Charlie and the Rockalate Factory

I didn’t hide.

I just dropped out because Fryday had nothing to offer you. Trump is gone—though Biden has Fryday potential. Covid was/is omnipresent and boring. Jacinda more so. So, Fryday had nothing. Nothing to offer you.

Then…

Then Charlie Watts died.

That came as a shock. Apparently, there were earlier reports that he was unwell, but I didn’t see them. And whilst he is the oldest of the current Rolling Stones (former bassist Bill Wyman, at 84, is older) Watts led a comparatively clean life and given the hedonistic excesses of the others we could have assumed that Watts might have outlived them. But, then there is the platitude ‘only the good die young’, if you can call 80 young.

I never saw the Rolling Stones play live. However, I saw plenty of video footage of their performances; I would recommend their concert movie Shine a Light to everyone. For me, the one lasting image from the early performances was the slight smile, the knowing looks and the eye-rolling he shared with Wyman while observing the theatrical antics of the front three: Jagger, Richards and Wood. Watts and Wyman always—somehow—stood apart from the others. Those who studied the group say that was also the case off stage. 

Richards in his excellent autobiography Life recounts the story of Watts retiring to bed in an upstairs suite rather than attend a party in Jagger’s suite downstairs. According to Richards, that didn’t sit well with Jagger, who rang Watts and demanded he come down. When Watts refused, Jagger yelled down the phone “You’re my f**king drummer—you get down here!” Watts agreed to the demand, but when Jagger opened the door to let Watts in he was laid out by a right hook from Watts who stood over him and said in a measured tone, “I’m not your f**king drummer, you’re my f**king singer.”

I have heard it said Watts and Jagger didn’t get on particularly well.

But they stayed together for almost 60 years and in the process gave us some of the greatest songs of the rock era, often with an intro beat from Watts.

Among his peers—and here I would recommend an excellent documentary on rock drumming Count Me In recently released on Netflix—Watts was ranked third best drummer of the rock era behind Cream’s Ginger Baker and Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham. Not surprisingly, The Who’s Keith Moon was right up there, as well. Unlike Moon, Watts was the very antithesis of what a rock-drummer should be and look like. Watts was quiet, measured, sardonic and disciplined. He was married to the same woman (Shirley) for 57 years. He could paint (a talent he shared with Ronnie Wood). Despite not being able to drive, he collected classic cars—whereas, of course, Moon was more prone to parking them at the bottom of a pool. He flirted with drugs and alcohol for a time until he was cleansed by of all people Keith Richards.

It is little wonder, therefore, that Watts described his role with the Stones as his day job. His “real job”, as he saw it, was as a Jazz drummer.

Will the band continue without him? Who knows? They are starting a tour of the United States next month with session musician Steve Jordan filling in for Watts. But beyond that…? The Stones survived the death of Brian Jones (though he had already been fired) and the resignations of Wyman and Mick Taylor. But can they survive this—or should they even try?

What will live on is the music and the memories. And, for me, that enduring and endearing image of the man with the slight smile and knowing look, who was up there simply doing his day job.

RIP Charlie Watts: 1941—2021. Loved you, man.