NOTE: I SOMETIMES POST AS THE FIRST PHOTO ALL OF THE INDIVIDUAL ELEMENTS OF THE CD'S, INCLUDING FRONT COVER, DISC & BACK INSERT PLUS ANYTHING ELSE, JUST AN F.Y.I. AND ALL CD'S COME IN JEWEL CASES UNLESS OTHERWISE NOTED. THANKS FOR LOOKING!
BOB
NOTE: MAIL RATES JUST WENT UP AGAIN...JUST AN F.Y.I.
THIS CD COMES FROM MY TIME AT A NATIONAL RADIO NETWORK WHERE I WAS THE MUSIC AND PROMOTIONS DIRECTOR FOR NEARLY 20 YEARS. A RECENT FIND FROM A BOX IN MY STORAGE UNIT.THIS IS A PHOTO OF THE ACTUAL ITEM FOR SALE, SORRY IF THE PICTURE(S) ARE A BIT BLURRY. I HAVE OTHER ITEMS FOR SALE, CHECK OUT MY OTHER AUCTIONS, THANKS!
AS I MENTIONED ABOVE FOR NEARLY 20 YEARS I WAS THE MUSIC & PROMOTIONS CORDINATOR FOR A MAJOR NATIONAL RADIO NETWORK.... ALL CD'S COME IN A JEWEL CASE UNLESS STATED OTHERWISE.
NOTE: eBay HAS TAKEN IT UPON THEMSELVES TO REMOVE WHAT THEY CALL “OUTSIDE” LINKS, THESE ARE IN THE HTML DESCRIPTION, AND CAN'T EVEN BE SEEN IN MY ITEM DESCRIPTION, SO FROM NOW ON IF YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE ITEM &/OR ARTIST LOOK 'EM UP, ON WIKI & DISCOGS, ETC.
NOTE: I DO COMBINE SHIPPING.
RECENTLY DUG THROUGH SOME OF THE BOXES IN MY STORAGE UNIT AND FOUND THESE CD's ... NOTE I DO COMBINE SHIPPING
THANKS FOR LOOKING!
BOB
ARTIST: KEITH RICHARDS
TITLE: “MAIN OFFENDER”
TRACK LISTING (SEE PHOTOS/BELOW):
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999 |
5:50 |
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Wicked As It Seems |
4:45 |
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Eileen |
4:26 |
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Words Of Wonder |
6:35 |
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Yap Yap |
4:42 |
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Bodytalks |
5:18 |
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Hate It When You Leave |
4:59 |
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Runnin' Too Deep |
3:25 |
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Will But You Won't |
5:04 |
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Demon |
4:43 |
RECORD LABEL: VIRGIN RECORDS
CAT.#'s: 0777-7-86499 2 2
YEARS: 1992
CONDITION: THIS IS OPENED BUT UNPLAYED, THE CD IN MINT/MINT- CONDITION. COMES WITH A 6 PANEL FOLDOUT. THERE IS A SMALL “NOTCH” CUT ON THE BOTTOM EDGE, DONE BY THE RECORD LABLE TO DENOTE A PROMO. (SEE PHOTO)
MORE INFO: THIS CD IS OUT OF PRINT. FROM THE MUSIC LIBRARY OF A NATIONAL RADIO NETWORK.
ARTIST INFO:
KEITH RICHARDS BIO/INFO-
In 1973, the editors of New Musical Express put Keith Richards, the principal guitarist and the musical soul of the Rolling Stones, at the top of their annual list of “rock stars most likely to die” within the year. Even by rock standards, Richards was a heroic consumer of heroin, cocaine, mescaline, LSD, peyote, Mandrax, Tuinal, marijuana, bourbon, and other refreshments, and it seemed to all observers that he was living on borrowed time. Rock’s casualty list was already ominously long; Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and Janis Joplin merely headlined the necrology. In 1969, Richards and his fellow-Stones had lost Brian Jones, who drowned in a pool just a few weeks after the band fired him. Richards did not so much guard his mortality as flaunt it. He memorialized his near-constant insensibility by giving open access to Robert Frank, Annie Leibovitz, and other image-makers, who captured him, backstage or in hotel rooms, half dressed and thoroughly zonked. You looked at those pictures of Richards, slumped, stoned, and stupid, and you figured it was only a matter of days before the wires would announce that he’d choked to death on his own vomit.
