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i. I don’t need no beast of burden
Mick and Keith, Keith and Mick. That’s how it used to be in those shitty hotel rooms, trying to write the next new hit that they weren’t quite sure they could do. Andrew’s insisted they do their own shit now. So there they are sitting in front of each other, Keith’s hands so sure and easy; Mick’s not sure why he has a guitar, but they like to do that, like to look at each other, close enough to read the lyrics from each other’s mouths.
Charlie’s somewhere, and Charlie hates all of the new attention they seem to be getting now. If Charlie could have it, he’d be part of the rolling stones, except no one would give a fuck about who they were. But this is Mick and Keith’s world, and they’re getting better at the whole band thing, the whole image they’re supposed to be project, even the whole songwriting thing.
And back then, they all did drugs, except it was the easy kind. Even Charlie had smoked dope, occasionally shaking his long hair out of his face. Once, Bill had almost set his hair on fire, carelessly letting it dangle on the lit-end of his joint; Andrew had had a field day, laughing about how in-character they were about the whole thing. It had been funny – except for Brian, who was always a step ahead. And initially, they’d thought it was cool, the kind of fun thing they weren’t quite ready for, except Brian was always trying the new things that no one knew about. Brian was getting more and more lost, a weak caricature made of pills, a strange mix of uppers and downers that left him unable to speak, just a paper-thin remnant of a man they’d all considered the musical genius in their little group.
Back then, it was Brian getting late. It was Brian they all looked at from the side of their eyes, Brian who couldn’t keep it together long enough, Brian who was always on something else and never consistent. It was Brian they got pissed at, upset at. It was Brian they judged.
Nowadays, it’s Keith.
ii. I don’t want no beast of burden
Nellcote is an absolute disaster; for all of Mick’s hatred of structure, this might just be a bit too much chaos for him. Bianca isn’t particularly happy, her nails are sharp clenched against his arm. She’s usually happy to be off doing her own thing, but Keith’s villa has her on edge, and she skirts around Mick the way she never does. There’s the smell of stale pot merging with the smell of fresh pot, something disgusting and rotting that makes its way into the back of Mick’s throat and fills him with something that might have been worry if it hadn’t been going on for so long.
‘The fuck is Charlie?’ he asks Bill, who’s lounging in the basement studio, idly playing his bass.
‘Didn’t bother showing up, did he,’ Bill tells him. ‘Must be getting tiring, waiting for someone sober to fuckin’ play.’
Mick doesn’t ask anything else; rushing up the stairs all he finds is that human disgrace named Gram Parsons, all blown pupils and grinning like he’d keep doing it if Mick broke his jaw.
He finds Keith sober enough to drag downstairs, and they’re recording with Charlie’s drum beat, some song he’d laid out beforehand, and it’s only been a half hour when Keith’s hands start shaking.
He messes up one note, two, then says, ‘I need a fuckin’ fix. ‘ll be back’
Bill’s putting his bass down, the recording engineers who’ve been trying to pretend to be sober are all lighting up again; they all know Keith isn’t coming back.
There’s a shit load of coke spread throughout the damn villa; naked women and men in their fuckin’ phases of hedonism. Mick’s getting real sick of it getting in the way of what they’re here to do. Bianca’s staring at him from where he left her, Anita’s next to her saying some shit or the other, and Mick runs up the stairs, two at a time.
Keith’s doing what he’s best at now. The room reeks of the same sourness the entire house does, there’s an acidity in the air. Keith looks haggard, deathly sunken. He looks like shit, and looks like he knows it and doesn’t care about it.
‘Now, I haven’t brought this up before,’ Mick tells him. ‘But this is getting out of hand, Keith.’
‘Don’t get your fuckin’ panties in a twist, Michael,’ Keith says. He’s thrown his head back against the headboard, neck arched. Anyone would call it immorally attractive, the way the pale skin is on display; except there’s nothing attracting about Keith these days. ‘It ain’t the deal you’re makin’ it out to be.’
‘You’re too fuckin’ gone to even show up for an hour, much less capable. Not a big deal, huh? Keith, you don’t have a fuckin’ clue of what’s goin’ on with the band, what the fuckin’ music is -’ Mick tells him.
‘I play the fuckin’ guitar well enough,’ Keith says, and there’s that characteristic glaze in his eyes. He won’t remember anything tomorrow, and it pisses Mick off like nothing.
Mick shakes his head, he feels vicious in the line of Keith’s indifference. ‘Just like Brian. You are just like that coked out bastard. And you’re goin’ to fuckin’ die like him too.’
‘Mick’s really fuckin’ tired these days, ain’t he,’ Keith has his eyes closed, and it’s clear he isn’t even listening.
There’s this burning sensation in Mick’s eyes, this sheer sense of humiliation even though he isn’t the addict here.
‘Fuck you!’ he yells, walking away, knowing no one’s heard him.
iii. I’ll never be your beast of burden.
They’re recording Miss You, and they’ve all been a bit on edge ever since Keith’s drug bust. There’s talk about him doing some charity thing, but Mick still can’t get over how stupid you have to be to keep heroine in your room while you’re in fuckin’ Canada.
But Keith’s been better lately. No one knows if it’s the therapy or the lack of heroine, but they’ll happily take both because there’s some semblance of coherency back.
It isn’t Mick and Keith again, nor is it Keith and Mick yet. Mick’s sort of forgotten how to talk to this version of Keith that’s listening, so it’s just them talking at each other, stupid shit about the weather and whether something sounds right.
It isn’t until they’re sitting in the studio, fucking around, that Keith turns to him and says he’s got something else for the basic song lyrics they’ve been given.
‘It’s like, about, shouldering the weight, you know,’ Keith tells him, with that old surety that Mick will understand what he’s trying to say. ‘You can fill in the rest, but the guy’s refusing to be used like that. I’ll never be your beast of burden. He won’t do any of that.’
‘Yeah’, Mick says, smiling, but he sings: ‘I don’t need no beast of burden.’