“They bristled with energy; the satin scarves, velvet hipsters, feline waists, the wry quips to the press, the snakeskin boots, the rotten teeth and the cocaine eyes.” – Toby Creswell.
There is a photo on the inner sleeve of
Sticky Fingers that defines the album – and, indeed, the legend of the Rolling Stones – better than any extended essay ever could. It is a snapshot of all five band members, yet our attention is drawn to the most famous two: lead singer Mick Jagger and lead guitarist Keith Richards.
Jagger stands apart from his bandmates and gives a great yawn. Is he bored? Jaded? Simply exhausted from the mental and physical stress of being himself? Whichever perspective you take, Jagger’s body language exudes a worn-out weariness.
Conversely, a rotten leer is slashed across Richards’ mouth. His leather-jacketed chest is puffed out like a cocky bantam. Slender legs sinuously entwine, ending in sharp snakeskin boots. His wickedness and devil-may-care decadence contrast with Jagger, yet the combination of the two defines the hedonistic weariness of
Sticky Fingers – arguably the greatest drug album of the 1970s.
Sticky Fingers marks a peak for the Stones for several reasons. Firstly, it is, along with
Exile On Main St , one of two of their classics that has not dated since its release. Their country songs sound worn-in and comfortable, unlike their early covers and even much of
Beggar’s Banquet or
Let It Bleed . Secondly, the album is immortal proof of the junkyard dog toughness of the Rolling Stones as a band. The turmoil of their light-speed, surreal 1971 lives is not defied, risen above or swept under the carpet; indeed, it is turned into magnificent, ragged art.
Sister Morphine , the album’s best songs and one of the nastiest, most nihilistic drug songs ever, captures the delirious moment between overdose and death: Richards’ sparse, scraping guitar is chillingly skeletal, backing Jagger’s frank, hideous lyrics:
“Cos you know, and I know, that in the morning I’ll be dead
So you can sit around and you can watch
All the clean white sheets stained red.”
And if the Stones use their personal drama as a means of self-fulfilment rather than self-destruction, they arejust as likely to rage and snarl against their own problems: drugs are a weapon of vengeance on
Dead Flowers , a sadistic f**k-you from a neglected son to his affluent, indifferent father:
“When you’re making bets on Kentucky Day/I’ll be in my basement room with a needle and a spoon/And another girl to take my pain away.”
And what a powerful image “dead flowers” is: does it mean the loss of beauty and innocence through drug addiction (the poppies used for opium, perhaps?) or the end of the ‘flower power’ of the 1960s in the face of the excess and gratification of the 1970s? Such vindictiveness is balanced out by
Wild Horses : the Richards-penned masterpiece that couldn’t be further from the fight of
Dead Flowers . Throughout its six minutes, the song seems to be constantly on the verge of falling apart: someone is going to stop. Perhaps Jagger, during his delivery of the line,
“Let’s do some living/After we die”, is going to break down in despair, or perhaps the extent of Richards’ personal confession will see the guitarist collapse. Somehow, the song exudes a regal, dignified grace, despite it being possibly the most wretched songs of the Stones’ golden era.
“I have my freedom/But I don’t have much time”, sings Jagger. This sentiment of futility is echoed on the lushly orchestrated
Moonlight Mile , an on-the-road plea to far-off loved ones that does indeed sound like it was recorded on some lonely, moonlit road:
“I am just living to be lying by your side”. Between the pair,
Horses and
Mile shatter the delusions of glory and greatness imbued in fame: the rock ‘n’ roll life seems an endless grind of never being alone and always being lonely.
The bridge between Jagger’s weariness and Richards’ impishness in that magnificent photograph is
Can’t You Hear Me Knockin’. Just when it seems the album’s exhausted mood could constrict, the muscular opening riff snarls into life, bringing back arrogance and a never-say-die attitude. A “speed freak jive” and “cocaine eyes” are both referenced here, but this is the Stones refusing to give in: they keep on kicking and vowing to fight; the musical innovation of the melting, rock-jazz jam is a sign that they would refuse to let this be the end. Richards’ biting chords sweep throughout the song, intertwining with Bill Taylor’s rhythm guitar and the freeform jazz of Bill Keyes’ saxophone.
Richards’ dogfighting with Taylor is further evident in the libidinous, chest-thumping grooves of
Bitch and
Brown Sugar : biting, nasty and unapologetic, each song puts the strut ‘n’ sneer that ran throughout the Stones’ 1960s work into
Sticky Fingers . Rejoicing in the lusty excess so reviled on
Wild Horses and
Moonlight Mile , the very least that you could say about the scintillating pair is that they show the hungry heart that still beat in the Stones, forbidding them from crashing in despair. No detractor of the Stones can dismiss or argue against the magnificence of
Sticky Fingers ; weary and salacious, ragged and fiery, jaded and biting. Few artists have the capability, mental or physical, to take such personal strife and turn it into such a great album.
Best Tracks:
Sister Morphine
Wild Horses
Dead Flowers
