So we sprung Marlon and moved out of New Jersey to a rented house in South Salem, New York, called Frog Hollow—a classic Colonial-style wooden house, although haunted, according to an increasingly haunted Anita, who saw the ghosts of Mohican Indians patrolling the hilltop. It was down the road from George C. Scott. He used to crash regularly into our white wooden fence, pissed out of his brain, driving at ninety miles an hour. But that’s where we ended up—near Mount Kisco, in Westchester County.
It was at this time that Jane Rose, who is now my manager, started unofficially looking after me. Jane was working mostly for Mick, but Mick had asked Jane to stay in Toronto and help me when everybody left. And she’s still here, my secret weapon thirty years later. I have to say that during the bust in Toronto, in fact during all busts, Mick looked after me with great sweetness, never complaining. He ran things; he did the work and marshaled the forces that saved me. Mick looked after me like a brother.
Jane described herself at this time as the meat in the sandwich—between Mick and me. She witnessed the first sign of a rift between us when I came out of the junk fog and the mental fog that accompanies it and started to want to take care of business, at least musical business. Mick would come up to Cherry Hill and hear my selection of tracks for Love You Live, which we’d been working on all this time sporadically. And he’d go back and bitch to Jane about them. Collaboration was giving way to struggle and disagreement. It’s a two-disc album, and the result is that one disc was Mick’s and the other was mine. I started talking about things, about business, things we had to settle, which I imagine for Mick was unfamiliar, shocking. I’d kind of risen from the dead after the will had been read. But this was a skirmish, a sign only of what was to come in later years.
It took nineteen months from the bust in March 1977 in Toronto to the trial in October 1978. But at least now I was living in striking distance of New York. The visas were of course not without conditions. I had to travel back and forth to Toronto for various hearings. I had to prove that I’d cleaned up and had been following a steady course of rehab. And I was obliged to attend psychiatric evaluation and treatment in New York. I had this doctor in New York City who would say, “Oh, thank God you’re here. I’ve been dealing with other people’s brains all day.” She would open the drawer and pull out a bottle of vodka. She’d say, “Let’s sit here for half an hour and have a drink. You look all right.” I’d say, “I’m feeling pretty good.” But she helped me. She was doing her job. She made sure the program worked.
John Phillips called me one day when I was in South Salem and said, “I’ve got one. Get your ass down here and I’ll show you, proof positive, I’ve got one!” He was into the coke bugs. I thought, I’ll drive down, give my friend a hand, you know, if he’s got one. People had been calling him mad for weeks because he was convinced that he was infected by bugs. So I went down there, and he pulled out a napkin, a Kleenex with a little bloody hole in it. “See? I’ve got one.” John, are you serious? You’ll have to reconsider, baby. And I’d driven an hour and a half down there to see. He’d picked himself to bits. I mean, he was covered in scabs. But this time he was convinced he’d got one. He looked at the Kleenex and said, “Oh shit, it got away!” John had taken over a pharmacy. Who didn’t in those days? Freddie Sessler used to own drugstores. And John was in a state. In the bedroom he had a medical bed, one of those bendy beds; only half of it worked. His mirror in the john was held together with gaffer tape. It was a shattered image any way you looked at it. Needles were stuck in the wall where he’d used them as darts. But we’d play, never starting before midnight, sometimes not until two a.m., with other musicians. I survived that without smack. John’s solo project was stopped by Ahmet Ertegun because John was in no condition to go on.
The sessions for Some Girls always had a following wind from the moment we started rehearsing in the strangely shaped Pathé Marconi studios in Paris. It was a rejuvenation, surprisingly for such a dark moment, when it was possible that I would go to jail and the Stones would dissolve. But maybe that was part of it. Let’s get something down before it happens. It had an echo of Beggars Banquet about it—a long period of silence and then coming back with a bang, and a new sound. You can’t argue with seven million copies and two top ten singles out of it, “Miss You” and “Beast of Burden.”
Nothing was prepared before we got there. Everything was written in the studio day by day. So it was like the earlier times, at RCA in Los Angeles in the mid-’60s—songs pouring out. Another big difference from recent albums was that we had no other musicians in with us—no horns, no Billy Preston. Extra stuff was dubbed later. If anything the buildup of sidemen had taken us down a different path in the ’70s, away from our best instincts on some occasions. So the record was down to us, and it being Ronnie Wood’s first album with us, down to our guitar weaving on tracks like “Beast of Burden.” We were more focused and we had to work harder.
The sound we got had a lot to do with Chris Kimsey, the engineer and producer who we were working with for the first time. We knew him from his apprenticeship at Olympic Studios, and so he knew our stuff backwards. And he would, on the basis of this experiment, engineer or coproduce eight albums for us. We had to pull something out—not make another Stones-in-the-doldrums album. He wanted to get a live sound back and move away from the clean and clinical-sounding recordings we’d slipped into. We were in the Pathé Marconi studios because they were owned by EMI, with whom we’d just made a big deal. This one was way on the outskirts of town in Boulogne-Billancourt, near the Renault factory; nothing around like restaurants or bars. It was a car ride, and I remember that I was listening to Jackson Browne’s Running on Empty on a daily commuter basis. At first, we’d booked into this enormous rehearsal studio like a soundstage, with a tiny control room that fitted barely two people and with a primitive 1960s console and a basic sixteen-track. The shape was odd because the console faced the window and a wall, which held the speakers, but the wall went off at an angle, so one speaker was always farther away from you than the other during playbacks. The adjoining studio had a much bigger desk and generally more sophisticated equipment, but for the moment we got playing in this warehouse, sitting around in a semicircle, fencing off space with screens. We hardly went into the control room for the first few days—there wasn’t enough space.
