Keith and Wild Turkey
That time I served Wild Turkey to Keith Richards on a riverboat in New Orleans
Updated 8:51 AM; Today 8:10 AM
By Doug MacCash, NOLA.com | Times-Picayune
I can’t remember what brand of bourbon whiskey Keith Richards ordered, but we didn’t stock it. So the bartender told me to go ask Mr. Richards if Wild Turkey would do. Mr. Richards said it would be fine. So I served the god of cool a Wild Turkey on the rocks. By doing so, I instantly became cooler for all time to come. That’s the way it works. That, I’m sure of.
I’m not sure of anything else, because the whole experience has leaked through the sieve that is my long-term memory. I’m 62. What I’m going to recall took place in, like, 1980. I don’t remember the year exactly and I’m not going to look it up. I’m not going to look anything up.
At the time I was a 23- or 24-year-old rookie waiter on the Riverboat President, an ancient sidewheeler that had been converted into a cruising nightclub. It docked at the Spanish Plaza. Ask anyone: In that era it was the center of the universe. The Rolling Stones had naturally chosen it as the location for their tour party.
Here’s what I remember. Correct me if I’m wrong. The Nevilles provided the entertainment, along with a Mardi Gras Indian group. And maybe Stephen Stills too. Maybe. In recognition of my almost complete lack of experience waiting tables, I had been assigned to a bar on the mezzanine, an out-of-the-way spot.
Between dispensing cocktails, emptying ash trays, wiping tables and straightening my black bowtie, I looked over the railing onto the dance floor, trying to spot Stones. As I recall, I picked Ronnie and Charlie out of the crowd. I pined to lay eyes on them all, but mostly Keith of course. Keith of the landmark riffs, the bemused leer, the legendary addictions, the endless dalliances with the law and death. Oh Keith, my Keith.
Suddenly a conspicuously muscular man appeared on the mezzanine. He had the nervous demeanor of a bodyguard who’d lost track of the person he was meant to protect. The muscular man used both powerful hands to grasp one of the steel poles that supported the deck above and vaulted into a gravity-defying horizontal pose like Superman in flight. Am I making this up? I don’t think so. Not entirely.
Having gotten everyone’s attention, the bodyguard bounced back to the floor and asked if we had seen Mr. Richards. Before anyone could answer, Mr. Richards himself strolled into our midst. Magnificent Mr. Richards. He was absolutely everything I wanted him to be. He wore suede pixie boots. He was tilted slightly to one side like a palm tree in the wind. His skin was the color of concrete. I stared right at him like an star-struck imbecile, without the slightest sense of professional decorum.
Keith wore a black or dark green fedora. With the impressionability of youth, I bought a similar hat within a week and began wearing it everywhere, even to my day job at the hobby shop. In that hat I was exactly like Keith. Though I’d chosen a brown fedora to express my individuality. Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t start lining my eyes with kohl.
Keith was accompanied by a lithe woman with long blondish hair. When she attempted to drift away down one of the staircases, he dramatically snatched her trailing locks as if he couldn’t bear to see her go. But she tugged free and continued anyway.
Keith melted into a chair at a rail-side table. I think Deacon John might have been sitting there too, though I’m unsure because I was just learning the pantheon of New Orleans musicians, having only arrived from Missouri in 1978. As I already said, Keith ordered some sort of bourbon that we didn’t have. I wonder if he remembers.
I later saw the Stones perform at the Superdome. As Mick skipped along the edge of the stage and the runways, Keith mostly squatted with his guitar like a baseball catcher behind the plate, undemonstrably leading the team.
On May 2, the Stones will headline the second Thursday of the 50th anniversary New Orleans Jazz and Heritage festival. In January, I waited overnight in the cold, with a few thousand other fans, for a chance to buy a couple of tickets. I couldn’t miss it. Oh Keith, my Keith, after all these years.