Chapter Eight 8 страница

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’s 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 apee, 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. By then I've ordered up coffee, so I've got the teaspoon. You fill the spoon and hold a lighter to it, and you watch it and it should burn clear and turn to treacle. It shouldn't go black; that means there's too much cut in it. James never let me down on that; it was always high-quality stuff. I'm not looking for weight, I'm looking for sustenance. I'm strung out. I've got to have some dope. But never look for a huge amount. Quarter ounces. Because also, the quality could change over a week or so. You don't want a whole bag of useless, rotten dope. You watch the market. James W was my man. "Look, this is the best we’ve got right now. I don't suggest you buy any more of this. Next week, we're getting some high quality." Absolutely reliable was James. And a great sense of humor, very straight up, straight business, price on the button. The only thing we'd laugh about was "Have you been over to the toy store yet?"

Once you're a junkie, your smack's your daily bread. You don't really get off anymore that much. There's junkies that keep upping their dosage, and that’s why you get ODs. To me, it just became maintenance. It was to set the trend for the day. Then came all those agonizing moments when there was a drought on, and the old lady's going, I want some stuff! So do I, honey, but we've got to wait. Waiting for the man. When there was a heroin drought it was a bit rough. They really used to put the screws on. There'd be people in the room in dire straits, throwing up. You'd be treading over bodies. And there’s sometimes really no drought; it's only to jack the price up. And it doesn't really matter how much money you've got. I'm not going to say, "Do you know who I am?" I'm just another junkie. When there's no shit at all, then you've got to go down to the pits, and you know it's going to be like a fucking pool of piranhas down there. It happened to me a couple of times on the East Side in New York and in LA. We knew the trick--you'd score upstairs, and on your way down the other bunch would take it back off you again. Most of the time you'd hear it going on while you were waiting for your turn. The thing was to leave quietly, and if you saw anybody outside--because you never knew if it was going to happen or not--usually you'd give them a kick in the balls. But a couple of times, fuck it, OK, let's go for it. You cover me. You stay down there, and as I come down with the shit I'll go bang, and they'll go bang and then you go bang. Shoot out the lightbulbs and put a few bullets around and do the run, sparks flying. Then with a bit of luck we're out of there. The statistics are well on your side against being hit when you're a moving target. If you look at the odds, one thousand to one, you're going to win. You have to be very close and you have to have good eyesight to shoot out a lightbulb. And it's dark. Flash, bang, wallop and get out of there. I loved it. It was real OK Corral stuff. Only did it twice. It was a very time-consuming routine. I'd wake up in the morning, and the first thing is go to the bathroom to have a shot. You don't brush your teeth. And then, oh, fuck it, I've got to go to the kitchen and get the spoon. Those stupid rituals that you go through. Shit, last night I should have brought a spoon up so that I didn't have to go down to the kitchen. Every time it got progressively harder and harder to kick. And the desire to go back on the minute you were off got stronger. Oh, just one, now that I'm clean. Just that fatal one more, that celebration, is a killer. And on top of that, you've come out of it, you're off the stuff, but all your friends are junkies. If somebody cleans up, that somebody has escaped the circle. And whether they like you or love you or hate you or not, the first thing they want to do is to pull you back in. "This is really good shit, here." Certain pressures within junkiedom have it that if somebody clean sup and actually stays clean, it's like they've failed somehow. Failed at what, I don't know. How many cold turkeys can you go through? It's ludicrous, but you never realize it when you're on dope. Several times on cold turkey I was convinced there was a safe behind the wall that was full of the shit and it had everything ready to go, spoon and all. And finally I'd crash out, and when I woke up I'd see bloody fingernail marks down the wall where I'd actually been trying to get in there. Is this really worth it? In fact my decision then was, yep. I can be as bigheaded as Mick, and flighty and everything, but you can't do that when you're a junkie. There are certain realities that come into play that really keep your feet in the gutter, even lower than you need to be. Not even on the sidewalk--in the gutter. And obviously that was the period when Mick and I went off on almost perfect 180s. He had no time for me and my supposedly stupid state. I remember being at a disco once in Paris and I was supposed to meet the man, and I was sick. People were dancing around little glitter balls, and I'm under the benches, just hiding and throwing up because the man hasn't arrived. And I'm also wondering, will he find me under here? If he does arrive, he might look around and fuck back off. I was in a distressed frame of mind, let's put it like that. Luckily he did find me. But being in that position, and at the same time you're like numero uno in the world, you realize where you've sunk to. Just getting yourself in that position leaves a sense of self-loathing that takes a while to rub off. You son of a bitch, you'd do anything for the shit. But I'm my own man, I say. Nobody can tell me what to do. And yet you realize you've put yourself in the position where you're in the hands of a dealer, and that's disgusting. Waiting for this cunt, and begging him? That's where the self-loathing comes in. Any way you look at it, junkies are people waiting for the man. Your world gets diminished to dope. Just that, by itself, becomes the whole world. Most junkies become idiots. That's really what finally turned me around. We've only got one subject in mind, which is the dope. Can't I be a little more smart about it? What am I doing hanging around with these dregs? They're just boring people. Worse, a lot of these are very bright people, and we all kind of know that we've been hoodwinked, but then... why not? Everybody else is hoodwinked by something, and at least we know we're fooling ourselves. No one’s a hero just for taking dope. You might be a hero for getting off it. I loved the shit. But enough was enough. Also, it narrowed one's horizons, and eventually all you know are junkies. I had to move to broader horizons. You only know all this, of course, once you've gotten out of there. That's what that stuff does. It's the most seductive bitch in the world.

