The Rolling Stones
Exile on Main Street

It is almost unbelievable to say and it seems absurd to talk about, but even the Rolling Stones had their own distant golden age. So, we are not dealing with one of those inexplicably famous names, nor eternal inflated egos or ridiculous clowns. In short, we are not in the presence of bogus names on the level of Queen, Eagles, Elton John, or Guns 'n' Roses, but rather, of a band that for over thirty years has been consciously ruining a glorious and illustrious reputation. Partly out of illness, partly out of selfishness, "partly" for the "noble" purpose of profit, they have decided to unnecessarily prolong a tasteless project, made of untimely and misplaced clamor, and mean caricature appearances. Much could be written about the shattered and clumsy Stones, but it is also true that they are the only ones who can truly afford to be so awful. The reason is easily explained: their first decade of career is worth more than the careers of U2, Who, and Led Zeppelin put together, and it is not an exaggeration. The specific weight of the Stones in the history of rock has very few equals: R. Johnson, Berry, Dylan, Beatles, Young, Lou Reed, and Velvet Underground are the only artists that can truly stand alongside the name Rolling Stones, and to hell with David Bowie, Frank Zappa, or Captain Beefheart. They deserve profound respect especially from that myriad of young ignorant loudmouths (Oasis above all) who do the job they do only because of who knows whom. The Stones have completely redefined the canons of rock music, bringing Chuck Berry's rock to a decidedly more complex and higher artistic level. Apart from the great singles of the mid-sixties (Satisfaction, Get off of My Cloud, Paint It Black), what matters most about their golden age are those five albums that will forever be remembered in the history of Rock: Aftermath, Beggar's Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street. This is their specific weight. A rock band that in their moment of inspiration cannot be compared to anyone else. Neither to the Who, nor to Led Zeppelin, nor to the Doors, nor to the Allman Brothers Band, nor to Bruce Springsteen.

Among the aforementioned albums, a special mention should be made for Exile on Main Street, an album without which Tom Waits, Patti Smith, Springsteen, and even the best albums of Neil Young (see Tonight's the Night, On the Beach, Zuma) and U2 would never have existed. No one would have ever expected that after Sticky Fingers the Stones could compose such an album. Four sides of vinyl for a total of twenty new filthy and raw tracks. It seems to be the band's first album for the stylistic-artistic approach adopted: recorded in the basement of Keith's Parisian house, this is material that howls of basements and slums, of anarchic spirits. The record, by far the most swaggering and raw of the catalog, is considered the greatest white blues album ever made, a sort of memorable theft to the "detriment" or benefit of blacks. Four sides of blues, rock and roll, country, soul, and gospel thrown into a generally deliberately frayed mess in which the voice is almost never in the foreground, giving space to a vigorous and never again so powerful band. From this point on the Stones will never be the same and will embark on a long decline that continues to this day. And it is not even true that the album is so perfect, as many say; indeed, there are even a couple of filler songs (Loving Cup and the monotonous cover of Stop Breaking Down). But what truly makes this album great is the utter disinterest of Our Artists in money. One distinctly and tangibly breathes the taste of making music "art" with a capital A, in the way most congenial to them, that is, allowing the continuous and unpredictable stream of inspiration to flow without brakes or "inhibitions." The greatness of this album lies precisely in its total formal imperfection, in the frantic, disorderly, and chaotic way it came to light, in Keith Richards' coughs in Happy and in Jagger's disjointed and animalistic screams some twenty centimeters from the microphone. A saturated, lazy, and sweaty sound, a fireball made of drunkenness, brawls, and drug addiction. Exile on Main Street is the strongest example of total symbiotic fusion between life and music. A wild creativity marvelously immortalized in this sub-urban fresco of ruthless, raw and hyper-realistic black and white images. Five great artists at the height of their greatest genius, violent and addicted, but not for banal and trivial exhibitionism, but to feed that same beast that lived inside them: The Blues.