#1 SurvivorMost Likely to Die By Hilary Sideris. 2014; 52 pp; $12.00. Poets Wear Prada, 533 Bloomfield Street, Hoboken, N.J. 07030. |
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Ok, so you know nothing about
Keith Richards except that he is a
member of the rock band the Rolling Stones, heard his “[Ain’t Got No]
Satisfaction” and saw his lined face
and skinny boy’s body on TV. Then
you come to this collection, and can
almost hear the first guitar string
vibrate, images so sharp you feel as
if you could pick out each note
played as you listen to his gravelly
voice.
Divided into four parts, each poem is written in couplets with one
line flowing effortlessly into the other taking us from his life in prewar
London, to his parents ... "riding
through air raids/ with (him) in the
baby seat, puking ... to fame and
surviving being 'number one' on 'a
most-likely-to-die list.” Music was
there from the very beginning, as
was Mick, whom he met in primary
school and who had every 45
Chuck Berry ever made. His admiration for Berry remains consistent: “It flew/ off the needle the first
time / I put his record on./ It made
me love the man, / let me put up
with him in years/ to come ... the
only bastard / I didn’t punch back.”
(“Hail Hail”)
It wasn’t enough for him to love
the blues, to learn to play it; he
needed to get down to its very soul.
“Blues don’t go / straight. There’s
something / wrong, mixed up,
flicked / back, suspended like a
boy / from school, no rules. It’s
dark / down here. You feel your
way / around ...” (“Learning The
Blues”) One of the best definitions
of the blues I’ve also come across.
We learn about “the holy house of
Chess / the shrine where every
song / we loved was cut” to their
first song, “The Last Time.” With
fame comes acid, seeing “a flock of
yellow birds” who gave me / the eye,
as if to say, 'try this' and the downers he took, “not for pleasure / but
to shift from shitty fame / to busy
lull, till I discovered / speedballs:
cocaine, & heroin/ to take you up,
bring you back/ down.” He could
never understand why Scotland
Yard bothered to tap their phones,
“plant acid / in their cars,” and chase “a band / of tripping
troubadours.” (“Acid” & “Speedballs”)
In the last part, he talks about
his children: “What can / a father
do? Mum’s a junkie, / Dad’s on
permanent tour.” There’s the son
who died of crib death ... something
“We never spoke of ... / Every lovely
one of us should leave / this world,
all in the natural order, / dad,
mum. But seeing a baby off? / You
just go numb.” (“Tara”)
The collection concludes with
comments on both music and fame:
“The moment you tune / your guitar
to one chord / you have to learn
where not / to put your fingers,
what to / leave alone ... The same
train takes you / from the Delta to
Detroit. / the human heartbeat.”
(“The Drone”) As for fame, “You
don’t negotiate, / you nod your
head, stick / to the road you’re on.”
Leaving is not an option. It’s a calling. “The great ones ... / Muddy,
Robert Johnson ... / sold their solid-duty souls. / Why would the
likes / of us not follow them / to the
crossroads.”
What Hilary Sideris has accomplished is an amazing feat; she
doesn’t so much as write about
Keith Richards as inhabit his very
being. I listened rather than read
these poems, that drove me straight
to his music and a “blue acoustic”
few hours listening to what is really, quite “Somethin’ Else.”
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