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“Charlie Watts lays it down, and the others follow. He is the Law. This book explains why.” — Clem Burke, Blondie

“Required reading for any Stones fan.” — Bun E. Carlos

“Sympathy for the Drummer is so much more than an incisive appreciation of Charlie Watts, it is an effusively infectious tribute to art in all of its myriad forms.” — Jim Sclavunos, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

“A great voice of authority and knowledge, dispensed with free-wheeling fluidity. Super entertaining, and right on.” — Katherine Turman, coauthor, Louder Than Hell: The Complete Oral History of Heavy Metal

“A wild ride through six-plus decades of music history... An illuminating and massively entertaining book.” — Dan Epstein, author Big Hair and Plastic Grass

“Mike Edison’s libertine prose swings and hits like Charlie Watts' right hand.”Meredith Ochs, author Rock-and-Roll Woman

“It’s not hard to fathom why a former editor of both Screw and High Times magazines would find writing about the Rolling Stones, one of the most dissolute champions of sex and drugs, right in his conceptual wheelhouse. But Edison takes a unique approach by focusing his investigation on Charlie Watts, the woefully underappreciated lynchpin of the Stones sound. This book is a delightful look at the Stones through the eyes and the beats of their most reticent member. Finally someone gave this drummer some.”

— Larry “Ratso” Sloman, author On the Road with Bob Dylan

“Charlie Watts is the backbone of the Rolling Stones. In this affectionate yet unflinching biography, Mike Edison shows how integral his jazz sensibility makes them a true band: keeping time, creating space, and hitting the crash cymbal at just the right moment.” — Lenny Kaye, guitarist, author of You Call It Madness: the Sensuous Song of the Croon

“An imaginative consideration of the Rolling Stones, one which will let you hear utterly familiar tracks with entirely fresh ears." — Ira Robbins


“Proof positive that one can be both edgy and erudite, lowbrow and literate, and take joy in the unbridled pleasures of the id without sacrificing the higher mind.” PopMatters

“They don't make guys like this anymore . . . overeducated yokelry, and intensely American egalitarian humor . . . surprisingly intelligent.” SF Weekly

“Edison’s writing style is a gonzo-type rush, filled with hilariously inventive descriptions . . . ”The Boston Phoenix

“Smart, filthy, and funny, Mike Edison is no ordinary author.” Spin

“Edison can turn out crisp, poetic sentences or tug a heartstring or two. He is blessed with the ability to swiftly nail down characters in indelible, often hilarious descriptions.” ­The Rumpus

“Edison’s insight transforms the mundane to the sublime.... unrelentingly smart and funny.” The Brooklyn Rail

“Edison glides along the edges of society with an intense dose of wit and a startling eye for the insane.” Metro Spirit


"Mike Edison can go toe to toe with some of the best writers of the (old) New Journalism.” —Rick Perlstein, author of Nixonland: The Rise of a President and the Fracturing of America

“Freakishly evolved.” Kirkus, in starred review for I Have Fun for Everywhere I Go

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Support Your Local Bookstore

There is nothing better than supporting your local bookstore, and I’m thrilled to be sending you to ONE GRAND BOOKS in Narrowsburg, New York (see link below), just up-river from Diamond Ranch. As you might know, copies of SYMPATHY FOR THE DRUMMER are getting harder to find — it is completely sold out and on back order in most venues (the Evil Empire is selling books from third party vendors, so you can still one-click, but stock is slim) and while I’m well-chuffed at the incredible reception for SYMPATHY FOR THE DRUMMER, and profoundly saddened that it was the death of Charlie Watts that torched a tsunami of renewed demand for the book, I am also very proud to have written this shot of love, not as a reaction to Charlie Watts sudden passing, but as a celebration of his massive contribution to the revolution that was, or maybe still is, rock’n’roll. Backbeat Books is reprinting as fast as possible, but with the Covid supply-chain crisis still a very real thing, and the Fall season mopping up resources for printing presses, it will be a few weeks before SYMPATHY is in better bookstores everywhere. In the meantime, I’ve personally delivered the books I had on hand to one of the best bookstores in the world –– my local, ONE GRAND — and believe me, I am a bookstore nerd, so I know from what I am talking. Please support them by ordering a book, or better yet, stopping in if you are in the neighborhood, and digging what is a very smart shoppe. Thanks everyone for your perfect enthusiasm and remember, it don’t mean a thing it if ain't got that swing. I love you all. Xo me.

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Read an excerpt from Mike Edison's "Sympathy For The Drummer"


Excerpt from Sympathy for the Drummer – Why Charlie Watts Matters

by Mike Edison

Most disco songs are just slightly quicker than the average resting heartbeat of a moderately excited adult human, enough for a thrill, but without actually being threatening, like that demonic rock music. Listening to disco actually raised your pulse beat and gave you a cheap rush, but it didn’t kill you, either, which is why disco was so popular at bar mitzvahs as well as in actual discotheques: because it was the perfect tempo for dancing, doing drugs, and fucking all night long, but Grandma could do the Hustle with little chance of falling over dead.

Saturday Night Fever, which was as much a catalyst for the late 1970s mainstream disco boom as anything else.

What a lot of people have forgotten is that disco had as much to do with fashion as it did with music, so no wonder newly minted disco disciples found themselves at cross purposes with the kind of rock fans whose idea of a good time was to see Molly Hatchet or the Outlaws or Foreigner or what was left of Black Sabbath in a hockey arena, where the popular fashion was a worn concert jersey and faded blues jeans. These were the people who brought the cherry bombs to the shows. They were animals! And not that their ranks were rife with philosophy majors, but they sure seemed hip to the transcendentalist ethos “Beware all enterprises that require new clothes.”

