Keith Jackson Quotes

words can become truth if enough people speak them!

the most damaging wounds are selfinflicted!

Personally, I like my gods old, grizzled and *here*. I'll take Dylan; the pirate raiding party of the Stones; the hope-I-get-very-old-before-I-die, present live power of the Who; a fat, still-mesmerizing-until-his-death Brando—they all suit me over the alternative. I would've liked to have seen that last Michael Jackson show, a seventy-year-old Elvis reinventing and relishing in his talents, where Jimi Hendrix might've next taken the electric guitar, Keith Moon, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain and all the others whose untimely deaths and lost talents stole something from the music I love, living on, enjoying the blessings of their gifts and their audience's regard. Aging is scary but fascinating, and great talent morphs in strange and often enlightening ways.

The heart of rock will always remain a primal world of action. The music revives itself over and over again in that form, primitive rockabilly, punk, hard soul and early rap. Integrating the world of thought and reflection with the world of primitive action is *not* a necessary skill for making great rock 'n' roll. Many of the music's most glorious moments feel as though they were birthed in an explosion of raw talent and creative instinct (some of them even were!). But ... if you want to burn bright, hard *and* long, you will need to depend on more than your initial instincts. You will need to develop some craft and a creative intelligence that will lead you *farther* when things get dicey. That's what'll help you make crucial sense and powerful music as time passes, giving you the skills that may also keep you alive, creatively and physically. The failure of so many of rock's artists to outlive their expiration date of a few years, make more than a few great albums and avoid treading water, or worse, I felt was due to the misfit nature of those drawn to the profession. These were strong, addictive personalities, fired by compulsion, narcissism, license, passion and an inbred entitlement, all slammed over a world of fear, hunger and insecurity. That's a Molotov cocktail of confusion that can leave you unable to make, or resistant to making, the lead of consciousness a life in the field demands. After first contact knocks you on your ass, you'd better have a plan, for some preparedness and personal development will be required if you expect to hang around any longer than your fifteen minutes. Now, some guys' five minutes are worth other guys' fifty years, and while burning out in one brilliant supernova will send record sales through the roof, leave you living fast, dying young, leaving a beautiful corpse, there *is* something to be said for living. Personally, I like my gods old, grizzled and *here*. I'll take Dylan; the pirate raiding party of the Stones; the hope-I-get-very-old-before-I-die, present live power of the Who; a fat, still-mesmerizing-until-his-death Brando—they all suit me over the alternative. I would've liked to have seen that last Michael Jackson show, a seventy-year-old Elvis reinventing and relishing in his talents, where Jimi Hendrix might've next taken the electric guitar, Keith Moon, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain and all the others whose untimely deaths and lost talents stole something from the music I love, living on, enjoying the blessings of their gifts and their audience's regard. Aging is scary but fascinating, and great talent morphs in strange and often enlightening ways. Plus, to those you've received so much from, so much joy, knowledge and inspiration, you wish life, happiness and peace. These aren't easy to come by.

supposed to be attending all of Jackson’s meetings. How is it that you didn’t find this out before yesterday?” Rob shrugged. “And if you had known, what would you have done about it?” “I would have talked to Keith. Convinced him not to pay for that new hard drive.” Victor stood up from the couch. “But it doesn’t matter. We still have the doctored video of Jackson’s crew.” He picked up his book bag and pulled a small box from it. “I need another favor,” he said to Kayla. He handed her the box and waited for her to open it. “Those are the watches we’re supposed to use on Friday. They put out UV light, allowing us to see the answers written on the back of our hands.

...I asked her if he missed my poppa. She said she did. But God had always made it so that women outlived men. That way women could have time to be by themselves-a time to be in the world without a reason bein' placed upon it. That women had so many faces: a face for their husband, a face for their children, a face for strangers; only when they were alone could they find that face that suited just them. And if the woman happened to die before the man, that time alone would show him her worth.

Anyhow, I believe that there comes a day when you have to burn your bridges just to make sure you can still swim." "What if you can't?" "Then you either learn real fastlike or you drown. And I don't plan on drownin' no time soon.

For the past twenty minutes Keith had been explaining to Jackson Crane his philosophy of art, and how this was reflected in his own practice. "I would say I don't really have a /medium/, you know? Painting, photography, poetry, sculpture - I've mastered them all. It's not for me to call myself a Renaissance man, but. . ." He shrugged. "It has been said. Really if I had to say what my art was /about/, though, it's a celebration of the female form but also a rumination on the gaze. That's why I only use the body, not the head, so they're not looking backing at you - there's a purity there, you know? /In the looking./ Power in anonymity. I want to confront the viewer - but I'm posing questions. The viewer has to answer those questions themselves . . .

expected.” Keith nodded, as if silently agreeing with

One final note one the [Rolling] Stones, though: When they came through the Bay Area earlier on that tour for regular concerts at the Oakland Coliseum Arena [before the Altamont free concert, 1969], 'They blew up all their equipment at the first show,' Betty Cantor-Jackson relates. 'They had all this Ampeg equipment, and it just went Ffffffttt! They were in a panic, so [Larry] Ram Rod [Shurtliff] and [Unknown maybe Rex?] Jackson raced to our [Grateful Dead] warehouse and brought down a bunch of our [rewired, kicked up, tinkered and experimented with] Fender amps for them, and the next show we sat up onstage while they played, and it sounded amazing. That was one of the times Bill Graham was nice to us,' She laughs. 'Anyway, I remember the first note Keith {Richards} played through Jerry's [Garcia] amp, and his mouth just dropped open. 'Woah!'. He couldn't believe the power and the clarity.'.