CAN I SPEAK TO THE ROLLING STONES?

ROLL OVER, RUFUS COLLINS, AND GIVE KEITH RICHARDS THE NEWS.

Keith Richards (1943- ) Been there, done that.

When, as is increasingly the case, I catalogue my various physical ailments, results of Hamlet’s “thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,” I contemplate the Rolling Stones. I’m only three years older than both Mick Jagger and Keith Richard, yet, despite them having probably ingested every mind-altering substance known to man, and indulged in forms of debauchery at which even Caligula would have blanched, both are still hard at work, Mick capering around the stage, not an ounce of fat on him, while Keith, with a face like twenty miles of bad road, basks in the adoration of millions. Where’s the justice?

Alan Bennett once began a parody of BBC radio biographies with the line “Those of us who knew Lawrence of Arabia as I did – hardly at all…” This goes double for me and the Stones. Even though we lived in London at the same time, roughly 1970/84, the paths of Mick, Keith and the other guys never intersected with mine – except this once….

           Some of you youngsters won’t credit this, but there was a time when not everyone owned a telephone. Even more incredibly, phones were not portable. There were only landlines, physically connected to a system of wires and cables. Getting one could take months, if not years. In Australia, I once jumped the queue, thanks to a friendly doctor who swore I suffered from acute neurasthenia and my sanity rested on a knife’s edge. (At the time, I thought he was making this up, but he recently assured me he meant every word.)

Telephone. To operate, insert finger in dial, turn to the left….

        In 1973, I lived in London, on a short and leafy street called Park Walk which runs between King's Road and the Fulham Road, marking the frontier between trendy Chelsea and less fashionable Fulham. This put me on the less select side, but since my fifth floor windows looked out into Chelsea, I regarded myself as an honorary Chelsea-ite,  entitled to wear suede desert boots, a silk scarf over a T-shirt, and hang out in the cafes along King's Road, drinking calvados and looking as if I understood more than one word in three of the Cahiers du Cinema  I studied with  such interest.

My books were doing well, and within a few months I was due to leave for the United States to take up a guest professorship. Everything would have been fine - had it not been for my phone. Once or twice a week, around 3am, it would wake me from a deep sleep and an American voice demand, "Is Keith there?" Or occasionally, "Can I speak to Rufus?" or "Is Anna about?"

           On the first few occasions, I just hung up. But a few minutes later, as I was drifting back to sleep, it always rang again.

           "We've had a complaint,” said the operator,  “about a call being cut off."

“There’s no Keith, Rufus or Anna here,” I snarled. Sometimes this sufficed. At other times, they'd call again at 4am. And 5…

           The second month, I’d had enough. 

           "Keith who?" I demanded of the next caller.

           A long, suspicious pause. "Who's this?"

           I told him.

           "Is that…?"  He gave my number.

           "Yes. But there's no Keith here."

           "But that is Keith Richards' house?"

           "Keith Richards? Of the Stones? God, no."

           Another long sceptical silence, then a click.

           Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

           "I have a person-to-person call from California for Mr. Keith Richards…" droned the operator.

           After some furious calls,  British Telecom did concede – “We’re admitting nothing, mind you” - that they might, conceivably, have allocated me a number previously used by a Mr. K. Richards. But no, they couldn't change it sooner than six weeks. And it was quite out of the question to give me Richards' current number, since he was ex-directory.

           I built up a picture of the Richards ménage. It included a woman named Anna, and actor Rufus Collins. I looked him up. A member of Julian Beck's Living Theatre and choreographer of the original Jesus Christ Superstar, he was a Transylvanian in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, as well as appearing in various Andy Warhol projects. Other people came and went in the Richards house. Obviously, Keith changed his phone number often. And, equally obviously, he didn't tell everyone he'd done so.

Rufus Collins (1935-1996)

           The following week, another call roused me.

           "This is Edward Burns of New York," announced a cultured American voice. "I would like to speak to Rufus."

           "So would I, Edward." I gave him my now-well-rehearsed explanation.

           "Hmmm," he said. "And you are…?"

           I told him.

           "Your name's familiar," he mused.

           "I doubt it. I'm not a musician. Or an actor."

           "Nor me. I'm the literary executor of Alice B. Toklas."

           "Really? My publisher is bringing out the Toklas letters…"

"…which I edited," said Burns triumphantly. "So I've seen your name in their catalogue! We must meet. Where are you?"

"Chelsea."

"No! Really? Anywhere near…" He read out an address.

"About five minutes' walk. Why?"

"Because I’m going to a party there tonight!  I was ringing Rufus to invite him. What a coincidence. Can you come?"

I did come. And met Ed. And some other people too….  But let’s leave that for another time. 

And the telephone? Well, a few weeks after that party, I found myself at another gathering, where, since the hostess was the agent of Andre Previn, there were a number of musicians – including, to my delight, the Anna who was once part of Keith Richards' entourage.

Once I realised that this was the Anna, I told her about the calls.

"Can I give these people your number?"

She shuddered. "I’d  rather you didn’t."

"OK. Then could you ring up Keith Richards…"

"No!"

I didn't press her for Richards' new number - if indeed she knew it. Though it would have been fun to ring him.  At 3am.