The fix is in. How else to explain how the Rolling Stones’ overly long new album with the hilariously hideous cover–to say nothing of sad cliches of sad cliches of better Mick and Keith songs from decades gone by—has been receiving laudatory review after laudatory review? Payola? If so, where’s my bulging envelope of filthy lucre?
Look, we all owe the Rolling Stones an enormous debt of gratitude for years of meritorious service. But how many years are we talking about exactly? When was the last time a new Rolling Stones album actually mattered? The late Seventies? We’re closing in on fifty years here. You could buy their last truly good LP on 8-track.
They’re down to three members—time waits for no one—but still they bang their drum across the rock world like an Energizer Bunny with a walker, catering to their aging contemporaries who keep hoping the Stones will deliver on some of their old black magic.
They’re also attracting the types of unimaginative people who only buy albums by bands they’ve heard of, and there’s barely a human on the planet who hasn’t heard of the Rolling Stones. And then there are those for whom the Rolling Stones still (inexplicably) carry the whiff of the bad boy about them.
2026’s Foreign Tongues is just the last in a long succession of Rolling Stones albums that bring to mind that Medical Alert Bracelets commercial where an old woman lying on the floor cries, “Help! I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”
Which would be okay by me if most of the music critics of the world weren’t praising them to the heavens as if they weren’t superannuated adulation junkies who simply don’t know when to pull the plug. How many of those music critics, I wonder, would actually dig into their OWN pockets to pay for Foreign Tongues? That might lose the Stones some hearts and minds.
The Rolling Stones are an institution, one built to house the poor souls deluded enough to buy Foreign Tongues, but to each their own—I paid good money for a Pablo Cruise t-shirt a while back, and there isn’t an institution small enough to warehouse fools like me.
I went into Foreign Tongues expecting little in the way of musical rewards, and managed to walk away disappointed. You tell me how that’s possible. Okay, so I had a laugh or two. Mick employs his patented falsetto on “Jealous Lover” and comes off sounding like a hysterical fishwife upset because somebody just walked off without paying for a pound of eel.
And then there’s Mick’s talk-through on “Mr. Charm,”—which is utterly devoid of said quality. The same goes for “Covered in You” (what, did she blow up?), on which Mick does his macho bit only to end up sounding like a guy in a retirement home unhappy that he got tapioca when he asked for rice pudding.
“Divine Intervention” opens with Mick singing, “Walking down the street in New York City,” and how many times have we heard that before? You would think he’d have been able to filch a fresh idea or two from a cast of guests that includes everyone from Steve Winwood, Paul McCartney, and Robert Smith to Bruno Mars, who (lucky us) plays cowbell on one track. Highlight of the album!
“Never Wanna Lose You” might have sounded fresh in, say, 1978. Now the hard rock/disco fusion just sounds like a song you’ve heard before. It’s one of two songs where Mick mentions moving to a trailer park, and (as has long been the case) his lower-class working guy persona sounds rich coming out of the mouth of a man who’s spent the better part of his life hobnobbing with the super-rich. And the Fishwife Returneth at song’s end.
The anti-drug “Side Effects” also works the disco metal vein, but has nothing to say—if it’s side effects you want (and some laughs besides), I heartily recommend Viagra Boys’ “Research Chemicals” instead.
“You Know I’m No Good” is predictable, dull, and makes me think we should put a tariff on British goods. It does include the lines, “I’m in the tub, you’re on the seat/Lick your lips as I soak my feet,” which almost makes the song. Also funny is the fact that poor Mick’s indifferent lover doesn’t much care where he got the carpet burns, which hurts both his ass and his self-esteem. And when it comes to name-dropping, you have to say to yourself, “Roger Moore? When was the last time Jagger saw a movie?”
“Ringing Hollow” is the first of the band’s two C&W numbers. Some of the Stones’ best songs mine the vein, but this one brings nothing new to the table. I remember the days when Mick was gleefully running twenty red lights in a row before deadpanning, “Thank you Jesus, thank you Lord,” or scraping the shit right off his shoes. It’s rare that rockers’ lyrics improve with age, and Jagger is unfortunately no exception.
“Hit Me in the Head” is an unrepentant hard rocker with velocity but a generic piece of songcraft, redeemed chiefly by Jagger’s harmonica and the fact that I can’t listen to it without thinking Mick’s singing, “Hippie in my head.” (Note to Mick: the title is yours. Don’t let me down.) “Back in Your Life” is power ballad mush from the retired genius who gave us “Angie” and “Memory Motel.”
The remaining four tracks have something going for them. In “Rough and Twisted,” it’s Ronnie Wood’s guitar, which hasn’t sounded so grinding and bloodthirsty since his days with the Faces—check out “That’s All You Need.” And Jagger’s harmonica is equally mean, while Matt Clifford bangs out some nice piano. Does it matter that the song itself isn’t that memorable? On an album this mediocre, no. It’s just nice to hear the Stones make a racket.
The lovely opening to “In the Stars” portends interesting things—unfortunately, what follows is a Mick tough guy act, and the song works only when they return to that opening figure. In short, it’s half of a great song, and somebody in the Stones camp should have known it.
The only two true winners are the ones where the Stones go Deep South C&W rough. “Beautiful Delilah” is Exile on Main Street raw, all rapidly strummed guitars and Mick sounding like he’s actually engaged and having fun. And then we have the ballad “Some of Us,” on which Keith Richards is at his tenderest, and the chorus—the loveliest thing on the album—is proof positive that every time you throw dirt on the coffin of the Rolling Stones, they throw open the lid and actually make you feel something.
And this overly produced album isn’t designed to make you feel anything—it’s only rock and roll as product qua product, and that awful album cover exists only as a surface to put a price tag on.
A few years back, a writer for The Telegraph wrote an article entitled “60 Reasons Why the Rolling Stones are Still the Greatest Rock’n’Roll Band in the World.” I couldn’t even bring myself to read it. Famous, yes—I’m guessing more people on this planet are familiar with the Rolling Stones than they are The Beatles, in part thanks to the iconic tongue and lips logo t-shirts I see being worn by kids who are young enough to be the offspring of the offspring who fell in love with Sticky Fingers.
And no one wants to let go of them—scientists have concluded that the only thing people fear more than dying is Keith Richards dying. But the Rolling Stones stopped mattering musically a long, long time ago, and each and every one of their albums is a doomed attempt to capture lost glory, that and an opportunity to schedule another highly lucrative tour.
For every Led Zeppelin out there, there’s a boomer band that just doesn’t know when to quit. It’s a pity the Rolling Stones are amongst their number. To quote a former chicken restaurant magnate, you have to know when to hold them and know when to fold them. Trouble is, very few people want the Stones to make their final curtain call. It’s a folie à deux. Mutually assured devaluation.
I know a guy who actually vacuumed his carpet before bringing Foreign Tongues home. But to his credit, he knew how funny that was. He found the album unlistenable, which is also to his credit. But think about that. He vacuumed his carpet—for nothing! Foreign Tongues has a lot to answer for.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D
