Bruce Robinson once described Vivian Mackerrell,
His friend and the inspiration for Withnail
As diminished in dying; middle-aged,
Stomach-drinking and still listening to The Stones.
But why not resist that slight slur,
When six decades on they’re still playing,
Releasing at 80 years old a new blessing,
For which no jibe or jury, or even observant jew
Could attone. Hackney Diamonds, they say
Refers to the shattered glass of a windscreen;
Something akin to East London aggression,
And this is a London Band afterall,
Albeit suburb burned, yet the fame
Soon earned rendered legends, defined
As I understand it, with their mouths and habits
The emblems of Rock n’ Roll’s epic call.
These bomb born boys, the squirts of ’43
Set the template for Pop which has bubbled
From microphone spit to champagne
In the Caribbean and Kent. Yet sour, or sweet
They stay special. Regardless of taste,
Richards, Jagger, the lost Watts and Wood
Make the claim for being the greatest of all,
Besting even The Beatles. If not in content,
Then power, both staying and stored
In the drawl of Mick’s wide mouth sprawl,
Or Keith’s guitar and drug drawn mythos;
The fact that these two types of man
Form one posse grants The Stones
Deeper substance and reduces each successive
Band’s progress, whether younger or not,
To a crawl. For this new record’s a badge
For physical and soulful endurance.
If their music hasn’t evolved then it doesn’t
Need to; for by staying together for longer
Than the life-span of my Dad
They’ll be a story saga to tell when music itself
Becomes cell based. Or part of the air,
Or wallpaper, or as future downloads to our DNA
Turns touch mad. That’s if we survive.
So start shining these diamonds. Kept inside
An album in a Country Blues Pop Rock style,
In which The Stones roll the past (and in a war
worn world that seems hopeful), to make it
An effective part of the present,
Easing out an example for others who seek
To swagger down the same mile.
Whether country, or not. And to do that
At 80 is to revive your grandparents,
And perhaps further back,
Revealing what is possible for us all,
Through both the spirit of man and the sinew.
The video for their lead single ANGRY
Makes you prize Sydney Sweeney’s figure,
But its for Keith’s smoking sneer
On the billboard, and Mick’s pout and preen
Pursed lips crack into the widest of smiles,
Made from knowing your place and respecting
The fact that you will not be as famous
And will not contribute half as much
As those young rebels, now old,
These former fires soon vapoured.
Just look at Keith’s fingers: arthritic,
Beauty still flows through that touch.
And look at how he’s still here,
Alongside Jagger’s advert for fitness.
His PE teacher father clearly installed
In his bones the means to prosper
And rise, as well as how to defy Time’s
Wracked stages. Ladies and gentlemen,
Fate and fame won’t forget them.
I give you the louche and the lauded,
And with Wyman and McCartney on bass
And the ghosts of Jones and Watts
Gathered to them, reignite the fight
And the fire of the fucking and feared
Rolling Stones.
David Erdos
.