|
David Sinclair,
Q Magazine
Conventional histories of The Rolling Stones tend to
suggest that after the phenomenal rush of hits in the '60s, the group more
or less marked time until the punk revolution heralded their final
obsolescence. The recorded evidence shows otherwise. With The Beatles
gone, the Stones confirmed their godhead status with the release of Sticky
Fingers (1971) and Exile On Main Street (1972). Boasting songs like Brown
Sugar, Bitch, Rocks Off and Tumbling Dice, these two dark but
astonishingly vibrant collections have provided the blueprint for
succeeding generations of rock'n'rollers, stamping an indelible mark on
everything from the first Aerosmith album to the current Primal Scream
retro epic. The lull which followed was understandable, but hardly a
disaster. Goat's Head Soup (1973), their third US and UK Number 1 in a
row, reworked some familiar territory and boasted the courtly ballad,
Angie, while It's Only Rock'n'Roll (1974), besides bequeathing one of the
most naggingly familiar catchphrases in the lexicon of pop, was a stormer
of a dance album (in the old-fashioned sense).
The disc most urgently in need of re-assessment from this crop, however,
is Black And Blue. Frequently dismissed as the "audition" album, since it
incorporated try-out performances from guitarists Harvey Mandel, Wayne
Perkins and the man who got the job, Ron Wood, it remains a Stones record
with a rare sense of adventure and fun, as the band keys into exotic
pseudo-funk and reggae rhythms (Hot Stuff, Hey Negrita, Cherry Oh Baby)
without losing their distinctively sensual, slobbish appeal. They cleverly
side-stepped the issue of punk by absorbing enough influences from the
parallel revolution of disco to keep themselves sounding in step with the
times. The result was the haunting, four-on-the floor groove of Miss You,
signalling another classic album, Some Girls. Laden with goodies - Faraway
Eyes, Some Girls, Shattered and the wondrous Beast Of Burden - it became
their biggest all-time seller (until Steel Wheels in 1989). The follow-up,
Emotional Rescue, coasted lamely in the wake of Some Girls (which didn't
stop it sitting at the top of the US chart for nearly two months) and now
sounds the most dated of these albums.
Matters were soon redeemed, however, by Tattoo You (1981), a vintage set
bookended by the hits Start Me Up and Waiting On A Friend. Here, then, is
the first batch of Stones catalogue to emerge under the terms of their new
contract with Virgin. All albums have been digitally re-mastered by Bob
Ludwig, and unlike the shoddy job that London did on the Decca recordings
of the '60s, great pains have been taken to preserve the integrity of the
originals, right down to reinstating the Andy Warhol designed-zip on the
CD booklet of Sticky Fingers. Apart from Exile (originally a double album,
now a single 66-minute CD), that means most of the playing times are a
little short by modern standards, but the inspiring standard of excellence
remains undiminished.
|
Lenny Kaye,
Rolling Stone Magazine,
issue 112, 1972
There are songs that are better, there are songs that
are worse, there are songs that'll become your favorites and others you'll
probably lift the needle for when their time is due. But in the end, Exile
On Main Street (Rolling Stones COC-2-2900) spends its four sides shading
the same song in as many variations as there are Rolling Stone readymades
to fill them, and if on the one hand they prove the group's eternal
constancy and appeal, it's on the other that you can leave the album and
still feel vaguely unsatisfied, not quite brought to the peaks that this
band of bands has always held out as a special prize in the past.
The Stones have never set themselves in the forefront of any musical
revolution, instead preferring to take what's already been laid down and
then gear it to its highest most slashing level. Along this road they've
displayed a succession of sneeringly - believable poses, in a tradition so
grand that in lesser hands they could have become predictable, coupled
with an acute sense of social perception and the kind of dynamism that
often made everything else seem beside the point.
Through a spectral community alchemy, we've chosen the Stones to bring our
darkness into light, in each case via a construct that fits the time and
prevailing mood perfectly. And, as a result, they alone have become the
last of the great hopes. If you can't bleed on the Stones, who can you
bleed on?
In that light, Exile On Main Street is not just another album, a two-month
binge for the rack-jobbers and then onto whoever's up next. Backed by an
impending tour and a monumental picture-book, its mere presence in record
stores makes a statement. And as a result, the group has been given a
responsibility to their audience which can't be dropped by the wayside,
nor should be, given the two-way street on which music always has to
function. Performers should not let their public make career decisions for
them, but the best artisans of any era have worked closely within their
audience's expectations, either totally transcending them (the Beatles in
their up-to-and-including Sgt. Pepper period) or manipulating them (Dylan,
continually).
