Mick, Keith and I were out at a friend’s house in Queens about an hour before they were supposed to play the Garden in, I think it was, November of ’69. They were taping the show for the album that became Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out
. Making an album of the show and selling it was that greedy bastard Mick’s idea; he was tired of all the kids bootlegging their shows.
I was shooting pool with Keith, and I told him kinda quietly that it was rather hypocritical of Mick to be such a dick because, I mean, the Stones had essentially launched their legacy by, shall we politely say, co-opting
the Chuck Berry catalog.
Keith was lining up a shot on the six ball, and he mumbled – just like you think he would – that if it were up to him he’d let everyone tape all their shows. The cloud of smoke in front of his face was like an ice berg, and I was amazed he could even see the cue ball. Standing their with his shirt off, he looked like a refugee. Knowing their relationship like I did, I didn’t press him on why he didn’t stand up to Mick on the bootlegging issue. Because Keith’s not an idiot, he knows that he can enjoy the benefits of Mick’s avarice by standing idly by with that silly grin and cigarette and have people look at him like he’s just another guitarist who by way of kismet happens to be worth $250 million.
They see Mick as the spoiled playboy.