S.t.p.: A Journey Through America With the Rolling Stones by Robert Greenfield

Author:Robert Greenfield
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: History & Criticism, Individual Composer & Musician, Music, Rock, Biography & Autobiography, Genres & Styles
ISBN: 9780786730803
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2009-04-27T15:00:00+00:00

Chapter

7

I mean there are some of us devoted but simple folk who have been really trying for years for some sort of personal encounter with Mick and in walks this Radziwill woman on the arm of Truman Capote, no less. There she is in Kansas City and New York and God knows where else. Hasn’t it all become too chi-chi with a real live princess and who the hell is Tony? Lee, dearest, the next time you run into Mick Darling, do give him my fondest. And—ride on, baby.

BOB CHRISOPHER, OF LAKE OSWEGO, OREGON,

IN A LETTER PUBLISHED IN “ROLLING STONE”

“Southern stops here. ‘Ee’s out.” Peter Rudge sighs softly the next day, ignoring the blinking red button on his phone that informs him there’s a message in his name waiting down at the desk. “It was out of hand in Texas, yes, I grant you that.” Rudge picks a piece of tobacco off his teeth with a fingernail and leans back into the pillow on his bed. The red light keeps on blinking. “Too many people hoppin into limos like they owned ‘em. But . . . c’est fini. We got changes to make.”

It’s a well-steamed, uneasy breeze that blows off the coffee-colored Mississippi River, down by the Jax Brewery in old New Orleans. Outside Rudge’s hotel room, a line has commenced to form, writers and photographers with metaphorical hats in hand being asked to explain why they should not be sent back to from where they came. The Texas debacle has hit the S. T. P. organization from top to bottom, and action will be taken.

Terry Southern, an obvious scapegoat, will be the first to catch it. For what Ethan Russell calls the “Unpardonable sin . . . getting too close to one of the principals,” he will be asked to leave the tour. Ethan will as well. As will this writer. And maybe even Capote and Beard. Up on the hotel’s alabaster white rooftop, Stan Moore watches an orange sunset behind skyscrapers under construction and mutters darkly, “I might be goin home Monday mahself. Yeah. Because I can really get down if I have to and I want Peter to have confidence in me. Like . . . I can do my job, man.”

Chris O’Dell sleeps away the day. Every time she shows her face lately, someone asks her when she plans to leave, which is kind of awkward since she doesn’t. Mick and Keith absolutely need someone around like her to take care of the small things, and all these people acting in the Stones’ name make Chris really annoyed. It’s not like it was when she worked for the Beatles at Apple. People ripped the Beatles off right and left, but at least when they walked into a room, they commanded respect. People treat the Stones like children. Like this New Orleans purge. The Stones don’t even know about it. No one’s even asked them what they think. This party is getting to be a drag. Chris sleeps on.

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