here's an antedotal item about some girls and its possible meanings from underground, iconoclastic music journalist al aronowitz:
here's a link to the whole thing - it's long but an interesting account of mick's attempts at getting into a white house event in 78...
it pretty much sums up my feelings about the album: its jagger's blood on the tracks in a sense - the anger, bitterness and dissolution of a painful breakup.
http://www.blacklistedjournalist.com/column30.html"It's the best album the Stones've ever done!" my son kept telling me. Every time he recorded a new album, Mick used to come to New York, call me to his hotel room and play it for me. But the first time I got to hear Some Girlsi was over the PA at a Patti Smith concert in the folding chair echoes of the Georgetown University gym, where they played Some Girls over the PA between acts. For me Patti couldn't follow the record. She couldn't even follow Root Boy Slim, the opening act. I got turned off as soon as she got onstage. Each one of her songs started to sound like the same kind of shriek. [Sorry to have to give you a bad review, Patti, but that's the way I felt at the time.] I split early to catch Mick on Saturday Night Live! Patti'd announced before she started singing that she'd probably quit early for the same reason.
Listening to the LP that night, I persuaded myself that Some Girls was Mick's torch album for Bianca, his big Brand Ex. I figure it'll be a long time before she fades into a memory motel. If Mick really needed this album, he can thank Bianca for it. In my own mind, the songs were about her, for her, at her, despite her. I persuaded myself that these were Mick's heaviest lyrics yet, his most righteous rap. I never thought a superman like Mick could get wounded that bad. I'd always supposed Mick to be an emotional ironman, impervious to injury. But I guess that no matter how big a star gets to be, there'll always be some female capable of brain surgery. My mother said women would fly around my head like birds and drive me crazy. She was right. Even King Kong allowed himself to get tickled by a blonde.
Art gets squirted from agony but Mick'd learned how to bleed without letting it drip. The most famous cut on the album, Miss You, was as haunting as a friendly ghost, but my favorite was Beast of Burden because Mick's hurt sounded like my own. Aint I rough enough? Aint I tough enough? Aint I rich enough? . . . Listening to the album, I remembered a double-date we went on, Mick, Bianca, me, and my old lady at that time, the sly ex-hooker. We went looking for the right Szechuan in New York's Chinatown, with Mick sprinting down bumper-to-bumper Mott Street, trying to catch a cab. Mick sat with his arm around Bianca in the restaurant that night. They laughed and flirted and kissed over fried rice.
XI.
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