And so, the Disco Sucks movement, such as it was, blossomed like a bad case of eczema.

Much has been written about the whole blot, with a lot of earnest vitriol accusing white rock fans who couldn’t accept a challenge to their own monoculture as being homophobic and racist, and defended by same white dudes calling bullshit: they hated disco because they couldn’t find a white three-piece suit that fit their beer-bellied, Shmoo bodies, and anyway, why all of a sudden did they have to give up the very essence of their identity as fun-loving lunks who loved guitar rock to worship a polyester calf? Most of the mid-western, hard-rocking Bob Seger fans who hated disco weren’t sophisticated enough to know that disco even had Latino and gay and African-American roots. America is a big country, and out in suburbia, you got the shopping mall version.

No one I knew didn’t like the the Village People because they were assumed to be gay, mostly everyone I knew (A) liked them because the only two songs anyone ever heard by them were funny and catchy enough, or, (B) were completely indifferent or dismissive because it was just a bunch of guys playing dress up and dancing to prerecorded music, just a harmless novelty act, not as cool as the Banana Splits had been, but then, you can never really have it all, at least not all at once. The fact that they were gay icons wasn’t a thing in suburbia, a place where jocks went to football stadiums to see a band called Queen. Either no one got it, or no one cared.

Meanwhile, the big secret was that discotheques were safe spaces for rich people. That’s why there were so many aging celebrities there — it was approved decadence. Disco was mama’s heart beat for insecure adults. It was a chance for a little bit of excitement without completely losing control. It was very repetitive. It was comforting. Discotheques were like giant wombs, that is if wombs had spinning silver balls and DJ booths in them.

As much as the great dance mixes were perfected in a glorious gay underground, it translated to suburbia with shocking ease. It was urbane with an edge, and it was on sale at the shopping mall. Suburban chicks loved it — anything to get their Led Zeppelin-lovin’ boyfriends out of their t-shirts and torn jeans. Unlike rock, at least disco smelled nice.

It was the establishment rock bands of the time being told by their record companies that they needed to get on the disco bandwagon if they wanted to move units, and these dinosaurs, living in fear of extinction, actually went along with it. We had come a long way since Elvis and Little Richard and the savage power of the individual, indeed.

And so we got rocker Rod Stewart plodding along with “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?”; the Kinks, who got their start as proto-punk British Invasion upstarts before becoming ponderous, Beatles-influenced art rockers, were now having a go at the disco thing with “Superman;” craven hard-rockers KISS proved once and for all that they had zero shame and less scruples with “I Was Made for Loving You;” and even countrified cokeheads and cosmic cowboys like the Eagles and the Grateful Dead each took a stab at the spinning mirror ball with “One of These Nights” and “Shakedown Street,” one of the few disco songs designed primarily for pot heads. Even smarty pants prog-rockers Pink Floyd managed to glue a disco beat onto their contrived dystopian light show to score a no. 1 hit. When it came to rock’n’roll, hoo boy, the culture had really shit the bed.

So how did the Rolling Stones, the Greatest Rock’n’roll Band in the World snake by with their disco bid, “Miss You,” the first song on their monstrously popular Some Girls record in the summer of 1978?

Well, for one, they were really good at it. They made disco sound greasy and wet.

Mick and Charlie, at least, were long-time fans. They weren’t Johnny-come-latelies to club music, they had been trolling international dance floors for years, Mick making the scene and boosting riffs for the next Stones record, and Charlie just digging the music.

Charlie was no moldy fig—he may have been in a lifelong romance with Charlie Parker, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hear what was happening around him, and he he fell in love with the Philadelphia sound when it was exploding in the early 1970s, especially the mighty shwoop of its first great drummer, Earl Young, who seemed to be on every hip dance record for a while there, from the the Intruders “(Win, Place, or Show) She’s a Winner” to the O’Jays “Love Train” and “Back Stabbers,” Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes “The Love I Lost,” not to mention tons of stuff with the Trammps, including “Disco Inferno,” plus sessions with the Spinners, the Stylistics, MFSB, and dozens more.

So when the Stones cut "Miss You,” as much as it was obviously another grand Mick idea to stay au currant (it took Keith some convincing, but ultimately he saw the wisdom in Mick’s madness), you can’t say they were selling out — They had been playing great black dance music for years, and had just changed the hi-hat shwoop with the times. They had a bad track record for chasing trends, but when they got it right, they owned it.

As it turned out, they were an incredibly good disco band (aside from “Miss You,” their other great disco numbers include “Everything is Turning to Gold,” “Dance” (Pts. 1 & II)", and “Emotional Rescue”), or more likely, an incredibly swank rock’n’roll band who could give it up and turn it loose . There was the anticipation in the groove, and the penetration, as it should be, was left to whatever happened after closing time. It was, in a word, exciting.

Cranky rockists may have pooh-poohed it, but just for a second — because Some Girls wasn’t dominated by disco songs, it was dominated by Rolling Stones songs, and “Miss You” was just one of them.

At the same time they were laying claim to the dance floor, they were also proving themselves a great punk-rock band, and a top-tier country band who dabbled in jazz and torch songs.

Actually, for a gang that had been copping Marvin Gaye and gigging with Stevie Wonder, not to mention lashing out with “Street Fighting Man” and “Happy” for years, they were uniquely suited to play disco and punk – they had been at it for years, they just called it something else.

Copyright Mike Edison 2019

Published by Backbeat Books, November 2019

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