Kimsey spotted immediately that this studio had truly great sound properties. Because it was a rehearsal room, we’d rented it cheap, which was lucky because we spent a long time on this record and never moved into the proper studio next door. The primitive mixing desk turned out to be the same kind of soundboard designed by EMI for Abbey Road Studios—very humble and simple, with barely more than a treble and bass button but with a phenomenal sound, which Kimsey fell in love with. Uprooted relics of these desks are apparently muso collectors’ items. The sound it got had clarity but dirtiness, a real funky, club feel to it that suited what we were doing.
It was a great room to play in. So, despite Mick doing his usual “Let’s move to a proper studio,” that’s where we stayed, because in a recording session, especially with this kind of music, everything has to feel good. There’s no swimming upstream; you’re not salmon. We’re looking to glide, and if you’ve got problems with the room, you start to lose confidence in what’s going to be captured by the microphones and you start shifting things about. You know it’s a good room when a band is smiling. What a lot of Some Girls was down to was this little green box I used, this MXR pedal, a reverb-echo. For most of the songs on there I’m using that, and it elevated the band and it gave it a different sound. In a way, it came down to a little bit of technology. It was kind of like “Satisfaction,” a little box. On Some Girls I just found a way of making that thing work, at least through all of the fast songs. And Charlie was on with it, and Bill Wyman too, I’ve got to say. There was a certain sense of renewal. A lot of it was, we’ve got to out-punk the punks. Because they can’t play, and we can. All they can do is be punk
s. Yes, that might have been a certain thorn in the side. The Johnny Rottens, “these fucking kids.” I love every band that comes along. That’s why I’m here, to encourage guys to play and get bands together. But when they’re not playing anything, they’re just spitting on people, now come on, we can do better than that. There was also an extra urgency because of this grim prospect of the trial and also because after all the palaver, the bust, the noise, the cleaning up, I needed to prove that there was something behind all this—some purpose to this kind of suffering. And it came together very nicely.
Because we hadn’t been together for a while, we needed to get back our old form of writing and collaborating—doing it all on the day, there and then, composing from scratch or semi-scratch. We jumped straight in, back to our old ways with remarkable results. “Before They Make Me Run” and “Beast of Burden” were basically collaborations. “When the Whip Comes Down” I did the riff. Mick wrote it and I looked around and said, shit, he’s finally written a rock-and-roll song. By himself! “Some Girls” was Mick. “Lies” too. Basically he’d say, I’ve got a song, and then I’d say, what if we do it this way or that way?
We didn’t think much of “Miss You” when we were doing it. It was “Aah, Mick’s been to the disco and has come out humming some other song.” It’s a result of all the nights Mick spent at Studio 54 and coming up with that beat, that four on the floor. And he said, add the melody to the beat. We just thought we’d put our oar in on Mick wanting to do some disco shit, keep the man happy. But as we got into it, it became quite an interesting beat. And we realized, maybe we’ve got a quintessential disco thing here. And out of it we got a huge hit. The rest of the album doesn’t sound anything like “Miss You.”
Then we had trouble with the cover, from Lucille Ball, of all people, who didn’t want to be included, and there were loads of lawsuits going on. On the original cover you could pull out and change the faces with one of those cards. There was every famous woman in the world in there, everybody we fancied. Lucille Ball? You don’t like it? Fine! The feminists didn’t like it either. We always like to piss them off. Where would you be without us? And there is the offending line “Black girls just wanna get fucked all night” from “Some Girls.” Well, we’ve been on the road with a lot of black chicks for many years, and there’s quite a few that do. It could have been yellow girls or white girls.
I made a damn good attempt at cleaning up in 1977 with my black box and Meg Patterson and the rest, but for a brief time it didn’t stick. While working on Some Girls, I’d go to the john from time to time and shoot up. But it had its method. I’d think about what I was gonna do in there. I would be in there meditating about this track that was really nice but only half finished, and where it could go and what was going wrong with it, and why we’d done twenty-five takes and were still stumbling on the same block every time. When I came out, it was, “Listen, it goes a little faster, and we cut out the keyboards in the middle.” And sometimes I was right, sometimes I was wrong, but it had only been, hey, forty-five minutes. Better than forty-five minutes when everybody is putting their oar in at once—“Yeah, but what about if we do this?” Which is, to me, murder. Very occasionally I would go on the nod while we were playing. Still upright, but removed from present concerns, only to pick it up a few bars on. This did waste time because the take, if there was one, would have to be scrapped.
