Friday, March 28, 2008
"At one point an employee, a little fluffy white dog trailing at her heels, walked through and headed into the kitchen that was next to the waiting room. She apologized—not for my having to wait but for interrupting my waiting—and explained, “I need to prepare something for Mr. Richards.”
She opened the freezer, cracked some ice cubes into one of those red plastic Solo cups, and filled it to the brim with Ketel One." GQ visits Keith Richards (at his office, which sounds awesome.)
"I’d be remiss if I did not interrupt here to tell you briefly about how Keith speaks. It’s not speaking, actually. Or at least not what you think of as speaking. It’s more of a slur-mumble. Words run together and then get coated in cigarette smoke and that thick accent. It makes you wish he provided his own subtitles. I mean, when I transcribed the tapes from this interview, I had to listen to each sentence maybe three times to decode it. Further complicating matters was the incessant ambient noise: the clatter of the ice cubes as he swirled his drink between sips. "