The Canadian case went on and on. I was flying up and down from New York to Toronto on a weekly basis. But it didn't stop me taking the shit at the time. There was a little airport out of which I flew back to New York from Toronto on a private plane. On one of these trips, in the airport before taking off, I went to the john to have a fix. I'm in the cubicle, and just as I'm cooking up the spoon, from beneath the door I see this ominous set of spurs. There's a fucking Mountie in the whole goddamn rig. He wants to take a pee. And he's going to be smelling this dope; it's just flaring up....

Clink, clink and I'm a goner. And we're down the hole. And clink clink clink and the spurs walk out. How many chances have I got left? I'd pulled my string too long. There was already a permanent black cloud of expecting the shit to hit the fan. I'm facing three charges: trafficking, possession and importing. I'm going to be doing some hard fucking time. I'd better get ready. Which is one of the reasons I finally cleaned up. I didn't want to cold turkey in jail. I wanted to leave time for my nails to grow. They're the only weapons you’re left with when you go to jail. Also, attached to the junk as I was, I was putting myself slowly into a position where it would be impossible to move around the world and work. There was a tour coming up in one month, in June of 1978, for Some Girls. I knew I'd have to get clean for it. Jane Rose had been asking me, "When are you going to get clean?" and I'd say tomorrow. I had done it the year before, fucked up and gotten hooked again. And this was the last time. I didn't want to hear about another dope deal. Been there. You get about ten years and you stop; you take your medal and retire. And Jane stuck with me, bless her fucking heart. The old Jugs--which is her nickname--came through. It must have been horrendous for her. Far worse for me. But for her to witness what goes on when you're climbing the walls, shitting yourself, going bananas. How could she plow through that? At this moment the Stones were gathered at Bearsville Studios, in Woodstock, New York, to rehearse for the tour. I was at home with Anita. Jane better tell the moment when I gave up heroin.

Jane Rose:

I had basically become the courier--I would bring money or drugs from New York to Westchester County for Keith. He still wouldn’t clean up, and his habit was bad now. And he would not admit it. And I couldn't stand the calls to Westchester anymore. I went up there, and Antonio and Anna Marie were there, friends of Anita's who lived in Keith's apartment in Rue Saint-Honore, in Paris. (Antonio later became Antonia.) So they were in the house, and Keith was waiting for money or drugs. Anita was there. I went up to the house, and they said, "Where's the money?" and I said, "I don't have the money." I said, "It's in New York." They flipped out, and Anita got in the car; she was furious. And I said, "Keith, today is tomorrow." Because he was always saying, tomorrow I'll clean up, and this was right before the tour, in May. He and Anita had a huge fight later that day. Keith went upstairs; he was furious. Anna Marie and Antonio looked at this Jewish chick from New York and said, this girl is going to be dead. How could she come out here without the money? Then there was silence, and I went upstairs to the bedroom, the four-poster bed, and I said hello. And he had kicked off his shoes, and he said, "OK, I'm going to do it. I've got my machine; I'm going to kick." And I said, "Want to go to Woodstock? That's where the rehearsals are going to be. Get away, do it. I'll go with you." And after three hours, he said OK. So we were getting ready to go before Anita came back, because I just knew it had to be that way. And she came back before we left. There was a big row and somebody went flying down the stairs. In the end Keith sat in the car and we went to Woodstock. Anita had her drugs or her money. And Keith went to Woodstock and he went cold turkey, with his machine. Mick and Jerry [Hall] came up for two days to be there with me. And I stayed with him twenty-four hours, I stayed in the room, I was there. I don't know for how many days after that, or if I even talked to anybody. I had a conviction that he was going to get better. I just believed in him.

