitars through a cassette player, and what came out the other end was electric as hell. An electric guitar will jump live in your hands. It’s like holding on to an electric eel. An acoustic guitar is very dry and you have to play it a different way. But if you can get that different sound electrified, you get this amazing tone and this amazing sound. I’ve always loved the acoustic guitar, loved playing it, and I thought, if I can just power this up a bit without going to electric, I’ll have a unique sound. It’s got a little tingle on the top. It’s unexplainable, but it’s something that fascinated me at the time.
In the studio, I plugged the cassette into a little extension speaker and put a microphone in front of the extension speaker so it had a bit more breadth and depth, and put that on tape. That was the basic track. There are no electric instruments on “Street Fighting Man” at all, apart from the bass, which I overdubbed later. All acoustic guitars. “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” the same. I wish I could still do that, but they don’t build machines like that anymore. They put a limiter on it soon after that so you couldn’t overload it. Just as you’re getting off on something, they put a lock on it. The band all thought I was mad, and they sort of indulged me. But I heard a sound that I could get out of there. And Jimmy was onto it immediately. “Street Fighting Man,” “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and half of “Gimme Shelter” were all made just like that, on a cassette machine. I used to layer guitar on guitar. Sometimes there are eight guitars on those tracks. You just mash ’em up. Charlie Watts’s drums on “Street Fighting Man” are from this little 1930s practice drummer’s kit, in a little suitcase that you popped up, one tiny cymbal, a half-size tambourine that served as a snare, and that’s really what it was made on, made on rubbish, made in hotel rooms with our little toys.
That was a magic discovery, but so were these riffs. These cr
ucial, wonderful riffs that just came, I don’t know where from. I’m blessed with them and I can never get to the bottom of them. When you get a riff like “Flash” you get a great feeling of elation, a wicked glee. Of course, then comes the other thing of persuading people that it is as great as you actually know it is. You have to go through the pooh-pooh. “Flash” is basically “Satisfaction” in reverse. Nearly all of these riffs are closely related. But if someone said, “You can play only one of your riffs ever again,” I’d say, “OK, give me ‘Flash.’ ” I love “Satisfaction” dearly and everything, but those chords are pretty much a de rigueur course as far as songwriting goes. But “Flash” is particularly interesting. “It’s allllll right now.” It’s almost Arabic or very old, archaic, classical, the chord setups you could only hear in Gregorian chants or something like that. And it’s that weird mixture of your actual rock and roll and at the same time this weird echo of very, very ancient music that you don’t even know. It’s much older than I am, and that’s unbelievable! It’s like a recall of something, and I don’t know where it came from.
But I know where the lyrics came from. They came from a gray dawn at Redlands. Mick and I had been up all night, it was raining outside and there was the sound of these heavy stomping rubber boots near the window, belonging to my gardener, Jack Dyer, a real country man from Sussex. It woke Mick up. He said, “What’s that?” I said, “Oh, that’s Jack. That’s jumping Jack.” I started to work around the phrase on the guitar, which was in open tuning, singing the phrase “Jumping Jack.” Mick said, ”Flash,” and suddenly we had this phrase with a great rhythm and ring to it. So we got to work on it and wrote it.
I can hear the whole band take off behind me every time I play “Flash”—there’s this extra sort of turbo overdrive. You jump on the riff and it plays you. We have ignition? OK, let’s go. Darryl Jones will be right next to me, on bass. “What are we on now, ‘Flash’? OK, let’s go, one two three…” And then you don’t look at each other again, because you know you’re in for the ride now. It’ll always make you play it different, depending what tempo you’re in.
Levitation is probably the closest analogy to what I feel—whether it’s “Jumpin’ Jack” or “Satisfaction” or “All Down the Line”—when I realize I’ve hit the right tempo and the band’s behind me. It’s like taking off in a Learjet. I have no sense that my feet are touching the ground. I’m elevated to this other space. People say, “Why don’t you give it up?” I can’t retire until I croak. I don’t think they quite understand what I get out of this. I’m not doing it just for the money or for you. I’m doing it for me.
The big discovery late in 1968 or early 1969 was when I started playing the open five-string tuning. It transformed my life. It’s the way of playing that I use for the riffs and songs the Stones are best known for—“Honky Tonk Women,” “Brown Sugar,” “Tumbling Dice,” “Happy,” “All Down the Line,” “Start Me Up” and “Satisfaction.” “Flash” too.
