How Mick Jagger (and Joey Zagarino) Wrote the Lyrics to the Rolling Stones Song “Torn ‘N Frayed”

This is an exciting excerpt from Walk, Don’t Run: A Rockin’ and Rollin’ Memoir by Steven Jae Johnson.

Satisfaction

The phone rang in my apartment and I ran to pick it up. “Rusty, it’s Zag!” The rewinding of powerful tape machines could be heard in the background. “Dig it! Call Eddie and the two of you get your asses down to Sunset Sound Recorders and come into studio C. PRONTO! You ain’t gonna believe this one, daddy-o. Whatever you’re doing, drop it and get here—FAST!”

Joey hung up.

I dialed Eddie in a split second. The phone kept ringing and ringing. After twelve times I gave up and jumped into my tan Corvair and hauled up the Santa Monica Freeway towards Hollywood. I didn’t know what was going on, but Joey’s excitement told me that something was up, and it had to be good.

Arriving at Sunset Sound, I parked and gave my name to the girl at the desk.

“Studio C is right down the hall to your right. Man,” she added, “are you privileged. Everybody in town wants a pass for this session.”

“They do?” I gazed at the attractive girl’s breasts for a moment and then asked, “Where’s a pay phone, please?”

“You can use this one if you like,” she said.

I dialed Eddie for a second time, hoping he had gotten home from whatever he was doing. After about eight rings, I gave up again. “I’ll try later from inside the studio,” I said.

I went down the hall and opened the door to Studio C. I was greeted to the view of a large recording console. Joey sat closest to me. On the other side of Joey was Jimmy, who was sitting in a huge leather chair.

“Hi, guys,” I chirped like a happy kid.

“Johnson-man!” Joey said excitedly. “Got here fast, bro. You’ve met Jimmy.” We both waved. “I want you to meet some friends of mine. Turn around and meet…”

I could hear Joey’s voice, but it seemed to be placed in some surreal territory called the “Outer Limits.” For the first time in my life, I actually got dizzy meeting another human being simply by the sheer knowledge and respect I had for them.

“Rusty Johnson, meet Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. And dig on it a while, daddy.”

Joey’s laughter was pleasantly mischievous.

All I could do was smile in the presence of the ultimate in rock and roll royalty.

“I—.”

“Hello, Rusty, it’s good meeting ya,” Mick said. “Thanks for comin’ out. Joey says you go way back and he’s our man, so I guess that means you are, too.”

Mick and I shook hands. Mick’s shoulder length brown hair shined in the studio light against a dark pull over shirt and grey pants. He looked exactly like I would have expected him to look: stylish, trim, and in good shape. Like a runner looks.

“How are you, man?” Keith said. “Any friend of Joey’s and all that good shit.” He wore a light, long-sleeve pull-over shirt and dark Levis with cowboy boots. His dark full mane of hair hung in layers offset by bangs that were brushed to the side.

“I’m speechless, guys. This is not only a tremendous surprise, but a total honor.”

They laughed and slapped me on the back. I had met lots of stars by this time in my life, but this meeting knocked me out.

“All right, you guys, back to work. Enough of this friendly sissy shit,” Jimmy ranted humorously, cracking the whip.

“Yeah, Johnson,” Joey cracked, “Now get your ass over here and help me turn some dials.”

As I sat, Joey belched. “Ah…Good food. Just like the home studio, huh?” Then he coughed hard.

“Yeah, but no surf music,” I countered.

“Clean, Johnson. You’re clean, daddy-o,” Joey said.

Exile On Main Street was the working title of the album in preparation. The album was stocked full of vintage Stones’ blues and rock and roll. Bobby Keys on Sax and Jim Price on trumpet made the Stones sound even that much better on this one. I later learned that the two horn men played live with the Stones in concerts.

Mick and Keith were working on a song entitled “Torn and Frayed.” As Mick was doing a take, he stopped mid verse. “I just don’t like this verse,” he said.

Joey hit the intercom button. He started to speak and his hacking cough came through the speakers. Jimmy and I sat back away from their sick friend. “Puh-lease,” I joked.

“Sorry about the nasty cough, Mick. What do you want to do?”

Mick grabbed a yellow pad and pencil and sat down. “Give me a minute.” After a few minutes, Mick stood up. “All right, Joey, roll the tape on the verse. I’m ready.”

Joey cued it up and Mick sang.

Joe’s got a cough, sounds kind a rough,

Yeah, and the codeine to fix it.

Doctor prescribes, drug store supplies,

Who’s gonna help him to kick it?

As Mick sang the words, Joey, Jimmy and I howled with laughter. It was the first take and it was complete. Mick backed from the microphone laughing as Joey hit the intercom switch.

“Ahhhhhhh! I’m friggin’ famous, baby. I’m famous!” Joey screamed like a man finding out he’d just won a million-five from the lottery.

“Your cough’s famous,” Jimmy said.

Mick asked, “Think it works, Jimmy?”

“Great to me,” Jimmy said. “Only now I’ll have to give him a raise.”

The room exploded with laughter.