In fact, Richards went on and on, stumbling through concerts in a narcotic haze, sleeping through rehearsals, always on the edge of oblivion, and yet, together with Mick Jagger, producing some of the most memorable pop music of the time. Between 1968 and 1972, the Stones recorded “Beggars Banquet,” “Let It Bleed,” “Sticky Fingers,” and “Exile on Main St.,” the core of their repertoire. They went on to perform those songs as long as Sinatra performed “Love and Marriage.” The distinctiveness of the Stones was due less to Jagger’s vocals than to Richards’s capacity to ingest the blues-guitar styles of Chuck Berry and Jimmy Reed and create something new. There were far better technicians than Richards, far better soloists, but his sense of rhythm and riff and taste, his signature sustained chords and open spaces, gave the band its sound. And, through it all, the Grim Reaper was denied a backstage pass. New Musical Express, having kept Keith at No. 1 on its deathwatch for ten years, finally gave up and conceded his immortality.
The Stones have not written a song of consequence in thirty years, but they have survived four decades longer than their great contemporaries the Beatles. And, even as their originality has waned, their performing unit and corporate machine has been honed to perfection. Since 1989, the Stones have earned more than two billion dollars in gross revenues, helped along by sponsorship deals with Microsoft, Anheuser-Busch, and E*Trade. Promotour, Promopub, Promotone, and Musidor, firms based in Holland, for tax reasons, handle the various ends of the Stones’ business concerns, and everything is watched over by teams of accountants, immigration lawyers, security experts, and, until very recently, an aristocratic business adviser named Prince Rupert zu Loewenstein-Wertheim-Freudenberg. Even in years without tours or albums, the Stones find a way. They licensed “Start Me Up” to Microsoft when the company rolled out Windows 95, and “She’s a Rainbow” to Apple when a line of iMacs was in need of promotion. According to Fortune, the Stones are behind the merchandising of some fifty products, including underwear sold by Agent Provocateur. The Stones logo—a fat, lascivious tongue thrust through smiling, open lips––is as recognizable on the corporate landscape as the Golden Arches.
“The whole business thing is predicated a lot on the tax laws,” Keith Richards told Fortune. “It’s why we rehearse in Canada and not in the U.S. A lot of our astute moves have been basically keeping up with tax laws, where to go, where not to put it. Whether to sit on it or not. We left England because we’d be paying ninety-eight cents on the dollar. We left, and they lost out. No taxes at all. I don’t want to screw anybody out of anything, least of all the governments that I work with. We put thirty percent in holding until we sort it out.” Keith may fancy himself a symbol of ’68, but he channels the fiscal policy of Grover Norquist.
The last time the Stones were out on the road, between 2005 and 2007, they took in more than half a billion dollars—the highest-grossing tour of all time. On Copacabana Beach, in Rio de Janeiro, they played to more than a million people. Few spectacles in modern life are more sublimely ridiculous than the geriatric members of the Stones playing the opening strains of “Street Fighting Man.” The arena is typically jammed with middle-aged fans, who have donned après-office relaxed-sized jeans, paid the sitter, parked the minivan in the lot, and, for a few hundred dollars a seat, shimmy along with Mick Jagger, who, having trained for the tours as if for a championship bout, prances inexhaustibly through a two-hour set, at his best evoking the spawn of James Brown and Gumby, at his worst coming off like someone’s liquored-up Aunt Gert, determined to trash her prettier sister’s wedding with a gruesome performance on the dance floor. Ever since 1975, “the tour of the giant inflatable cock,” as Richards calls it, the Stones have tried to outdo themselves with spectacle. Occasionally, they have gone too far. “There was a huge business of getting elephants onstage in Memphis,” Richards says, “until they ended up crashing through ramps and shitting all over the stage in rehearsals and were abandoned.” But, beyond the spectacle, we come to admire the unlikely persistence of the Stones, an entity nearly half a century old, chugging comically, determinedly on. The lads are approaching seventy. Pruney, dyed, and bony, they storm through a set list that is by now as venerable and unchanging as the Diabelli Variations. “You do, occasionally, just look at your feet and think, ‘This is the same old shit every night,’ ” Richards has said, and yet he goes on playing and the crowds go on paying, reluctant to give it up, the last link to glory days.
