The Rolling Stones “Hackney Diamonds”
I could just delete it. I doubt that anyone would even notice. It was not my best work. It was cynical and a little too cute for its own good. It was probably a better idea than it is an essay. But for the record, If I were to delete it, it would not be on account of the premise (which was solid), or the humor (which was tolerable) or the writing (which was passable). It would be on account of my abiding love for The Rolling Stones.
So, yes, I could simply delete it. But also, in retrospect, I could have chosen a different album altogether — right? Wrong! Because that’s not the job. Past Prime is about what happens on the other side of the mountain. Obviously, it would have been easier to write about “Sticky Fingers.” It would have been a pleasure to prattle on about “Some Girls” or even “Emotional Rescue.” But those are Prime albums. Past Prime is about receding hairlines and third marriages and erectile dysfunction and middle-aged millionaire ennui. And it’s also about the denial of these things. In other words, it’s about “Voodoo Lounge.” So, while I regret any glibness, I couldn’t not confront The Stones’ Viagra-laced, twentieth studio album.
Could I have been more generous? Absolutely. Should I have provided better context? For sure. And that is precisely why we need to talk about “Hackney Diamonds.” By “we” I of course mean “I.” Because I do wonder whether anyone else is interested in talking about “Hackney Diamonds.” In fact, I’m not sure whether anyone was clamoring to talk about it two years ago, when it first came out. What I most recall about “Hackney Diamonds” is how the roll out felt less like a new release campaign and more like an advertisement for a world tour. And more than that, how it felt like an announcement from The Rolling Stones Incorporated, confirming that while Charlie was gone, The Rolling Stones absolutely were not.
But because they excel at corporate communications, I was aware of “Angry” — the album’s first single — from the day it entered the world. Or I was at least aware of the video for it, which featured Mick, Keith and Ronnie as singing billboards lording over L.A. while Sydney Sweeney writhed in the back of a convertible down below. For as much as I remembered the video, though, I could barely describe what “Angry” sounds like. Moreover, I have no idea what the rest of the album sounds like. As it happens, before last week I’d never listened to “Hackney Diamonds.” In truth, I’d never even considered it.
That’s been my particular bias for as many years — to adore the pre-1981 Stones and to largely avoid everything therafter. To worship them up until “Tattoo You” and then to cherish them exclusively in retrospect. Is this ageist of me? Very possibly. Have I missed out on some great concerts as a result? Most definitely. But have I missed out on any essential albums in the meantime? Honestly, I kind of doubt it. I’d be fine if I’d never heard “Undercover” and “Dirty Work.” And while I don’t mind a couple songs from “Steel Wheels” and “Voodoo Lounge,” I never return to those songs, and have long since filed them away in the deep recesses of storage.
I know that I’m not alone. Actually, I’d wager that most Stones’ fans would agree the band’s regression started sometime in the late Seventies and hastened throughout the Eighties and Nineties. Obviously, this narrative arc does not only apply to The Rolling Stones. It’s a Rock and Roll axiom — an imperative based on science rather than opinion. The same happens to most iconic artists — to Paul McCartney and James Brown and Aretha Franklin and Bob Dylan (well maybe not Dylan, but you get my point). And I’d guess that it’s exponentially more true for bands, who have to navigate the passage of time alongside the competing interests of three, four or other five other members, all with their own artistic interests, familial concerns and aversion to discomfort.
However, unlike all of those icons, and more than they have an artistic problem, The Rolling Stones have a Semiotic problem. Which is to say that for decades now there has been a growing gap, which has become an unbridgeable chasm, between who they are and what they are supposed to signify. For his entire life, James was “The Godfather of Soul.” Aretha was the “Queen of Soul.” Paul is still “The Cute Beatle.” And Dylan is still “The Bard.” But I don’t know anybody who today still really believes that The Stones are “The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World” or that Mick and Keith still “The Glimmer Twins.”
There is always distance between signifiers and signifieds. In the Sixties, and in spite of their sound and reputation, The Stones were more posh schoolboys than satanic bluesmen. But within a decade, their music and image began to coalesce to the point that, by the time of “Exile on Main Street,” there was less distance between the debauched, addled glory of their music and the debauched, addled glory of the men making the music. So, in a way, that version of The Stones — the 1972 version — might have been the truest version of The Stones. That version did not have a Semiotic problem. And it would therefore follow that everything before “Exile” was an ascent towards Semiotic truth and everything after was a descent away from it.
