I called my brother this morning and asked him if he read Liz Phair's review of Keith Richards' new autobiography, Life. (When we did we start swapping the word "autobiography" for "memoir"?) It was a nice gesture to have Liz Phair review Richards, just for the Exile symmetry. She wrote Exile in Guyville, and he did Exile on Main Street.
Chris wasn't impressed with the Exile symmetry and was disgusted by Liz Phair's bad writing. He urged me to check out David Remnick's review for some proper writing. A sample:
Few spectacles in modern life are more sublimely ridiculous that the geriatric members of the Stone playing the opening strains of "Street Fighting Man." The arena is typically jammed with middle-aged fans, who have donned apres-office relaxed-sized jeans, paid the sitter, parked the mini-van in the lot, and, for a few hundred dollars a seat, shimmy along with Mick Jagger, who, having trained for the tours as if for a championship bout, prances inexhaustibly through a two-hour set at his best evoking the spawn of James Brown and Gumby, at his worst coming off like someone's liquored-up Aunt Gert, determined to trash her prettier sister's wedding with a gruesome performance on the dance floor.
I'll get around to reading the book soon, but, for the moment, I'm just enjoying the reviews of the book, as the authors reminisce about their experiences with their first Stones album. The photographs of the early Richards are also fabulous. The guy didn't take a bad picture even in the depths of his drug consumption. (More pictures here)