The Stones have prospered by making the classic assertion whenever it was
demanded of them. Coming out of Satanic Majesties Request, the unholy trio
of "Jumpin' Jack Flash," "Street Fighting Man" and "Sympathy For The
Devil" were the blockbusters that brought them back in the running. After,
through "Midnight Rambler," "Honky Tonk Women," "Brown Sugar," "Bitch" and
those jagged edge opening bars of "Can't You Hear Me Knocking," they've
never failed to make that affirmation of their superiority when it was
most needed, of the fact that others may come and go but the Rolling
Stones will alway-ways be.
This continual topping of one's self can only go on for so long, after
which one must sit back and sustain what has already been built. And with
Exile On Main Street, the Stones have chosen to sustain for the moment,
stabilizing their pasts and presenting few directions for their future.
The fact that they do it so well is testament to one of the finest bands
in the world. The fact that they take a minimum of chances, even given the
room of their first double album set, tends to dull that finish a bit.
Exile On Main Street is the Rolling Stones at their most dense and
impenetrable. In the tradition of Phil Spector, they've constructed a wash
of sound in which to frame their songs, yet where Spector always aimed to
create an impression of space and airiness, the Stones group everything
together in one solid mass, providing a tangled jungle through which you
have to move toward the meat of the material. Only occasionally does an
instrument or voice break through to the surface, and even then it seems
subordinate to the ongoing mix, and without the impact that a break in the
sound should logically have.
One consequence of this style is that most of the hard-core action on the
record revolves around Charlie Watts' snare drum. The sound gives him room
not only to set the pace rhythmically but to also provide the bulk of the
drive and magnetism. Another is that because Jagger's voice has been
dropped to the level of just another instrument, burying him even more
than usual, he has been freed from any restrictions the lyrics might have
once imposed. The ulterior motives of mumbling aside, with much of the
record completely unintelligible–though the words I could make out
generally whetted my appetite to hear more–he's been left with something
akin to pure singing, utilizing only his uncanny sense of style to carry
him home from there. His performances here are among the finest he's
graced us with in a long time, a virtual drama which amply proves to me
that there's no other vocalist who can touch him, note for garbled note.
As for Keith, Bill and Mick T., their presence comes off as subdued, never
overly apparent until you put your head between the speakers. In the case
of the last two, this is perfectly understandable. Wyman has never been a
front man, and his bass has never been recorded with an eye to clarity.
He's the bottom, and he fulfills his support role with a grace that is
unfailingly admirable. Mick Taylor falls about the same, chosen to take
Brian's place as much because he could be counted on to stay in the
background as for his perfect counterpoint guitar skills. With Keith,
however, except for a couple of spectacular chording exhibitions and some
lethal openings, his instrumental wizardry is practically nowhere to be
seen, unless you happen to look particularly hard behind Nicky Hopkins'
piano or the dual horns of Price/Keys. It hurts the album, as the bone
earring has often provided the marker on which the Stones rise or fall.
Happily, though, Exile On Main Street has the Rolling Stones sounding like
a full-fiedged five-into-one band. Much of the self-consciousness that
marred Sticky Fingers has apparently vanished, as well as that album's
tendency to touch every marker on the Hot 100. It's been replaced by a
tight focus on basic components of the Stones' sound as we've always known
it, knock-down rock and roll stemming from blues, backed with a pervading
feeling of blackness that the Stones have seldom failed to handle well.
The album begins with "Rocks Off," a proto-typical Stones' opener whose
impact is greatest in its first 15 seconds. Kicked off by one of Richards'
patented guitar scratchings, a Jagger aside and Charlie's sharp crack, it
moves into the kind of song the Stones have built a reputation on, great
choruses and well-judged horn bursts, painlessly running you through the
motions until you're out of the track and into the album. But if that's
one of its assets, it also stands for one of its deficiencies–there's
nothing distinctive about the tune. Stones' openers of the past have
generally served to set the mood for the mayhem to follow; this one tells
you that we're in for nothing new.
"Rip This Joint" is a stunner, getting down to the business at hand with
the kind of music the Rolling Stones were born to play. It starts at a
pace that yanks you into its locomotion full tilt, and never lets up from
there; the sax solo is the purest of rock and roll. Slim Harpo's "Shake
Your Hips" mounts up as another plus, with a mild boogie tempo and a fine
mannered vocal from Jagger. The guitars are the focal point here, and they
work with each other like a pair of Corsican twins. "Casino Boogie" sounds
at times as if it were a Seventies remake from the chord progression of
"Spider and the Fly," and for what it's worth, I suppose I'd rather listen
to "jump right ahead in my web" any day.
