Here's an interesting conceit: a review of Keith Richards' new autobiography written in the voice of Mick Jagger's wounded reply. I read this, even knowing it was fake, with something akin to desperate longing for it to be real. To be a rock music fan is to keep hoping against hope that one of the great stars could ever be so candid, that McCartney would drop the act for once and just come clean without always protecting his sense of his own legend. Sometimes we get a taste--the Edge in It Might Get Loud for instance, or, surprisingly, Dylan in Chronicles Vol. 1--but mostly it's the same careful myth-maintenance from old rockers well past the point where their legend is assured, and where their timidity about it reveals what princesses they are.
Authors, poets, painters, even politicians routinely cop to all their worst crimes in their later work, or in their dying hour. But Rock Stars just keep bullshitting us. I haven't read Keith's book, but I can already tell the tone rings false. He's the hero, of course, the rakish rogue, and the rest of us are eating our hearts out. Here's a guy who never learned how not to put his cigarettes out on other people's carpets, but we're the patsies. God knows, I think the man's a genius, but at a certain point you've got to learn not to put your cigarettes out on other people's carpets or you're not a human being. I wanted Keith to be honest, and instead we got another "honest" book, an insider's look into someone who's never looked inside.