Keith Richards
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Keith looked up at the chimney, then back at me. I saw a gleam in his eye.
We had this one.
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Keith ambled out of the airplane, legs stiff from the 45 minute trip
from Teterboro. He smiled. Keith looked like warm, friendly leather.
Soft eyes.
"I'm Gil Markle, Keith. Welcome here."
"Hey, yeah. Nice, man. Nice trip."
"And I'm Alan Dunn, Gil. Sorry for the delay, but here we are."
I was then introduced to Jane Rose, who was talking to Keith and
looking at
him
while shaking
my
hand, to Alan's comely wife
Maureen, and to a smiling Patti Hansen, who looked me right in the
eyes.
"Let's go," I said. "Black car, over there. "
"We all going in one car?" Keith asked.
"Yes," I said. "We'll all fit." I made a mental note to
investigate the
purchase of a second black Cadillac. (Except they didn't
build
big ones anymore.) We squeezed into the car. Keith, Patti, and Jane
Rose in the back seat; Alan Dunn and his wife up front; me driving.
"Car got a radio?" Keith shouted up.
I flipped to WAAF, The Police; then to WBCN, an old J. Geils cut; then
to some Hartford station, Jerry Lee Lewis.
"Yeah," Keith erupted. "Yeah."
I turned up the volume, and by the end of the tune, which was
"Personality," we were gliding up Stoddard Road, past the Long View
pond and rowboat, and up the long gravel drive. The Farmhouse glistened
white, and the enormous barn glowed cherry red under a dark but very
starry summer's night sky. There was a new moon. It was silent, except
for the crickets.
"Welcome to Long View, Keith," I said.
"Yeah," Keith replied. "Nice place."
We were scarcely inside the house, drinks ordered up but not yet in
hand, when Alan Dunn motioned to me and took me aside, behind the
fireplace. "Look," he said, "this has got to be quick tonight.
I've got
to be back in the city for a day's work tomorrow. So does Jane Rose.
Keith's got to be in Rome before the weekend, and he's nowhere near
ready to go. Just got evicted from his apartment, and there're a lot of
loose ends to tie up. So give him a quick tour, and let's take a look
at your plans for the loft. Don't get your hopes up. There's just not
time for us to do much tonight."
"Here's your wine, Alan," I said. "And here's a screwdriver for
Keith.
Where'd he go?"
"Into the control room, I think. With Patti. Let's meet up in the loft
in ten minutes, and you better call your pilots and tell them to be
ready to depart Worcester for Teterboro at eleven, at the latest. Sorry
it's got to be so rushed, but this was your idea, not mine."
"Ten minutes, Alan, in the loft."
It took us twenty minutes to get up there, not ten. Keith was in no
hurry, and neither was I, if you want to know the truth. We hung out in
the control room for a while, and I explained to him how we have tie
lines between the two studios, and how we sometimes record over across
the way, in the barn, but mix here in Control Room A. We then took a
look at the bedrooms upstairs, the balcony overlooking our antique
Steinway, and our collection of records.
"You keep all your fifties in one place, too," he remarked with
apparent relief. "Easier that way, isn't it? That cassette deck work?"
"Sure does, Keith. What you got there?"
"Bunch of stuff all mixed up. Starts with some Buddy Holly, I think."
Keith slammed the cassette into the cassette deck, which hangs at eye
level just as you enter the kitchen, and hit the "go" button.
"Select tape two on the pre-amp," I shouted over to him, which he did.
On came Buddy Holly, as expected. Keith turned it up, loud, very loud,
until it began to distort the JBLs hanging overhead, then down just a
notch. Maximum undistorted volume, that's called. He extended his glass
to me, which now had only a bit of yellow left in it, way down at the
bottom of the glass. He needed a refill.
"Good idea," I said. "Then let's go across the way and I'll show
you what we have in mind for the stage."
"Yeah," Keith said. "Let's go over to the barn. Got to find Patti,
though. Hold on a minute."
Patti materialized, and we headed out, through the library, under the
moosehead, past the fish tank, and out onto the driveway.
"Look down there, Keith," I said. "Those lights down there are
Stanley's, and he's our nearest neighbor. Farmer."
"Hope he likes rock 'n' roll," Keith laughed.
"He better by now," I said. "He's been hearing it from us for
almost eight years now. Up these stairs here, and straight ahead."
Alan Dunn and Jane Rose were waiting for us in the loft, and had
already been briefed by Geoff Myers, who was talking in an animated
fashion, and moving his arms in wide arcs. He was explaining how deep
the stage was going to be, and how strong. Keith listened for a moment,
then walked over to one of the massive support beams, and kicked it. He
looked up, whistled softly through his teeth, and spun around slowly,
on his heel.
"Yeah," he said. "What's down there?"
"Come on, I'll show you," and I scrambled down the rickety ladder into
what we now call the Keith Richards bedroom suite. Keith followed, with
Jane Rose telling him to be careful.
"We don't really know how strong that thing is, now, do we? Gil, are
you sure you need Keith down there? Why don't you just leave Keith up
here
and you can talk to us from down there. Keith, are you all
right? Keith!"
"Figured we'd do a bedroom and living area down here," I said.
"Right beside the chimney here. A place for people to hang out during the
rehearsals, but still be out of the way. Look up there. The stage will
be on the level of those transverse beams. You'll be able to see the
whole thing from down here. We'll build staircases, fix it up nice.
Cassette deck will be over there; speakers hanging so, on either side
of the chimney. Should sound good down here."
Keith looked up at the chimney, then back at me. I saw a gleam in his
eye. We had this one.
Keith and I made our way back up the ladder, Keith first, much to Jane
Rose's pleasure and relief. Geoff Myers was jumping up and down on the
plank floor, trying to make it move.
"See? And this is just
one
layer of two-inch pine on top of
two-by-eights. Nothing compared to the strength of the stage, which
will have
three
layers: beams of hemlock, pine sub-flooring, and
oak finish. You could drive a truck up there and the floor wouldn't
give a bit."
And that's all Keith needed to hear. He walked up to Geoff, and gave
him a friendly slap on the lapel with the back of his hand.
"It won't bounce, right?"
"No bounce, Keith."
"We're
coming,
then. What a place I found!"
"We're what?" Alan interrupted.
"We're coming to this man's barn. Where's Mick now?"
"India, Keith."
"Let's go ring him. What a place I found!"
"How's your screwdriver, Keith?" I asked. It was plainly down to its
ice cubes, and needed refreshing.
He looked at me, and at
my
screwdriver, which was still quite
yellow, and full of Stolni'.
I poured my glass into his; he laughed, and we walked back across the
driveway to the Farmhouse. Keith and I were getting on just fine.
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