But it's left to "Tumbling Dice" to not just place a cherry on the first
side, but to also provide one of the album's only real moves towards a
classic. As the guitar figure slowly falls into Charlie's inevitable
smack, the song builds to the kind of majesty the Stones at their best
have always provided. Nothing is out of place here. Keith's simple guitar
figure providing the nicest of bridges, the chorus touching the upper
levels of heaven and spurring on Jagger, set up by an arrangement that is
both unique and imaginative. It's definitely the cut that deserved the
single, and the fact that it's not likely to touch number one shows we've
perhaps come a little further than we originally intended.
Side two is the only side on Exile without a barrelhouse rocker, and drags
as a result. I wish for once the Stones could do a country song in the way
they've apparently always wanted, without feeling the need to hoke it up
in some fashion. "Sweet Virginia" is a perfectly friendly lazy shuffle
that gets hung on an overemphasized "shit" in the chorus. "Torn and
Frayed" has trouble getting started, but as it inexorably rolls to its
coda the Stones find their flow and relax back, allowing the tune to
lovingly expand. "Sweet Black Angel," with its vaguely West Indian rhythm
and Jagger playing Desmond Dekker, comes off as a pleasant experiment that
works, while "Loving Cup" is curiously faceless, though it must be
admitted the group works enough out-of-the-ordinary breaks and bridges to
give it at least a fighting chance; the semi-soul fade on the end is
rhythmically satisfying but basically undeveloped, adding to the cut's
lack of impression.
The third side is perhaps the best organized of any on Exile. Beginning
with the closest thing to a pop number Mick and Keith have written on the
album, "Happy" lives up to its title from start to finish. It's a
natural-born single, and its position as a side opener seems to suggest
the group thinks so too. "Turd On The Run," even belying its gimmicky
title, is a superb little hustler; if Keith can be said to have a
showpiece on this album, this is it. Taking off from a jangly "Maybellene"
rhythm guitar, he misses not a flick of the wrist, sitting behind the
force of the instrumental and shoveling it along. "Ventilator Blues" is
all Mick, spreading the guts of his voice all over the microphone,
providing an entrance into the gumbo ya-ya of "I Just Want To See His
Face," Jagger and the chorus sinuously wavering around a grand collection
of jungle drums. "Let It Loose" closes out the side, and as befits the
album's second claim to classic, is one beautiful song, both lyrically and
melodically. Like on "Tumbling Dice," everything seems to work as a body
here, the gospel chorus providing tension, the leslie'd guitar rounding
the mysterious nature of the track, a great performance from Mick and just
the right touch of backing instruments. Whoever that voice belongs to
hanging off the fade in the end, I'd like to kiss her right now: she's
that lovely.
Coming off "Let It Loose," you might expect side four to be the one to
really put the album on the target. Not so. With the exception of an
energy-ridden "All Down The Line" and about half of "Shine A Light," Exile
starts a slide downward which happens so rapidly that you might be left a
little dazed as to what exactly happened. "Stop Breaking Down" is such an
overdone blues cliche that I'm surprised it wasn't placed on Jamming With
Edward. "Shine A Light" starts with perhaps the best potential of any song
on the album, a slow, moody piece with Mick singing in a way calculated to
send chills up your spine. Then, out of nowhere, the band segues into the
kind of shock gospel song that Tommy James has already done better. Then
they move you back into the slow piece. Then back into shlock gospel
again. It's enough to drive you crazy.
After four sides you begin to want some conclusion to the matters at hand,
to let you off the hook so you can start all over fresh. "Soul Survivor,"
though a pretty decent and upright song in itself, can't provide the kind
of kicker that is needed at this point. It's typicality, within the oeuvre
of the Rolling Stones, means it could've been placed anywhere, and with
"Let It Loose" just begging to seal the bottle, there's no reason why it
should be the last thing left you by the album.
Still, talking about the pieces of Exile On Main Street is somewhat off
the mark here, since individually the cuts seem to stand quite well. Only
when they're taken together, as a lump sum of four sides, is their impact
blunted. This would be all right if we were talking about any other group
but the Stones. Yet when you've been given the best, it becomes hard to
accept anything less, and if there are few moments that can be faulted on
this album, it also must be said that the magic high spots don't come as
rapidly.
Exile On Main Street appears to take up where Sticky Fingers left off,
with the Stones attempting to deal with their problems and once again
slightly missing the mark. They've progressed to the other side of the
extreme, wiping out one set of solutions only to be confronted with
another. With few exceptions, this has meant that they've stuck close to
home, doing the sort of things that come naturally, not stepping out of
the realm in which they feel most comfortable. Undeniably it makes for
some fine music, and it surely is a good sign to see them recording so
prolifically again; but I still think that the great Stones album of their
mature period is yet to come. Hopefully, Exile On Main Street will give
them the solid footing they need to open up, and with a little
horizon-expanding (perhaps honed by two months on the road), they might
even deliver it to us the next time around.
|
Happy
