The Master's Voice

Days before it was published this past Tuesday, Keith Richards’ autobiography, “Life,” topped every book category on amazon.com.

Having contributed my fair share to the Stones’ concert/record/merch coffers over the years and getting diminishing returns on my investment (quick, name the last Stones album that wasn’t a reissue or live disc), I’ve opted to wait until the book hits my library shelves instead of shelling out the publishing price.

Besides, a little googling is all it took to read some of the more semi-salacious (Jagger’s dagger is more like a penknife) and not-so-shocking (the Glimmer Twins are far from joined at the hip) revelations. One nugget I did find surprising is that Richards was a member of his school’s choir. As if the mental image of rock’s “bad boy” as a white-robed cherub singing “Jerusalem” wasn’t bizarre enough, Richards says he signed up because he had “a soprano that worked.”

I once heard it said that if a Marlboro could talk, it would sound like Keith. I have no doubt that pre-nicotine/drugs/booze/formaldehyde he had some sweet pipes, but I’m just as glad all that high livin’ vaporized them. After all, what would such Stones classics as “Happy,” “Before They Make Me Run” and “A Little T&A” be without that voice.

In writing as in music, it’s the voice that separates the masters from the mere technicians. One of my favorite Hunter S. Thompson anecdotes appears in the biography, “Gonzo.” After giving a rambling, coke-fueled speech at “Rolling Stone” magazine’s 25th anniversary party, Thompson was found by the “RS” editorial assistant who was charged with being his keeper “…talking alone with Keith Richards, which was absolutely amazing to hear. It sounded like two dogs barking at one another…”

No doubt The Good Doctor and Keef were also playing the same chord in their respective crafts – rockin’, rollin’ and rabidly debauched. In this same vein, I find it intriguing to pair up my favorite authors with their pitch-worthy counterparts in the music world. For instance, Gore Vidal is literature’s Bryan Ferry – elegant, erudite with a touch of the louche lounge lizard. David Sedaris is definitely in tune with Morrissey, turning the bleakness of family, relationships and, in Sedaris’ case, the holidays, into darkly humorous vignettes. And Marilynne Robinson strikes me as mid-career Joni Mitchell, using inward, impressionistic imagery to mine the spiritual lives of her characters.

Whether or not you appreciate their language or lyrics, there’s no mistaking the intonation of these unique “voices” for lesser artists. And that, my friends, is what true artistry is all about.