I have been listening to Let It Bleed non-stop for two days, and 4 decades. This record is a direct current coursing through my body. Let It Bleed is an albatross I don’t mind wearing. Let It Bleed led to almost every debauched, gorgeous experience that took place throughout my life. I listen to it when I need to feel. Not when I need to remember. Let It Bleed is like a stranger you fall in love with. A lover who will remain a stranger, because lovers always remain complete strangers no matter how immersed they become. Let It Bleed propels itself through my yearning and desperation just like being in love.
I am thin, not anorexic. I am not sequestered in my bedroom with wax envelopes hidden in all my precious little trinket boxes. I am thin with longing. There is nothing sentient here, and boredom begets danger. This is plausibly a case of the honky tonk blues. Blues brought on by getting rid of nasty habits? Could be the war fought between the buttons of a stimulating life, which can also be incredibly tedious. Let It Bleed promises salvation is just a kiss away, kiss away, kiss away.
Things that once felt like anarchy turned out to be decay. Boys who wanted to be girls left, rock stars who needed me, and then didn’t, left. I am ephemeral! I choose to be. It looks so glamorous, truth told, it is glamorous. Being someone to bleed on, dream on, and hand someone a cup filled with scented jasmine tea; I love it. How long did my diaphanous scarves hold up? There were times I became torn and frayed before my scarves did, but I still wear them. And they look good. However, today I am not malleable enough to let anyone cream on me. Okay, maybe Mick or Keith circa 1969. Otherwise no.
I’ve held my own with many a midnight rambler. I am not some girl. I will tell you those stories, but not today. Right now I am fervently looking into the grooves of Let It Bleed intent on sucking out its secrets. I do this knowing mission accomplished will leave me a quivering mass on the floor. This album has held my molecules intact for decades. Translucent metamorphosis is not on today’s agenda. I will wear an Irish sweater in August before I let you see through me.
Feeling like a sack of broken eggs, I always make my bed. Do you? Here comes the finale of “Monkey Man,” slide guitar, piano, and perhaps Mick’s greatest recorded vocal. Everything I imagined oozing out of me is suddenly replenished. Damn, I can still internalize this current without electrocuting myself. Two days, four decades, and we’re both unyielding.
All my love’s in vain. I will never get to the bottom of Let It Bleed. But, like always, I got what I need. My skinny ass is swaggering out of this stifling room to figure out what I want.
-For Shelly who let me lean from the very first jolt (and still does).