If you want to get something out of anybody, I'd say put them on dope for a month or two and just withdraw it, and they'll talk. Jane got me through the seventy-two hours. She watched me climb the walls, which is why I don't like wallpaper anymore. You're barely able to control your muscle spasms. And you’re really ashamed of yourself. And you've got to do it. I didn't go back for another shot, because after coming out of there, I just locked myself in a room. Jane was with me. And Jane just cleaned me up. And that was the last time. I ain't going there again. Anita, on the other hand, was no help. She wouldn't do the deal. If we're going to stay together, we've got to do it together. And she didn't. We were spinning out of control. By now I couldn't live in the house with somebody who was still on junk. It's a chemical reaction to the body, but it's also in your relationship to other people. That's where the difficult bit is. I would have stayed with Anita probably forever, but when it came to that very important time when dope was out of the picture from now on, she didn't stop. She'd never stopped, in fact. When we did it for several months in 1977, she'd be sneaking stuff round the back. I knew that she was on it; you can just tell by the eyeballs. So now I couldn't even go and see her. And that was where I said, oh well... that's Anita. That's where it blew.

I was clean and we were rehearsing for the 1978 tour in Woodstock, New York, at Bearsville Studios. One day out of the clouds, by helicopter, there came Lil. She had come with her friend Jo Wood, Ronnie's soon-to-be wife, for Woody's birthday. It was about ten days before we went on the road and it was almost miraculous timing to find such a new friend. Her real name is Lil Wergilis, although she's always been written about as Lil "Wenglass" or Lil Green--her married name. Swedish she is, although she was more of a London girl than you'd believe after a decade there. And talked like one, "Oh, fuckin' naff" and all that. She was a brilliant Swedish blonde in the bloom of her life. When I first met Lil she was like Marilyn Monroe. Dazzling. Pink Lurextights and blond hair. But she was also very smart and strong hearted. She was a lovely girl, a beautiful lover, and I'd just got off the stuff and Lil came along and made me laugh. She laughed me out of it. She really brought me out of the abyss. It's not so easy to kick that shit as I pretend it is, after ten years on the stuff and five or six cold turkeys. And staying off the stuff is another thing, and Lil, bless her heart, took my mind off it totally. We just fell into each other's arms for a year or so. We had a great time together. Lil was like a breath of fresh air. Lighthearted, loads of fun, outrageous. Up for anything. Incredibly funny, very witty, and a great lay. She was energetic; she did things. Like cook breakfast and make sure I was up on time. And I needed a bit of that. Not popular with Mick; not your Studio 54 girl was Lil. He couldn't think what I was doing with her. It was a turbulent time for our marriages or non-marriages. Bianca had sued him for divorce. He now had Jerry Hall on his arm, and I got on well with Jerry. I took Lil on tour with me, where she was my accomplice in another of my fate-cheating close shaves--the list now too long to be taken lightly. This time it was from fire in our rented house in Laurel Canyon, LA. Lil and I had gone to bed, and Lil, so she said later, heard this distant bang and got up and opened the curtain a little and it was strangely bright outside. Not right. She opened the bathroom door and fire exploded into the room. And we had a few seconds to jump out of the window. I'm dressed in a short T-shirt only and Lil is naked. And we're exposed--people are gathered, freaking out, trying to put the fire out--and this is a big story as soon as the press gets here. Up pulls a car and we get in gratefully. Amazingly, it's a cousin of Anita! We are in a state of shock. We go to her house, borrow some clothes, go to a hotel. The next day someone went round to have a look and there was a large sign stuck in the blackened grass that read, "Thanks a lot, Keith."

