I read it a few years ago. My issue was - How does someone who spent most of his adult life high on something, have such good recollection of all those events?
It’s baked in?
I’ve met Keith Richards twice
The first time, I didn’t even realize it was him
When we were kids on the Mean Streets of Haddonfield back in the 70s, while riding our bikes around, we would often stop at 7-Eleven. there was one right where Haddonfield and Cherry Hill met. One day, while sitting on the curb, sipping root beer Slurpees and flipping through MAD Magazine, while our collective pile of Schwinn StingRays took up the front half of two parking spaces, this crazy looking glittery hobo zombie came wandering up. He clearly wasn’t used to walking outside, even with his aviator sunglasses on. The sunlight seemed to weigh on him, like a stiff wind pushing him backwards . He walked past us, dodging our bikes, and in his best Keef voice, he said “Afternoon boys” and with a hoarse chuckle he went in. A few minutes later he came back out, empty handed, made a quick call on the pay phone , then began calmly pacing, clearly waiting for someone. We were kinda freaked out by this, thinking a robbery might be going down soon, so we finished our drinks, untangled the ape-hangers of our StingRays and got out of there
It was only a few years ago, that I heard the whole story
See, this was when Keith was getting off heroin and renting a house in Cherry Hill to dry out
Apparently, Keith had come to 7-Eleven to get some smokes, but only had a $100 bill and no ID, so the cashier wouldn’t break it for him. Mick came by, they got the smokes, then went to a nearby bar for the afternoon
Yes, because seeing Keith Richards - in real life - scared the shit out of me, I missed meeting Mick Jagger as well by 5 minutes
The second time, was many years later. I can even remember the exact date - July 13, 1985
I worked backstage at Live Aid by getting a pass from the promoter because they where short on people , and catering on Saturday … basically, working the food line
Saturday morning, while I was lost someplace backstage at JFK Stadium, and just using my sharky nose to find the scent of *anything *cooking and man my assigned station, I heard that same gravelly but playful voice ask “You have a smoke, mate?” I happened to have a pack of Camels on me, and a Zippo from the yacht club I worked when was exiled in Florida. I lit it for him, he said thanks and strolled along on his merry way
I didn’t see Ronnie Wood or Bob Dylan, though
Also that day:
I made a grilled chicken sandwich for Madonna
I told Jim Kerr his shirt was on backwards; he didn’t care
I helped deliver Jimmy Page’s bar to his trailer - yes, enough for an* entire* bar, for a visit lasting 6 hours; his nickname was “The Toad”