Exile on Main St. plays out of order on my iPod. My
first clue is the slur and smear of “Tumbling Dice” too early at track 3.
Somewhere Martin Scorsese shakes his head and mutters his disapproval.
I
picture Marty (we call him Marty to imply we’re friends, having charmed him with
some incisive, witty comment on film at some rarified salon) in the passenger
seat, incredulous at my sloppy Rolling Stones curation. He raises a bushy
eyebrow when I cannot tell if “Torn and Frayed” or “Sweet Virginia” is playing.
What a disgrace that in front of the man who scored Goodfellas with
“Gimme Shelter” and who directed the Shine a Light concert documentary (the
song just now playing out of order) that I cannot properly play the Stones in
sequence.
Marty
and I reach our destination. He storms out of the car, slams the door right on
the downbeat, but not before spitting, “I didn’t wait 30 years for my Best
Director Oscar just to put up with this shit.”
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