YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET THE STONES THAT YOU WANT

FOREIGN TONGUES

09/17/26

This is not another album review; I am not going to play the critic because I can’t stand people who do that. When those so-called experts with borrowed relevance and bloated egos deliver their entitled opinions about restaurants, movies, or music, the review ends up somehow becoming more important than the topic itself
You know the type; they’ll tell what’s hip, good, or sucks, or explain to you why you should listen to an album or why you’re supposed to love one that bores the fuck out of you.
No thanks. I couldn’t care less about giving records stars or scores. This isn’t criticism; it’s just a letter from a broken-hearted fan.

I’ve been listening to the Rolling Stones since I was old enough to wipe my own ass. I grew up with them. It was my religion, and Keith Richards is my god. He has always been more than just the man with the Telecaster to me; he was the sound of chaos and danger.
Sure, Mick Jagger has always been the greatest frontman in rock history. There isn’t even a debate. He is the brain of this somehow fucked-up enterprise.
Charlie was the pulse, the heartbeat.
And Ronnie is the smile.
But Keith is the soul, the guts, the balls of the Stones. He sweats, lives, breathes, and embodies rock ’n’ roll, and that’s the reason they always have that particular and peculiar sound, no matter how much the music industry changed around them.

So every time they announce an album, I become fourteen years old again. The wait is always unbearable, and I start to twitch like a fucking junkie. Then I get anxious—not only for me, but also for them, because I hate when they get bad reviews. And even though the Stones were never pure record sellers, I always hope the LP will do well.
And to make sure I get that pure, first-listening thrill, I completely avoid reviews and interviews. I don’t even want to know who produced it. I hang on to the possibility that, somehow… those old bastards might surprise me one more time.
And recently, they actually did.

Blue & Lonesome wasn’t just a blues record. It was a reminder of where this whole adventure started—a trip down memory lane to the very roots of the blues and the core of the Rolling Stones. I loved it because it felt refreshing and authentic. There were no tricks, no desperate attempts to sound younger, just old pirates playing the music that influenced them.
I was surprised like everybody else because, once again, they landed exactly where I didn’t expect them. And they still fucking had it; after all this time, they could still completely baffle me. Who could have imagined a genuine rebirth of the Stones at eighty years old with a good old-fashioned sound?

Then Hackney Diamonds came out.
A divine, fabulous surprise. I absolutely loved it. For a moment, I completely forgot their age.
Here they were:
Jagger, ageless, sounded hungry again, spilling his guts one more time with sharp, lusty blues-rock lyrics, delivered with his trademark tone and a flawless execution.
From the first notes you could feel that Keith Richards was in charge, and he proved he was still holding down the fort.
Some guitarists make their axes sing, cry, or weep; Richards is the only one who can make a guitar sweat rock and roll. When you listen to him play, you understand the very reason this instrument exists—the true purpose of those fucking six strings, well, five for Keith.
A way to remind us, if there were any doubts, why he’s called the Riffmaker.

I was thrilled that they still knew how to throw a punch, and they absolutely knocked me out flat on my ass.
The Stones were back with a fucking bang. This LP wasn’t a breath of fresh air; quite the opposite, it was suffocating. It was reeking of rock ’n’ roll, cigarette smoke, and booze. The more I listened to it, the more I drowned in pure pleasure, sitting there on my couch, smiling like a village idiot.

Naturally, I couldn’t wait for Foreign Tongues.
As they were on the good streak, the third is always a charm, right? So I was hoping for the best.
When I saw the cover, I found it fun, irreverent, and a bit subversive; oddly, it reminded me of the Some Girls or Emotional Rescue era.
The day of its release, I bought it at 8 am, then walked my dog and made me an espresso. So, now that the premise was set, it was time for my ritual.
Always the same:
I sit down, phone off, headphones on. No interruptions, no distractions. Just me, the Glimmer Twins, and that sacred sound of rock and roll.
And I pressed play.