My trial was finally heard in Toronto in October 1978. We knew it might sink us all, but in the face of it, some of us were looking on the bright side. "I don't think it's gonna be as bad as that," said Mick. "You've got to say if the worst happens and Keith gets put in an open prison with Mrs. Trudeau for life, that I am still gonna go on the road. Maybe we could play a tour of Canadian prisons. Ha ha ha." The longer the process went on, the clearer it was that the Canadian government wanted to wriggle out of it. The Mounties and their allies were thinking, "Oh, great! Wonderful job! We've delivered him to the Canadian government with a hook in his mouth." And the Trudeaus were thinking, "Uh-uh, pal, this is the last thing we need." There were five to six hundred people outside every time I turned up in court, chanting, "Free Keith, free Keith." And we knew that the enemy camp, if you want to call the Canadian government at the time the enemy, our persecutors, were unsure of their footing. Where as I didn't mind. I figured the harder they hit me, the easier I would get out. The Mounties, or at least the prosecution, didn't want to wriggle out at all. But, as Bill Carter observed, in almost every one of these cases brought against us at that time, the law had its hands dirty. They knew I wasn't trafficking, but they wanted to railroad it through a jury to get a long and historic jail sentence. There they made a mistake. Look at Keith Richards. He's not selling drugs. He's got all the money he needs. The allegation of trafficking, just to get a stiff sentence, is absurd. He's a hopeless addict. He has a medical problem. My lawyers wrote a report that showed that according to all legal precedent and local case histories, if I weren't Keith Richards, I would probably have gotten no more than a suspended sentence. Only at the last minute did they change the trafficking charge to possession, adding a cocaine charge. But this shift weakened and exposed them, exposed more about the Canadian government than anything to do with "Oh, guess what? Keith Richards is on smack." What else is new? The idea of the prime minister's wife buzzing around the hotel trying to get laid was another thing. So one thing overwhelmed the other, so to speak. I certainly felt that whatever the charge was, I was definitely in way above my head, or below it, any way you look at it. Who knows what really goes on? It's called politics. It's one of the scrubbiest games in town. So we knew it was dead in the water. Now it was, how long will it take for them to get me out of here? They walked themselves into it, now they don't want to know about it, and how will they find their way out of it? We were waiting to watch the Canadian government melt. The Canadian people were the ones that got me off the hook. But really, the mastery of it was coordinating the faux pas of Margaret Trudeau. If they had hit me hard and quick, they probably could have got me just for importing. But when it came to court, clearly the new judge had said, get this thing off the hook. We don't want any more to do with this; it's causing us more embarrassment and money than it's worth. On the day of reckoning I arrived in court, this courtroom that had the air of England in the 1950s, with a portrait of the queen hanging strangely on the wall. The actor Dan Aykroyd, who I'd met when we did Saturday Night Live just before this, was on standby as a Canadian and a character witness. The producer of the show, its Canadian founder, who still produces it, Lorne Michaels, spoke in court about my role as a slinger of hash in the great cultural kitchen. He did a very elegant job of it. I was not in the slightest intimidated by the court. I knew by now that they had a real problem. I knew too, from other moments like this, that most of the governments of the world were out of touch with their subjects and that's what I knew I could exploit. Sometimes you can smell defeat even with all of that artillery arranged against you, and this was one such occasion. The verdict was guilty, but the judge concluded, "I will not incarcerate him for addiction and wealth." He must be freed, said the judge, to get on with his treatment, with a condition. He will perform a concert for the blind. Very intelligent, I thought. The most Solomon-like judgment that had been handed down in many a year. And this was to do with a blind girl who had followed the Stones everywhere on the road. Rita, my blind angel. Despite her blindness, she hitchhiked to our shows. The chick was absolutely fearless. I'd heard about her backstage, and the idea of her thumbing in the darkness was too much for me. I hooked her up with the truck drivers, made sure she got a safe lift and made sure she got fed. And when I was busted, she actually found her way to the judge's house and told him this story. And this is how he arrived at the concert for the blind. The love and devotion of people like Rita is something that still amazes me. So aha! A way was found. From that appearance on Saturday Night Live, Lil and I used to hang with Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray and John Belushi in their club, the Blues Bar, in New York, around 1979. Belushi was an over-the-top man. You can say that again. I said to John once, as my father says, there's a difference between scratching your arse and tearing it to bits. John was hilarious, and nuts