So the Rolling Stones are re-releasing (yet AGAIN) Exile on Main Street. I’m tempted to pick it up, but part of me is like, Fuck. I’ve already bought the album three times in three different formats. Don’t I qualify for a free copy by now? (Plus, I’m fairly certain I already have some of the “previously unreleased” tracks on my computer. Otherwise, why would I have five different versions of “Loving Cup”?)
NPR has run interviews with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards this week. I love Keith Richards. How could you not love Keith Richards? (RHETORICAL QUESTION.)
And for me, Exile is unquestionably the best Stones album. I remember, driving to work on Route 278 in South Carolina — you have never smelled hot underbrush or seen waves coming up from the macadam until you’ve driven into 100-degree weather at 8 am in the Low Country — listening to this album over and over and over. Side A on the way there, Side B on the way home. Magical time of my life. End of my junior year, changing my major for the second time, torturing my body using methods that violate several international treaties. Daily.
The day I moved to LIC, my neighbor (with whom I’d later have many exciting adventures) was blaring Exile and it reverberated in our sad concrete courtyard. I took it as a good sign.
Yes, good memories all. But I still don’t think I’ll be buying yet another copy of it.
Also, speaking of old people: I spent a few days working at Brimfield Flea Market with my dad last week. The weather was at turns dreadful and lovely, yet I discovered that I would rather stand in the drizzling rain in the middle of nowhere than sit at a desk 9 (or 10…) hours a day.
I discovered something else, too. I have officially aged out of the “old-men-flirting-with-me-in-a-cutesy-way” territory and straight into “old-men-flirting-with-me-in-all-seriousness-no-really-get-the-fuck-away-from-me” territory. And, twice, I was asked if my father was my husband.
I want my free copy of Exile now, old men of the world, Keith Richards included.
Stroke me.
