Happy

Keith Richards Is 63

There have been less likely things. Moses parted the Red Sea. Jesus turned water into wine. George W. Bush was elected president of something. Twice. (Well, more or less.) And Keith Richards, "The Human Riff", the Rolling Stones' rhythm guitarist who played the decadent rock-and-roller part faster and harder than a hundred other guys who couldn't handle it and paid dearly. . . Keith Richards turns 63 today. By now he has already lived longer on this planet than one of my grandfathers did, and he is fast approaching the longevity of the other one.

I'm sorry, but it is just weird to think of Keith Richards in his 60's.

Part of the difficulty is no one expected they would need to. The man was the walking definition of the excessive hedonistic lifestyle afforded to only the very top echelon of rock stars in his era, and he stayed at it for a long time. No one could keep up with him; and the road to hell is paved with the bones of those - other musicians, hangers on, sycophants, and fans - who thought they could. Over the years, the slightly built Richards drank enough whiskey - first Jack Daniels, later Rebel Yell - to float a 747. He shot up enough heroin to fly a battleship. He has basically been chain smoking since 1964. He was famous in his peer group for staying awake for days on end, and then crashing utterly. He is as far as I know the only popular musician who had another musician write and perform a song dedicated to him, specifically requesting that he not off himself, for his fans' sake if nothing else (Nils Lofgren, "Keith Don't Go", 1976)

But against some sizeable odds, Richards has lived to tell. Even through all the drug years, he could always write and play. And he exerted a tidal pull that is hard to describe to anyone who was not there for it. Too many followers took that call literally, and happily destroyed themselves with alarming alacrity. They fell for the accoutrements surrounding the core of Richards' lifestyle, the drinking and the drugs, mostly.

Richards himself had to go literally through hell to get there, but what I think he found was that the point was not to dive down some hole and pull it in after you, as many of his idolizers did, but rather to keep fighting in the darkness, until some light finally comes through.

Or not. It is an argument that could go on for awhile, but the only pertinent evidence really is the man himself, still breathing and still vital, long after it was suspected he would be anything but.

I cannot imagine what it would be like to have someone like Keith Richards for a grandfather, but one of the funniest things he mentioned in a recent interview was that after he passes out nowadays, on a sofa somewhere in his house, his grandchildren like to sneak up and play with his famously unkempt hair. They put paper clips and beads in it and braid it and things like that. Then when he comes to, Richards just brushes it back out of his face, adjusts his red bandanna headband, and goes along his merry way.

Bless you, my man. Happy 63rd. And thank you for everything.