I had hit a kind of buffer. I just really thought I was not getting anywhere from straight concert tuning. I wasn’t learning anymore; I wasn’t getting some of the sounds I really wanted. I’d been experimenting with tunings for quite a while. Most times I went into different tunings because I had a song going and I was hearing it in my head but I couldn’t get it out of the conventional tuning no matter any way I looked at it. Also I wanted to try to go back and use what a lot of old blues guitarists were playing and transpose it to electric but keep the same basic simplicity and straightforwardness—that pumping drive that you hear with the acoustic blues players. Simple, haunting, powerful sounds.
And then I found out all this stuff about banjos. A lot of five-string playing came from when Sears, Roebuck offered the Gibson guitar in the very early ’20s, really cheap. Before that, banjos were the biggest-selling instrument. Gibson put out this cheap, really good guitar, and cats would tune it, since they were nearly all banjo players, to a five-string banjo tuning. Also, you didn’t have to pay for the other string, the big string. Or you could save it for hanging the old lady or something. Most of rural America bought their stuff from the Sears catalogue. Rural America was where it was really important. In the cities, you could shop around. In the Bible Belt, rural America, the South, Texas, the Midwest, you got your Sears, Roebuck catalogue and you sent away. That’s how Oswald got his shooter.
Usually that banjo tuning was used, on the guitar, for slide playing or bottleneck. An “open tuning” simply means the guitar is pretuned to a ready-made major chord—but there are different kinds and configurations. I’d been working on open D and open E. I learned then that Don Everly, one of the finest rhythm players, used open tuning on “Wake Up Little Susie” and “Bye Bye Love.” He just used the barre chord, the finger across the neck. Ry Cooder was the first cat I actually saw play the open G chord—I have to say I tip my hat to Ry Cooder. He showed me the open G tuning. But he was using it strictly for slide playing and he still had the bottom string. That’s what most blues players use open tunings for, they use it for slide. And I decided that was too limiting. I found the bottom string got in the way. I figured out after a bit that I didn’t need it; it would never stay in tune and it was out of whack for what I wanted to do. So I took it off and used the fifth string, the A string, as the bottom note. You didn’t have to worry about bashing that bottom string and setting up harmonics and stuff that you didn’t need.
I started playing chords on the open tuning—which was new ground. You change one string and suddenly you’ve got a whole new universe under your fingers. Anything you thought you knew has gone out the window. Nobody thought about playing minor chords in an open major tuning, because you’ve got to really dodge about a bit. You have to rethink your whole thing, as if your piano was turned upside down and the black notes were white and the white notes were black. So you had to retune your mind and your fingers as well as the guitar. The minute you’ve tuned a guitar or any other instrument to one chord, you’ve got to work your way around it. You’re out of the realms of normal music. You’re up the Limpopo with Yellow Jack.
The beauty, the majesty of the five-string open G tuning for an electric guitar is that you’ve only got three notes—the other two are repetitions of each other an octave apart. It’s tuned GDGBD. Certain strings run through the whole song, so you get a drone going all the time, and because it’s electric they reverberate. Only three notes, but because of these different octaves, it fills the whole gap between bass and top notes with sound. It gives you this beautiful resonance and ring. I found working with open tunings that there’s a million places you don’t need to put your fingers. The notes are there already. You can leave certain strings wide open. It’s finding the spaces in between that makes open tuning work. And if you’re working the right chord, you can hear this other chord going on behind it, which actually you’re not playing. It’s there. It defies logic. And it’s just lying there saying, “Fuck me.” And it’s a matter of the same old cliché in that respect. It’s what you leave out that counts. Let it go so that one note harmonizes off the other. And so even though you’ve now changed your fingers to another position, that note is still ringing. And you can even let it hang there. It’s called the drone note. Or at least that’s what I call it. The sitar works on similar lines—sympathetic ringing, or what they call the sympathetic strings. Logically it shouldn’t work, but when you play it, and that note keeps ringing even though you’ve now changed to another chord, you realize that that is the root note of the whole thing you’re trying to do. It’s the drone.
I just got fascinated by relearning the guitar. It really invigorated me. It was like a different instrument in a way, and literally too. I had to have the five-string guitars made for me. I’ve never wanted to play like anybody else, except when I was first starting, when I wanted to be Scotty Moore or Chuck Berry. After that, I wanted to find out what the guitar or the piano could teach me.
The five-string took me back to the tribesme
n of West Africa. They had a very similar instrument, sort of a five-string, kind of like a banjo, but they would use the same drone, a thing to set up other voices and drums over the top. Always underneath it was this underlying one note that went through it. And you listen to some of that meticulous Mozart stuff and Vivaldi and you realize that they knew that too. They knew when to leave one note just hanging up there where it illegally belongs and let it dangle in the wind and turn a dead body into a living beauty. Gus used to point it out to me: just listen to that one note hanging there. All the other stuff that’s going on underneath is crap, but that one note makes it sublime.
Life Page 25
