A heralded literary endeavor like this begs the question of how many chapters Richards actually composed himself. Any fair journalist can sift through basic historical data and weave picturesque paragraphs in first person to enhance whatever a subject dictates. Instead, there's a nice gut feeling at play here. Frequent staccato style summations expressed in very few words give a sense of Richard throwing off the cuff remarks that often summarize more than just his viewpoint. Did you fancy it enough then? Very much.
This is a book about families: through blood, commitment, art. Richards invites us to gather around the supper table, where there's even his recipe for bangers and mash.
A great goodbye delivers Richards' often poignant and perfectly understated epic to bittersweet, full circle conclusion.
Here's another chapter to that bountiful bayou of blues roots "crossroads" mythology about traded souls and salt of the earthly goods. Much of this tale unfolds in the public eye, available for repetition through countless media for almost six sensationally scarred decades. In this verse, the Devil loses his unforgiving, tortured spirit and gets nothing in return like mystic musical prowess from the blasphemous bargain.
At the other dead end of the street, Richards strolls away smiling (or was that a smirk?), new skull ring and another memento in his custom guitar case. Lady Luck dances naked, on Richards' side of the riff and the story.
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