The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones. Stanley Booth

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      INTRODUCTION

       by Greil Marcus

      At the end of this book, in an afterword written sixteen years after The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones was first published, which was fifteen years after the events that the book recounts, Stanley Booth names his ‘stylistic heroes’. First there’s Jack Kerouac, then Vladimir Nabokov, Evelyn Waugh ‘and – most of all – Raymond Chandler. I tried,’ Booth writes, ‘to make every sentence one that could be spoken by Chandler’s detective narrator Philip Marlowe.’

      He comes close. ‘He was the only person I had ever seen who could make falling asleep pretentious’ is a line Chandler would have copied in his notebook. Sometimes, as when he follows a typically gooey description of a first acid trip with perhaps the only truly uncanny acid-trip description in print – uncanny because it is just a hair away from ordinary life – Booth steps back in literary time from Chandler and forward from him, so that you hear echoes of both Dashiell Hammett and Ross Macdonald. Booth and a friend have found their way to an all-night café, and at the café ‘there was a cop, all dark blue, black leather, and menacing devices. He was sitting at a table with a cup of coffee, talking to someone on a walkie-talkie. There had been a burglary at a warehouse in a black neighborhood. The burglar was a black teenage girl. The cop said he’d be right there, his tone loaded with sex and sadism. The only way to be intimate with a black girl was to punish her. After he left, the place still reeked with his lust, if you had taken acid.’

      There’s more to the connection than style – or maybe the question of what constitutes a style, what goes into it, what stands behind it, encompasses more than we tend to think it does. In one of the most damning, tough-minded moments in The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones, Booth draws down on the weight of social history that hangs in the air over each show chronicled – from the first night of the tour in Fort Collins, Colorado, on November 7 to the last day at Altamont on December 6 – and that hangs over each song playing on the radio and in Booth’s pages. It is the kind of history that provokes Booth to write that ‘in 1969, few people at Madison Square Garden on Thanksgiving Day thought that what the Rolling Stones were doing was a performance . . . [they] had, most of them, lived through a time of cold war, hot war, race riots, student riots, police riots, assassinations, rapes, murders, trials, waking nightmares. But Keith, Mick, Charlie, Bill, and the new guitar player were impersonating the Rolling Stones, and the audience were impersonating their audience . . . dancing under the circumstances seemed to have a transcendent value. Many people thought then that dancing and music could have a major role in changing the structure of society. They may have been naïve, but they were much more interesting than the sensible people who came along later.’ Booth’s most damning words are these: ‘In the sixties we believed in a myth – that music had the power to change people’s lives. Today we believe in a myth – that music is just entertainment’ – or that style is just style, or that detective stories are just detective stories.

      In 2011, eleven years after Booth honoured Raymond Chandler in the afterword to this book, the British novelist Jenny Diski, writing in the London Review of Books of the time when she, too, believed in the myth Booth once believed in, described Philip Marlowe and Hammett’s Sam Spade as figures of a later era, regardless of their provenance in the Twenties or Thirties or Forties. They were ‘the hard men with soft, democratic centres, American Romantics tinged with the Founding Fathers and Melville’s melancholic sense of humanity’. They were ‘dragged, flinching with distaste, into the dirty underworld by good and bad men and women, and by their doomed vocation to set the world to rights. Private eyes, but really public defenders . . . men who behaved as if there was a point in trying to right wrongs, even if they knew the world better than that.’ Looking back on nights in theaters watching Humphrey Bogart in John Huston’s film of Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon or in Howard Hawks’s film of Chandler’s The Big Sleep, to Diski the legacy of style was clear enough: ‘And maybe, later on,’ she wrote, ‘it was Marlowe and Spade who gave us the courage and foolheadedness to take to the streets.’

      This notion might seem far-fetched, even contrived, if it weren’t for Booth’s affirmation that every time he stood on the stage behind one of Keith Richards’s amps as the Rolling Stones played ‘Gimmie Shelter’ or ‘Street Fighting Man’, Philip Marlowe was standing behind him. What Diski reveals is how big and how deep Booth’s ambitions really were when he said he didn’t want a sentence in his book that Marlowe couldn’t speak, such as this one: ‘There is at the heart of this music a deep strain of mysterious insurrection, and the music dies without it.’

      Fervor drives The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones, the fervor of, among other things, trying to locate the heart of that insurrection – what Albert Camus, in The Rebel, describing a prisoner in Soviet Siberia who had constructed a silent piano with wooden keys, called ‘that harmonious insurrection’ – to locate it, name it, describe it, before it slips away. ‘You had to be there,’ Booth writes of a show at the LA Forum in Los Angeles. He doesn’t mean that he can’t call up what went on that night; he can. He means that if you had had the choice to go you couldn’t, as a serious, thinking, breathing person, have passed it up. ‘You had to be there’ – and because you weren’t, Booth is saying, it’s my obligation to put you there, onstage, backstage, in the crowd, in the sound as it happened.

      Booth’s СКАЧАТЬ