For sheer longevity—for long distance—there is no track that I know of like “Before They Make Me Run.” That song, which I sang on that record, was a cry from the heart. But it burned up the personnel like no other. I was in the studio, without leaving, for five days.
Worked the bars and sideshows along the twilight zone
Only a crowd can make you feel so alone
And it really hit home
Booze and pills and powders, you can choose your medicine
Well here’s another goodbye to another good friend.
After all is said and done
Gotta move while it’s still fun
Let me walk before they make me run.
It came out of what I had been going through and was still going through with the Canadians. I was telling them what to do. Let me walk out of this goddamn case. When you get a lenient sentence, they say, oh, they let him walk.
“Why do you keep nagging that song? Nobody likes it.” “Wait till it’s finished!” Five days without a wink of sleep. I had an engineer called Dave Jordan and I had another engineer, and one of them would flop under the desk and have a few hours’ kip and I’d put the other one in and keep going. We all had black eyes by the time it was finished. I don’t know what was so difficult about it; it just wasn’t quite right. But then you get guys that’ll hang with you. You’ll be standing there with a guitar round your neck and everybody else is conked out on the floor. Oh no, not another take, Keith, please. People brought in food, pain au chocolat. Days turned into nights. But you just can’t leave it. It’s almost there, you’re tasting it, it’s just not in your mouth. It’s like fried bacon and onion, but you haven’t eaten it yet, it just smells good.
By the fourth day, Dave looked like he’d been punched in both eyes. And he had to be taken away. “We got it, Dave,” and somebody got him a taxi. He disappeared, and when we were finally finished, I fell asleep under the booth, under all the machinery. I woke up eventually, how many hours I never counted, and there’s the Paris police band. A bloody brass band. That’s what woke me up. They’re listening to a playback. And they don’t know I’m under there, and I’m looking at all these trousers with red stripes and “La Marseillaise” going on, and I’m wondering, when should I emerge? And I’m dying for a pee, and I’ve got my shit with me, needles and stuff, and I’m surrounded by cops that don’t know I’m there. So I waited a bit and thought, I’ll just be very English, and I sort of rolled out and said, “Oh, my God! I’m terribly sorry,” and before they knew it, I was out, and they were all zut alors–ing and there were about seventy-six of them. I thought, they’re just like us! They’re so intent on making a good record they didn’t bust me.
When you get into it that much, you can lose the drive of it, but if you know it’s there, it’s there. It’s manic, but it’s like the Holy Grail. Once you’re in, you’re going to go for it. Because there’s no turning back, really. You’ve got to come out with something. And eventually you get there. That’s probably the longest I’ve done. There have been others that were close—“Can’t Be Seen” was one—but “Before They Make Me Run” was the marathon.
There’s a postscript to these Some Girls sessions, which I should let Chris Kimsey tell.
Chris Kimsey: “Miss You” and “Start Me Up” were actually recorded on the same day. When I say on the same day, “Miss You” took about ten days to get the final master, and then when it was done they went and did “Start Me Up.” “Start Me Up” had been a reggae song recorded in Rotterdam three years earlier. When they started playing it this time, it wasn’t a reggae song, it was what we know today as the great “Start Me Up.” It was Keith’s song; he just changed it. Maybe after the disco thing of “Miss You,” he went to it with a different approach. And it was the only occasion I’ve ever recorded two masters on the same session. It didn’t take long to get down. And when we got the take that everyone felt, oh, that was good, Keith came in and listened to it, and he said, it’s all right, it sounds like something I’ve heard on the radio, it should be a reggae song. Wipe it. He was still toying with it, but he didn’t like it. I remember Keith saying at one point that he would prefer to wipe all the masters after they’d been done and released. So no one could go back and fiddle with them. So of course I didn’t wipe it. And it became the big song on Tattoo You three years later.
Once again, everything revolved around the stuff. Nothing could be done or organized without first organizing the next fix. It got more and more dire. Elaborate arrangements had to be made, some of them more comic than others. I had a man, James W, who I
would call up when I was going from London to New York. I would stay at the Plaza Hotel. James, this sweet young Chinese man, would meet me in the suite, the big one preferably, and I’d hand him the cash, he’d give me the shit. And it was always very polite. Give my regards to your father. It was difficult in the ’70s to get hypodermics in America. So when I traveled I would wear a hat and use a needle to fix a little feather to the hatband, so it was just a hat pin. I would put the trilby with the red, green and gold feather in the hat bag. So the minute James turned up, I got the shit. OK, but now I need the syringe. My trick was, I’d order a cup of coffee, because I needed a spoon for cooking up. And then I’d go down to FAO Schwarz, the toy shop right across Fifth Avenue from the Plaza. And if you went to the third floor, you could buy a doctor and nurse play set, a little plastic box with a red cross on it. That had the barrel and the syringe that fitted the needle that I’d brought. I’d go round, “I’ll have three teddy bears, I’ll have that remote-control car, oh, and give me two doctor and nurse kits! My niece, you know, she’s really into that. Must encourage her.” FAO Schwarz was my connection. Rush back to the room, hook it up and fix it.
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