When I write about “truth,” I’m writing less about honest intent and more about that distance between signifier and signified. In this definition, “truth” is slightly pejorative, but more importantly it is a measure of how closely the men and their music relate to the collective perception of those men and that music. Are they still The Greatest? Do they still Glimmer? Is their Love still Strong? Are they actually Angry? This is what happens when people form bands that become brands that become corporations that become institutions — the signified strains credulity while at the same time hardening into something inarguable. Mick Jagger, Rock sex god. Keith Richards, junkie guitar Buddha. The Rolling Stones, Anti-Beatles. The Rolling Stones, The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World. These are all calcified Semiotic truths that have murky relationships to the actual truth. Ultimately, I object to the Semiotics of The Rolling Stones not because I resent the cultural mediation of the band but rather because I believe that the band’s own obsession with their Semiotics has stunted their own musical progress.
”Moonlight Mile” and “Let It Loose” might not be my two favorite Rolling Stones’ songs (though they’d be near the top of that list), but I’d argue that they represent “Peak Rolling Stones.” And by “Peak” I mean the moment wherein the signifier and signified were most closely aligned. Released about a year apart, the former closes “Sticky Fingers,” and the latter ends side three of “Exile on Main Street.” The former is a modal Folk number in the vein of Van Morrison’s “Almost Independence Day” and unlike anything else in The Stones’ oeuvre — slow and meditative, building to ecstatic, string-gilded release. The latter meanwhile is a bluesy Gospel celebration in the vein of Van’s “St. Dominic’s Preview,” and quite like many of The Stones’ greatest songs — drunken, jubilant, hanging out for an ecstatic, kazoo-guided release.
I reference these two songs because they are the opposite of everything The Stones would eventually become. Peak Stones were on the hunt for something greater, but unknown. They could also let it loose. But by the time of “Tattoo You” (which is granted an excellent album), they were taut. They were insulated. They were recycling. They were codified. And the people who seemed most oppressed by their own significance were not the loyal fans but The Rolling Stones themselves. And by The Rolling Stones, I mostly mean the founding, songwriting, executive partners — Mick and Keith. Since “Emotional Rescue,” which was released forty-five years ago, The Rolling Stones have made nine studio albums that contain exactly zero new ideas. These are albums of varying quality (“Tattoo You” the best, “Steel Wheels” the median and “Undercover” the most flaccid), but of unerring, risk-avoiding consistency. These are press releases for world tours disguised as albums. These are hour long musical declarations of eminence, legacy and virility. Occasionally there are very good to great songs included with these press releases. But that is a testament to the efficiency of the corporation rather than to creative ingenuity.
With each passing year, The Rolling Stones have become simulations of the last version of The Rolling Stones much more than they have become older, wiser, more grizzled, Who Gives a Fuck We’re The Rolling Fucking Stones. “Voodoo Lounge” was the apotheosis of The Stones simulating The Stones — recycled, cleaned up, blown out, larger than life but still oddly lifeless. And yet, because they are The Rolling Stones, there was still gravitas and feel to that record. By the time of “Bridges to Babylon” and certainly by 2006, with “A Bigger Bang,” there was no pomp and circumstance but no gravitas. There was musicianship but no feel. There was content and product and files presented as songs. Some better. Some less so. Most forgettable but none of which could ever threaten the brand or the business.
The counter to my cynicism is hard to deny. It’s some version of: “Can you believe they are still doing this at sixty/seventy/eighty?! Can you even believe that they sound this good and put on that show at this age?!” My short answer is “no.” I cannot believe that they are still making music six decades after they started. And I also cannot believe that they can get up on stage for weeks at a time and exert themselves to such a high degree. It’s unfathomable. It borders on miraculous. And I will even grant — having not seen the band live since I was a teenager — that these shows might very well be amazing. But that does not mean that their later albums are also amazing. Or even great. Or, for that matter, even good.
It’s my own problem that I cannot untether the two — that I will not avail myself to the geriatric Stones’ live experience because I find the new albums to lack luster. But my hangup does not make me wrong — at least not about the recorded music. Would it be easier if I could disabuse myself of this bias and experience “Hackney Diamonds” simply as a triumph against age? As an unprecedented Rock and Roll feat? And, most of all, as a loving tribute to Charlie Watts? Of course it would! I can easily grant all of those things. I can say all of those things and I can say that The Stones were the greatest to ever do it and I can also say that “Hackney Diamonds” is a hackneyed dud.
