On the Rolling Stones, America, sadness, and hope
Their Great Satanic Majesties, the Rolling Stones, released a new album this past summer, Foreign Tongues. I listened to some of it on my home from work last night.
First off: Listen to it. That Sir Mick Jagger and Mr. Keith Richards can still write such vibrant and urgent music at an age when most other pop music stars are cashing in checks on nostalgia tours is truly a sign of their genius. They sound as dynamic as they did during their golden years, mining American blues and R&B with reverence and respect and joy. There really is no other band like them. And this might be heresy to say, but here goes: If the Beatles were still together, with John Lennon and Sir Paul McCartney still a writing duo, I don't think they'd be writing anything as good as Jagger-Richards. The Stones have settled the long debate over who was better, not just by outliving their rivals, but by still producing work of spirit and vigor more than sixty years after they formed.
The last song I listened to before I pulled into my driveway was "Ringing Hollow". Let me share with you the first two verses:
Before we ever met
I saw all your movies
I smoked your cigarettes
I drove down your highway
To the mountain top
I spent all my money
Putting quarters in your old jukebox
It's ringing hollow
It's ringing deep
It's ringing loud
And there's always a scoundrel
Trying to whip up the crowd
What do you think about that?
The clocks never gonna turn back
Lady Liberty don't look so good
When she's wearing a frown
Yes. Sir Mick is writing about America. The America of myth. The America whose Black musicians spoke to five white kids from London. The America of wide open spaces, of vitality, of boundless energy. The America which came to dominate the world not merely by its military and economic might, but by the example of its culture, a culture where musicians just one generation removed from chattel slavery shaped what the world knew of a country which didn't honor them.
Read those lyrics. Those aren't the lyrics of a man who hates America. This is the poetry of a man besotted with America, in love with it, formed by its art and culture. And it's the verse of a man saddened by the turn it has taken.
This is why our fascist moment is so gutting to so many around the world. For all its faults, America has always been a beacon. Despite its racism, bigotry, and misogyny, it has always tried to become better than it was, even if in fits and starts. And now it seems as if it wants to commit suicide. As if its people have given up on what made the country truly great. Because what made us great was not blood and soil, was not guns and economic power. It was ideas and ideals, however imperfectly lived. Because the idea has always been there, something to strive for, something for which those who were not included in that idea have always fought to attain and in which to be included. Dr. King didn't want to overthrow the country; he wanted America to fulfill its promise. Langston Hughes wrote "I, too, sing America". James Baldwin loved this country so much that he held a mirror up to it so it could see its own ugliness. Only communists and fascists have wanted to overthrow America; the rest of us, the rest of the world, have wanted it to live up to its boundless promise.
But here's the secret that those who want to destroy this country miss: America doesn't belong to them. It never has. Yes, they may have had some periods of dominance. Too many of them. But they have always been yesterday's men and women. They have always been behind the curve. They have always tried to preserve something which has already been rejected. And they will find that out again. America as an idea is bigger than them. They cannot fathom it. They cannot encompass it. And it will crush them as a rolling stone crushes an ant. They will always be yesterday's people, and any sway they may hold will be fleeting in the grand scope of history.
Don't give up on us, lads. We have lost our way. But we always find the road again.
Take it away.