to hang with. Belushi was an extreme experience even by my standards. A case in point. When I was a kid, I'd pop round to Mick's house. You want something to drink. Open the fridge, there's nothing in it except maybe half a tomato. Big fridge. Thirty years later, walk into Mick's apartment, open the fridge, it's an even bigger fridge, what's in there? Half a tomato and a bottle of beer. One night around this time, when we'd been hanging out with John Belushi in New York, we'd been in session all night and Ronnie and Mick and I had gone back to Mick's apartment. There's a knock at the door, and there's Belushi, dressed in a porter's uniform, and he's got a trolley. And he's got twelve fucking boxes of gefilte fish. And he ignores us all, trundles it straight to Mick's fridge, bundles all the gefilte fish into the fridge and says, "Now it's full." Riding high on the success of Some Girls and on the outcome of the court case, we repaired to Nassau in the Bahamas, to Compass Point Studios. There were ripples of argument between Mick and me that would grow into a rumble soon, but not quite yet. We got playing and composing songs for Emotional Rescue. While we were doing this, Pope John Paul II paid an unexpected visit to Nassau on a refueling stop. The Bahamas are strongly Catholic, at least while the pope's there, and it was announced that he would conduct a public blessing in a football stadium. I decided that since Alan Dunn, our road manager, was a Catholic and eligible for a blessing by the pope, he should take the tapes we were making up to the stadium and have them blessed too. Why not? You never know. Alan got a ticket through the local school and took the tapes up in the heat--big two-inch tapes that weighed a ton, and weighed even more when the handles of the straw basket he was carrying them in broke, so he told me. He clutched them to his chest as the pontiff waved his blessing over them and over Alan. It certainly worked for Alan, who was miraculously rescued out at sea a few days later when his dinghy carried him and his girlfriend across the reef and into deep water. He had a broken outboard and no oars. It should have meant certain death, but Alan's mother reckons that the passing boat that rescued them was a gift from God, via the pope. One of the great sessions I have played on happened around this time, when Lil and I went to Jamaica and I fell in with Sly Dunbar and Robbie Shakespeare, who were making a Black Uhuru album. Sly and Robbie were one of the best rhythm sections in the world. We did seven tracks together in one night, and one of them, called "Shine Eye Gal," became a great big hit and a classic. Another was an instrumental called "Dirty Harry" for Sly's album Sly, Wicked and Slick. And I've still got the rest. All done on four-track at Channel One, Kingston. We played anything anybody felt like playing. Most of it was just made out of riffs, but it was a supreme band: Sly and Robbie; Sticky and Scully, who were Sly's percussion men and did all the little fiddly bits; An sell Collins on organ and piano; me on guitar; another guitar player, might have been Michael Chung. It was a brilliant night. At the time, we said, let’s split the tracks, I'll take three and you take three, but they made a big hit out of "Shine Eye Gal." They came touring with us in the next couple of years. Mick didn't want to tour in 1979, but I did. I was put out and frustrated. But it meant I could shoot off. Ronnie was going on the road, and he put together the New Barbarians, which was an incredible band--Joseph "Zigaboo" Modeliste on drums, one of the best ever. And that's why I immediately jumped in. Drummers from New Orleans, of which Ziggy is one of the giants, are great readers of the song and how it goes; they feel it, tell the way it's going even before you do. I'd known Ziggy when the Meters worked with the Stones for several tours. George Porter on bass. The Meters had a big influence on my appreciation of funk. They are uniquely New Orleans in rhythm and the use of space and time. New Orleans is the most different city in America, and it shows in the music. I've worked with George Recile, who is now Bob Dylan's drummer, another one from that city. Bobby Keys was there with the New Barbarians. Ian McLean on keyboards. On bass was the great jazz player Stanley Clarke. It was a fun tour and we had a lot of laughs. I didn't have to worry about the things I usually do on tours; I didn't have to bear responsibility. To me, it was a ball, a riot. I was basically just a sideman hired for the tour. I can't even remember much of it, it was so much fun. To me, the important thing was that, shit, I'd managed to avoid doing hard time, and at the same time I was doing what I love to do. And I had Lil with me, the good-time girl for all seasons. Then Lil's mother got ill, and she had to fly back to Sweden. And I had a temporary lapse in her absence. I bought some Persian brown from a woman named Cathy Smith in Los Angeles. I described myself at the time as "reliving a second rock-and-roll childhood." Cathy Smith was also the downfall of Belushi. It was just too strong for Belushi. Basically he was a very strong bloke, but he just pushed it over the limit. Also he wasn't in shape. He was freebasing, as Ronnie had started doing at this time. There was a high death rate among the cast of

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