Having read numerous interviews with Keith Richards over the last 30 years or so, I've noticed that they come in two flavors. One in which the writer helpfully translates Keith's thoughts into a language that closely aproximates English. These interviews contain quotes that read like this:

Well, Mick thought that he could get a better sound on his vocals if he rerecorded them in an isolation booth. So we overdubbed them in L.A. at Sunset Sound, after recording the basic tracks at the Record Plant in New York.

Then there are those journalists who simply quote Keith verbatim, transcribing the cassette tape of an interview done at 4:00 in the morning, as the EMPTY! warnings begin to flash on Keith's bottle of Jack Daniels:

Mick...vocals...Sunshhhhet Shoundddd...Record Plant...New Yorkkkkk.....[thump]....ZZZZZZZZZ

Those last sounds were Keith nodding out after being awake for two weeks running.

However, in proof that alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, does indeed produce all the effects of intoxication, Tim Blair interviews Keith Richards' brain--and unlike Keith's vocal cords, it's a delightfully articulate interviewee:

Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Keith Richards’ brain. A brain of swollen pain, as you’ll be aware if you’ve picked up a newspaper in the past few weeks. For nigh on 63 years, I’ve avoided the unpleasantness of media scrutiny, until my human-form hostpod – Mr Richards, as you call him – recently decided to climb up a coconut tree. Well, technically, I suppose it was my decision; I’ll accept the blame for that. But it wasn’t my decision to fall out of the damn thing and land on me.

For that, I blame the inner ear. Do you know how long it took to send me a message that Keith was overbalancing? I’ll tell you: about 15 minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES! By then we were already in the stupid ambulance on the way to hospital, cerebrospinal fluid sloshing everywhere, my whole supramarginal gyrus bruised to hell, and this high-level alert suddenly appears: “Dude! We’re tipping over!”

Oh, great work, inner ear. Of course, I’m programmed to react instantly when a big alert comes in, so I launch into an involuntary grab-something protocol that completely humiliates the poor medic inspecting Keith’s head. You haven’t heard such screams since the last time a 19-year-old woke up next to Mick. Two days ago, as it happens.

(Inner ear and I haven’t seen eye-to-eye – well, cerebellum to helicotrema – since the Great Rib-Busting Incident of 1998. True story: I’m completely occupied manipulating Keith’s arms and legs up a ladder in his library, carefully wrapping his fingers around the railings and making sure each foot is secure before taking the next step – please consider the material I’m working with here; this sort of exercise is like re-enacting the beach landing at Normandy, except with cats – when inner ear freaks out for no reason at all and BAM! We’re on the floor again. Third time that day.)

I wonder if Chet Baker, Charlie Parker, and William S. Burrough's brains were this charming and clearheaded? In the meantime, have your own brain process the rest.

And for a discussion about--though not with, Keith's favorite instrument, have a listen to my latest podcast.