The Rolling Stones have been with me for a long time. For most of my life I regretted — along with not getting a PhD. — the void, never having seen the legendary rock band live.
Then I turned 60. My brother, Joel, who lives in Boston, purchased tickets for us, along with my nieces and Amy and Alison, to eliminate a regret. Can’t beat that. (Now I don’t care about getting a doctorate either).
When I read the piece about Keith Richards’ new autobiography in today’s New York Times (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/24/arts/music/24richards.html?pagewanted=2&ref=homepage&src=me), I thought “good for him.” In fact, I was charmed.
Keith Richards telling it like it is/was, melodic guitar genius, former heroin addict, tree climber at an advanced age, and I’m not sure I want to know what else. But the music, ah, the music.
I always preferred the bad boys of rock ‘n’ roll to the shiny haired Beatles. Where did that come from? So when a stage started edging out down the center of the giant Fleet Center, and women my age started throwing their panties, bras, probably their phone numbers, at the bad boys’ feet, I just smiled. Looked at my 30-something nieces, we were all giggling, my brother clearly enjoying the nostalgic rush.
“I know it’s only rock ‘n’ roll but I like it. I like it. Like it. Aw, I like it…” Thanks, man.