Word: yer
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...Everybody ready? We're sorry for the delay. Welcome the greatest rock and roll band in the world, The Rolling Stones." And then even if Keith Richards doesn't churn into the opening chords of "Jumpin' Jack Flash," as he does when he opens the epic live album, Get Yer Ya-Yas Out, 17,000 people will get just what they came for, fast and with no frills...
...smiled gently as they started forward. 'I know, sir. I know it is a splendid moment. I will try not to fail you.' " As the doomed cavalrymen rode past, an appalled cockney rifleman yelled, "Strathcona's Orse! You'll be bloody bully beef if yer don't get art the way!" Flowerdew and half his men were killed. But they took the ridge and saved Amiens-at least for a while...
...Richards because of their zits: "She didn't think she could ever bring herself to kiss a man with zits." Sanchez reveals how the "water rats" line in "Live With Me" stems from an actual rat-shoot out at Keith's estate, and how the previously indecipherable "Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out" is actually a homophone for a recurrent voodoo phrase. On the subject of black magic, there's a great quote from Richards gleaned from the Daily Mail, which deflates Sanchez's allusions to the Stones' warlockery and epitomizes to the Stones' flippant attitude toward the press...
...door. The Rolling Stones exist on stage; it's the persona, not the person, that's germane to art, and "kiss-and-tell" histories like Up and Down are supremely irrelevant. As Jagger once told Chet Flippo, "It's the attitude." The endless "Midnight Rambler," rambling forever on Get Yer YaYas Out; those spectral opening chords in "Gimme Shelter," music of nothingness played on the frets of your intestines; the way a song like "Sweet Virginia" talks about the shit on your shoes, there is shit on your shoes, shit on everybody's shoes, but you can scrape...
Somewhere in this melange of mysticism and morality lurks some talent. But the actors don't have a prayer in the hands of Richardson and Berney. As the midwife says to the ailing sinner, Barbara Allen, lying on the bed after bearing her witch-child, "It ain't yer fault. It were the fruit of yer husband. There weren't nothing you could...