Our second read of Keith Richards’ “Life” was even better than the first (the last 30 or so pages start to fizzle because, really, what we call the “Voodoo Lounge” days can’t compare with everything that leads up to and includes the glorious “Exile on Main Street” era), and it’s a surprising book that covers everything from his childhood in the village of Dartford (still very much feeling the effects of World War II) to the women in his life, including his beloved mom Doris. And drugs. Lots and lots of drugs, which Keith simply refers to as "maintenance"—first-grade, fluffy white Merck cocaine, Moroccan hashish, pills and heroin. For Richards, it all came down to a very fine art of calibrating a cocktail of intoxicants—neither too high nor too low—to keep him on the beam and fuel stretches where he didn't have to sleep for days (his record was nine). But then there were the crashes, and more attempts at going cold turkey to get off the smack than you could shake a syringe at. (Speaking of needles, Keith cleverly traveled with one that doubled as a hat pin stuck to a feather.) But, all drugs aside, you really want to know what inspired all those great songs, and here it is straight from the wild horse's mouth. “Satisfaction”? A rough riff captured on a cassette recorder that Keith forgot he even played on his guitar the night before. “Jumping Jack Flash”? His Sussex gardener, Jack Dyer, stomping around the early-morning gloom outside Keith’s country house, Redlands. Mick was doing a sleep-over. “Gimme Shelter” was written during a London storm, when young Mr. Richards was in some sort of emotional turmoil, which wasn’t very often when you consider the life of a Rolling Stone. “Honky Tonky Women,” “Happy,” “Midnight Rambler" . . .  The list, as they say, goes on and on. It was Keith’s gift to have the kernel of an idea for a song, a phrase—he was a riff factory—and hand it off to Mick. And their friendship today? It's in tatters. Keith calls Mick everything from his “mate” to a brother, but then throws in some far less charitable terms, although what family together 50-odd years doesn’t fight?

Still, there seems to be a lot of painful airing of grievances: "I don't know quite how to put the finger on where and when this all happened. He used to be a lot warmer. But not for many, many years. He put himself in a fridge, basically. First it was, what do other people want out of me? and then he closed the circle until I was on the outside too." But this book takes off when "Uncle Keef" offers his truths on the playing of music—a holy belief in the power of guitars and chords and why Charlie Watts may be the finest rock drummer who ever lived. Richards' journey all starts with the Spanish chestnut, “Malagueña,” which his grandfather Gus teaches him to play when Keith was 9 or 10. By now he’s also listening, rapt, to some far-off radio station in the middle of the night (yeah, him too) playing American rhythm and blues. Along the way there are stops at the beauty of open G tuning, the “lost chord” and drone notes—that one pulse that hangs as a counterpoint against the rest of the melody. Honestly, the man’s obsessed. It’s what you leave out, he explains, that separates something like “Mystery Train” from the rest of the shite. There are several parts where Keith tries to distill the craft of putting words to music, and it all sort of makes sense—in a brilliant Keef way:

"Songs are strange things. With most of the songs I've ever written, quite honestly, I've felt there's an enormous gap here, waiting to be filled; this song should have been written hundreds of years ago. How did nobody pick up on that little space? Half the time you're looking for gaps that other people haven't done. And you say, I don't believe they've missed that fucking hole! It's so obvious. It was there staring you in the face! I pick out the holes.”