The first thing that threw me off balance was that cold and metallic sound, and it felt overproduced with the treble maxed out.
Jagger’s voice was overwhelming—too upfront, like he was right there in my face and the rest of the band pushed to the back of the room.
But I told myself not to judge too quickly. After all, it was only the first song.

So I waited for the second. Then the third. Then the fourth.
I kept waiting and waiting.
Waiting for Mick to rattle me.
Waiting for Keith to slice me up and ground me with his sharp, greasy riffs.
Waiting for Charlie’s ghost to haunt the drum kit.
Waiting for the band I’d spent forty years listening to religiously to kick my ass one more time.
Then the last track ended.
I sat there in total silence, completely numb and dumbfounded. I just couldn’t believe my fucking ears. No, this can’t be a Stones album! There is no warmth. No dirt. No sweat. I must have missed something. So I decided to press play again, just to be sure.

The second listen hurt even more because, this time, I knew something was fundamentally off. I was in complete disbelief. What the fuck is going on there?
This album has no soul, no guts. It doesn’t rock; it doesn’t roll. And it has no danger. No swagger. No filth. No rebellion. No surprise. Even more astonishing, there isn’t a single riff worth mentioning that grabs you by the throat. This isn’t just a med Rolling Stones album. It’s something much sadder; it doesn’t sound like a band anymore. But like a solo project.

And that’s the part that kills me inside.
Where the fuck is Keith Richards?
Sure, he plays guitar. He sings a song, but come on—even on that track, he sounds far from convincing. So yes, Richards is here, technically, and his name is on the sleeve. But as far as I’m concerned, he has left the building.
How could he have signed up for this?
Nobody will ever convince me that he’s truly okay with this album!

Until recently, they had a sacred agreement; they fought tooth and nail for that fifty/fifty split in writing, recording, and every decision regarding the album’s direction.
He has always been the gatekeeper. He was supposed to be the last stand to prevent Jagger from releasing exactly this kind of bland commercial slop.
So I am afraid to ask, but has Keith given up or simply lost interest?
Aren’t there any great riffs left in those magic hands?
Aren’t there any gutsy songs left in that genius mind of his?
Aren’t there any rebellions left in that iconic god of rock ’n’ roll?
Where is the man who could build an immortal song from just five notes?
Where is the man who wrote riffs that every guitarist on Earth has spent sixty years trying—and failing—to copy?
On this record… He’s 86.
And I am not talking about his age.

As far as I am concerned, this disaster has Jagger’s handprint all over it. But not the Jagger of “Brown Sugar” or “Sympathy for the Devil,” or even, to a lesser extent, the Jagger of Voodoo Lounge or Bridges to Babylon. Because the more I listen to it, the more it sounds like those boring solo albums he delivered to us in the past.
And that is exactly what is missing from this… thing: conflict. It sounds like a silent agreement, like a peace treaty written on a fucking cocktail napkin in a cheap fast-food.
It’s the exact opposite of what always glued all the pieces together.

Because the recipe for the magic of the Glimmer Twins was quite simple but ruthlessly efficient; when one wanted something polished, the other used grit.
When one was delivering with precision, the other used instinct.
That’s why The Rolling Stones were never built on a sweet harmony; they have never been a feng shui band. All that creativity came from underlined tension.
When Mick went too far… Keith pulled him back.
When Keith disappeared into chaos… Mick dragged him back into the studio.
That’s why they are who they are.
That’s why nobody else ever sounded like them.
Overall, maybe that’s what’s missing: not youth or talent. But a hint of resistance. The kind where Keith would have looked at Mick and said,
“What the fuck are you doing? No, man, sorry, not this, not here. Not on a Stones album. Not on my fucking watch.”

We all know what the Stones are truly capable of. We’ve heard the grandiose genius of Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Beggars Banquet, and Exile on Main St. (even if that last one is far from being my personal favorite).
We had Steel Wheels, Some Girls, and It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll, which were rock-solid LPs, and the criminally underestimated Voodoo Lounge.
In between, sure, we had our share of decent records—maybe not works of absolute genius, but still fantastic records.
They released musical UFOs like Their Satanic Majesties Request or Emotional Rescue. And even during the 80s, an intriguing, messy period, I concur, but you could always find absolute gems on those average, or uneven, albums. There was always a riff, a song, a single line that would redeem both the day and the album at the same time.