The newest artifact of the band’s endurance is Keith Richards’s chipper new autobiography, called, defiantly, “Life” (Little, Brown; $29.99). Half book, half brand extension, it’s an entertaining, rambling monologue, a slurry romp through the life of a man who knew every pleasure, denied himself nothing, and never paid the price. Maybe you can’t always get what you want. The rule doesn’t apply to Keith.
One obvious caveat: a memoir by a man whose memory is fogged by countless years of narcotic obliteration is a memoir of a particular kind. In 1978, when Richards was asked why the Stones called their new album “Some Girls,” he replied, “Because we couldn’t remember their fucking names.” Nevertheless, Little, Brown paid Richards seven million dollars to produce the book. Richards, in turn, selected a skilled ghost––James Fox, the author of “White Mischief,” a well-told history of the murder of Josslyn Hay, the twenty-second Earl of Erroll, who was one of the many dissipated expats living in Happy Valley, outside Nairobi. For Fox, writing about the drugs, sexual adventure, and exquisite boredom in Happy Valley was good preparation for “Life.”
Richards and Fox know why the reader has put down his money: the same reason that Keith staggers around the stage even today, thirty years after kicking heroin, and, grinning maniacally, tells the cheering crowd, “I’m glad to be here! I’m glad to be anywhere!” It’s the titillation of hearing from someone who has never seen the inside of a factory or an office, and has consumed what there is to consume and survived to crow about the fact. This is the man who invented the riff to “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” in his sleep and yet has known satisfactions beyond the imaginings of Giacomo Casanova. And so “Life” is in a hurry to enhance the Myth of Keef and give us what we want. It opens with an extended scene of the Stones touring the American South, in 1975, their cars packed with high-class narcotics––“pure Merck cocaine, the fluffy pharmaceutical blow.” But in the town of Fordyce, Arkansas, population four thousand two hundred and thirty-seven, Richards runs into trouble with the cops. An antic narrative of Stones misbehavior and Southern justice ensues. Richards, who has just bragged to us of his possession and ingestion of vast quantities of dope, feigns incomprehension in the face of a possible prison sentence. Which, as usual, he dodges.
Richards boasts of his constitution. He not only recounts his “acid-fueled road trip with John Lennon” but also makes sure to tell us that Lennon “couldn’t really keep up.” Richards recalls, “He’d try and take anything I took, but without my good training. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, couple of downers, a couple of uppers, coke and smack, and then I’m going to work. I was freewheeling. And John would inevitably end up in my john, hugging the porcelain.”
At times, the book sounds like a consequence-free version of William Burroughs’s “Junky.” In one extended passage, Richard describes his daily diet:
I would take a barbiturate to wake up, a recreational high compared to heroin, though just as dangerous in its own way. That was breakfast. A Tuinal, pin it, put a needle in it so it would come on quicker. And then take a hot cup of tea, and then consider getting up or not. And later maybe a Mandrax or quaalude. Otherwise I just had too much energy to burn. So you wake up slow, since you have the time. And when the effect wears off after about two hours, you’re feeling mellow, you’ve had a bit of breakfast and you’re ready for work.
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