Yes, I a being glib (again). And yes there are bright spots. But they are bright in the way that I could look at a photo of a poster of Van Gogh’s “Willows at Sunset” on Pinterest and still recognize the beauty of an actual sunset. But the digital copy of the digital copy of a painting of an actual sunset punctuated by a hashtag is as “obvious” and “unremarkable” as it is “bright.” “Angry” succeeds in this exact way — by drilling into sense memories born from “Satisfaction,” “Start Me Up” and everything in between. It simultaneously, and very effectively, states “this is a new Rolling Stones’ song” while also saying absolutely nothing new. Similarly, “Depending on You” is good ole’ reliable Country Stones, just stripped of the thrilling weirdness of truly great Country Stones numbers like “Dear Doctor.” And “Dreamy Skies” possesses the steely folksiness of “No Expectations” but it eschews the bleak stoicism for cliched escapism. So, yes, “Hackney Diamonds” has its moments, but those moments sound like lab produced versions of older, much better Stones’ songs.
This lab-produced quality is in part a feature of co-producer, Andrew Watt, who’s known professionally as “Watt,” and who’s birthed records for everyone from Ozzy to Bieber. Watt is famously genre fluid, comfortable blending Rock, Metal and Hip Hop. His records are sharp but not overly so. They have the sheen of Pop but avoid the extreme gloss of, say, Max Martin. On the other hand, they lack the humble reverence of Rick Rubin. Closer to slick than naked, but never heavy handed, Watt provided two steady hands to a band that increasingly needed a push towards the finish line but who could not risk injury.
While his style might be straightforward, nothing else is. First, there’s the matter of his name. Andrew Watt, who in addition to producing also plays bass on “Hackney Diamonds,” must not be confused with Mike Watt, bassist extraordinaire who has been the member of a dozen or so bands and guested on several dozen other records. Nor, and more importantly, should he be confused with Charlie Watts, the inimitable Stones’ drummer who sadly passed away in 2021, but who still appears on two “Hackney Diamond” tracks. Now obviously Andrew Watts’ surname is more a confusing coincidence than an actual problem. However, it is a symptom of the larger challenge with “Hackney Diamonds” — the skillful but also unnerving blurring of lines between old and new, fact and fiction, signifier and signified.
Most of The Stones’ post-Eighties work grapples with this conundrum — of whether to confront or to resist change and whether to acknowledge or to obscure age. But in the same way that even the best cosmetic surgery will eventually buckle to the natural course of biology, the most tasteful production work — doubling the lead, compressing the vocals, enhancing the bottom — comes at an inevitable cost. In the case of “Hackney Diamonds” the cost is that The Stones no longer sound like an older, but cosmetically adjusted band. Instead they sound like a simulation of a simulation — like a band plummeting beyond the capacity of human authored digital enhancements into the uncanny valley of artificial intelligence.
I assume that “Hackney Diamonds” is not actually the product of A.I. But also, if I were more fluent with the technology, I do wonder what would come out the other end if I tried something like: “ChatGPT — can you make a song that sounds like “Start Me Up,” but a little faster? OK, thanks. Now ChatGPT — can you make it a little more Pop? ChatGPT — a little faster please. Can you also make Mick sound like he’s thirty? No — too young. How about forty-five? OK — great. Now — can bring the vocals up and make the beat snap more? Can you isolate Keith’s guitar and raise it up a bit? And can you clip all the highs and lows from the mix? OK, perfect. Now ChatGPT — can you find something Country-ish from “Some Girls” and do the same thing? Then just keep going and let know when you’re finished. Thanks, ChatGPT.”
More than anything else, that’s what most of “Hackney Diamonds” sounds like — an algorithmically tweaked simulation of a reproduction of an original. But when I say “most” I do not mean “all.” Right before the album ends, one track before the understandable but unnecessary cover of Muddy Waters’ “Rolling Stone Blues,” “Sweet Sounds of Heaven” transports us back to 1970. “Hackney Diamonds” penultimate track is nothing short of gorgeous. In fact, I had to listen to it a bunch of times to confirm that I had not been tricked — that Watt’s cosmetic work had not deceived me. Or that it was not actually a fifty-year old performance resurrected by the magic of technology. But it turns out that “Sweet Sounds of Heaven” is the genuine article — a seven minute gospel slowburn that becomes a barnburner featuring Lady Gaga’s pipes and Stevie Wonder’s keys.
Unfortunately, it is also the outlier. “Sweet Sounds of Heaven” is a glitch in the system — the unexpected moment wherein humanity transcended pretense. It might also be the last great song that The Stones ever release. But minimally it serves as a reminder that decades before they became The Rolling Stones Incorporated, and a lifetime before they started to sound like that public company’s A.I., The Rolling Stones really were The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World.