That’s the saddest thing about this record.
There is absolutely nothing to save from this absurd attempt to seduce radio stations and streaming platforms—all just to stay modern and prove Jagger is still relevant as a lyricist. When I see all that mess and the circus around it, I can only assume the PR and marketing cost a fortune.
Have you ever seen so many glowing reviews for such a bland corporate album?

Still, I must give him credit. Jagger, being the ultimate pro he is, did his job perfectly, peddling the album everywhere in interviews and on social media.
Those are actually the perfect platforms to launch this incoherent collection of tracks that have about as much depth as an Instagram carousel.
In the end, there is a little bit of everything in this uninspired commercial and marketed turd… Except rock and roll.

The problem is we got very demanding with the Glimmer Twins. It’s their fault. They raised us like spoiled brats. And when you set the bar that high, it’s complicated to reach the same level every time. I am sure any other band would have been happy and proud to make even the worst album in the Stones’ catalog.
They had an exceptional, unique career; they defined rock, pushed the boundaries of music, and created iconic songs and classics.
But now they leave us with this…thing as their legacy. Seriously?

Jagger has gone too far, and he’s trying too hard to fit the Stones into modernity, even at the cost of releasing probably the most insignificant album in their entire discography?
He seems to have forgotten that the Stones are not some fucking pop band. They don’t have to be relevant or follow a trend.
They set the standards.

And maybe the tragedy lies here. Although it’s not my first musical heartbreak of this kind, it’s easily the most painful. In all fairness, I know I am being too harsh on Jagger. But I feel cheated. Hurt.
Deep inside, I can’t really blame him for doing his thing. Because when the captain had let go of the wheel, somebody had to grab it, and Jagger simply did what he believed was best for the band. After all, Mick has been the Rolling Stones’ greatest manager of the band since day one. He took them where no band has ever gone.
And even if I don’t like it, the younger generation seems to respond well to the album. It’s number one pretty much everywhere, and the reviews are glowing.
So be it.

I know this article is biased. I am defending my version of the Stones—the sound I like, the music I fell in love with. In the end, it’s my mistake because I was expecting too much. As we are getting closer to the final chapter, I wanted this last piece to be groundbreaking. Something to settle the score once and for all, to remind us exactly why they became the greatest rock ‘n’ roll band on Earth.

On the other hand, they have flirted with commercialism before, with varying degrees of success; it’s just one of the many facets of the band. They’ve worn many faces all through the years, right?
That is why every generation loves the Stones. There is a little bit of everything for everybody.
Something tells me that if I had Jagger sitting right in front of me, he’d look at me with that sarcastic grin of his and say the following:
“Sir, you can’t always get what you want.
But if you try sometimes…
You just might find you get what you need.”
And he’s probably right.

This wasn’t what the Stones I wanted, but it’s probably what the band needed to reach another generation and to remind everyone they still matter. To show everybody the reason why they are still sitting on the throne after all this time. And to secure, one more time—if it was ever necessary—their place in the pantheon of music history.
After all, it’s the longest reign in the history of the kingdom of rock ’n’ roll.

It’s okay; I will bury this one in my collection. Even though it has been two months already, I haven't listened to it again. I probably won’t. Or maybe in a couple of years.
Then I will move on, knowing their other records are sitting on the shelf. Because even after all those years, even if I’ve listened to them a thousand times,
Sticky Fingers still makes my head spin.
Let It Bleed still gives me goosebumps.
Beggars Banquet still sounds dangerous.
Exile on Main St. continues to intrigue me.
Voodoo Lounge still knocks me off my feet.
Hackney Diamonds hasn’t finished yet to reveal its secrets or surprise me.

The only thing that still bothers me is that after forty years of loving this band… I never thought the Rolling Stones would release an album that made me miss the Stones.

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