Ben: Keith Richards is a Sweetheart

No one wants to find themselves in Netflix-scrolling hell. It’s a scary place that some scientists compare to a worm hole or time portal where 30 seconds is 30 minutes and vice versa. One moment, you’re checking out new releases and the next, you’re fifty titles deep in a category recommended to you because you watched Hushed, a fucked-up horror movie about a serial killer with a mask who’s chosen to torment a blind lady in her isolated country home. “Shockingly,” the blind lady ends up killing the murderer with the mask and everyone lives happily ever after. Except for the murderer who’s dead. And the blind lady living by herself in the middle of nowhere who’s certainly traumatized for the rest of her life after all this shit went down. And I’m pretty sure those were like the only two characters (Katie and Phil picked this gem of a flick. They’re my roommate and his girlfriend).

That’s what happens when you’re scanning Netflix column after Netflix column until your vision becomes tinted with a Netflix-Red-colored lens around the edges and all you can hear is that little, underwater, bubble-popping noise every time you pass by another irrelevant title that you’ve seen a million times or would never watch in a million years, unless you’re Katie and Phil. “This category sucks,” scroll down. Scroll over. “This category sucks,” scroll down, scroll over. “This category sucks, “ scroll down. Scroll over. “HOW ARE WE BACK IN THE ‘BECAUSE YOU WATCHED HUSHED’ HERE ARE SOME MORE FUCKED UP MOVIES THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD OF SECTION?!?!”

The moral of the story, be prepared. It’s how the Patriots win championships. It’s how you avoid Netflix nightmares. Chances are, if you’re into Keith Richards and you had Netflix, then I’m not the first one to tell you to watch this or you already have. But even if you’re not familiar with Keith or his music, you only have to be a fan of the art form and its history to appreciate this documentary, and by the end of it, you’ll be a fan of Keith as well.

The reason why I picked this film though, is not because of the music, or rock n roll, or the Rolling Stones; it’s because of my Mom. She met Keith Richards when she was producing one of her forums for the JFK library a few years ago when they were presenting Chuck Berry with a lifetime, musical, songwriting, blabbity blah, you’re the best ever award and other legends came along. We all have our expectations of a man whose drinking puts your Irish Uncles to shame, smokes more than Marge Simpson’s sisters combined, and puts the loose in loose cannon. A few nights in a row I remember her coming home complaining about this old fuck who requested 2 bottles of grey goose and a peak of smokes upon arrival. His “handler” thought he was hotter than his own shit, but Mom went along with it and got Keith what he wanted.

Finally, the day came and she met him on the side of the library where he was going to be snuck through a side door to avoid the crowds. His black limo rolls up and out of the dark backseat crawls out a wispy, elderly man almost resembling the ghost of Jack Sparrow with a silver bat’s nest for hair, hauntingly black eyeliner, and a sunken face resembling Jack Sparrow in the scene where he turns into a skeleton for a moment in the moonlight. My Mom is a great judge of character because she respects real people. It would’ve been no surprise if Keith was in fact, just a selfish rockstar who thought that he and his musical creations kept the world spinning (cough, Kanye). Instead, he was a friendly ghost and a gentle old soul. He hugged my Mom and called her by her first name. He was thankful and sweet and it was evident that his hard exterior was simply because it was all bone and he had 0% body fat.

The documentary doesn’t take off until they start delving into his writing process and how they recorded “Street Fighting Man,” and “Sympathy for the Devil,” off of the 1968 classic, Beggar’s Banquet. Richards can’t help but chuckle and laugh when he hears an old song. You can see his face transported back in time to the night they came in early (before midnight) and warmed up with an acoustic guitar and a tiny, traveling drum-kit and a riff and a beat turned into a backbone that was later accompanied by Mick’s vocals when he showed up and the recipe was then balanced and delicious. The taste still lingers and it still amazes him that they were able to fuck around and have the end result be pocketfuls of magical treasure.

Morgan Neville then takes us down a journey of Keith’s musical influences from Buddy Guy to Muddy Waters to his Jamaican escape and his Rolling Stones reunion. In every scene, Keith is curious, playful, passionate, and thankful for where his life has taken him. “People always refer to this term of being a ‘grown up,’ but what they don’t understand is that you’re grown up when you’re six feet under.” The kid in Keith never dies. Neither will his music. Nor his smoking and drinking. And that’s why he’s a legend.

Keith Richards: Under the Influence by Morgan Neville