“I thought I’d write about that cough of yours,” Mick laughed, “then maybe the damn thing’ll go away and we can get some work done.”

“Unbelievable,” I said. “Unbelievable.”

It was classic dirty Stones at their delightful best as only they could deliver. I sat with Joey and watched as he and Jimmy conferred about certain sections of the cuts and tested levels. Joey, wanting me to feel at home, asked my opinion on several levels of the vocals.

Keith relaxed three feet from the others, listening carefully to the parts being laid with the ones they’d already done. He looked around as if expecting someone and then said to me, “Let’s get something to drink.”

“Okay,” I said.

I opened the studio door and we stepped outside. I told Keith about seeing them in Long Beach, as I pulled out a pack of smokes and offered him one.

“No thanks,” he said and pulled out some of his own.

“So this girl,” I continued, “grabbed the curtain that hung from the second story balcony, leaped over the rail, and tried to climb down it, hand over hand. She lost her grip and fell a good fifty feet to the back of the stage.”

“Damn,” Keith said, taking a drag. Our boot heels echoed in the halls.

A musician or engineer came out a door and spotted Keith. “Oh, my God! Hi,” the man said, offering his hand. Keith received the compliment gracefully, shook the man’s hand, and said, “Hi.”

“I thought she probably broke her back,” I went on as we walked, “but she sprang up like a cat with nine lives and ran straight for Mick. Of course, the cops hustled her off. The crowd went ballistic when they saw she wasn’t hurt and Mick said something about being grateful the girl was okay and for everyone to take it easy and enjoy the show.”

“I think I remember that,” Keith said. “Things got pretty wild at some of our shows.”

We arrived at the Coke machine that was rigged to also dispense free beer. We each put a couple of bottles under our arms. As we opened our bottles, Keith made a toasting gesture.

“To your health.”

I returned the toast as we clanked bottles.

“And to the recording and success of Exile on Main Street.”

“Thanks,” Keith said. “When you first walked in tonight, I thought you were that actor from that Mod Squad television show. What’s his name, Cole something?”

“Michael Cole,” I offered. “Wish I was sometimes. I just need a break, you know?”

“Maybe Joey can help you now,” Keith said as he lit another cigarette.

“Yeah. That’s the plan. My other friend, Eddie, and I got pretty close with a single that Wolfman Jack pushed. But, you know things dry up. We’re not giving up, though. Got to keep on with what you got.”

“Sounds like a good song title. ‘Keep on with what you got’!” Keith said.

“Let’s write it together,” I joked. “Mick won’t mind.”

“If I get back to L.A., maybe we will.”

Keith and I made our way back to the studio. Once inside, we watched Mick demonstrate exactly how he wanted the girls to sing at each part of the song.

“That’s great the way Mick points to the words and sings the phrases,” I said to Keith and Joey.

“Joey,” Mick’s voice came over the intercom. “Roll the tape back over that last chorus, will you?”

Later, Keith sang with Mick on several passages in different songs with their harmony that they’d done for years. Their inter-play and communication was seamless. They joked each other into just what they wanted.

After the female singers went home and the session ended, Mick, Keith, Joey, Jimmy, and I walked to the entrance of Sunset Sound to say goodbye.

I shook Mick’s hand. “Thank you, Mick, for letting me sit in tonight.”

“Thank you, Rusty,” Mick said warmly. “I can see why you and Joey have been best friends for so long.”

“Here’s a little something to remember me by,” Keith said. He handed me something as we stood at the rear of the limo. “You’re invited to any of our L.A. sessions with Joey, okay?”

“All right, Keith. Thanks, man.”

Jimmy and Joey were talking with Mick about the next mix down session as Mick and Keith sat in the limo. I took this moment to check my hand to see what Keith had given me.

It was a joint.

Joey caught my surprise and opened his hand to me. “Better give it to me,” he laughed. “You’ll just sit in the Porsche all night and scream that your heart is going to explode.”

“Your mamma!” I shot back. “I just might fire it up when I get home.”

An hour later at home, I turned on the television and laid on the couch. It was about midnight and I had just started to relax when I thought about what Keith had given me. I looked at it mystified for a moment. I walked onto the back patio.

Well, hell! Everyone else is doing this. I’m good, but I’m not perfect. I mean how many people can say they got a present from Keith Richards?

Against my better judgment, I lit it and smoked about three hits. The smoke eased into me and I stood there feeling like a wide-eyed kewpie-doll, wondering what all the fuss was about. I shrugged, put it out, and went back to see who Carson had on his line up tonight. The buxom Carol Wayne was just finishing a bit with Johnny dressed as a carnival barker. The corners of my mouth curled in a whimsical, almost spasmodic, gesture. I fell asleep almost instantly.

Just as the intro for The Tom Snyder Show was playing, my eyes opened gently.

Correct me if I’m wrong, Moondoggie, but I don’t think I remember the walls breathing in and out the last time I checked.

I stumbled to my feet and walked toward the stairs. As I climbed the stairs, they opened up to a vast cavern, much like that of a frozen Nordic valley of snow and mountains.

Hu-huh, some people dig this? Reminds me of the trip I took in Joey’s Porsche.

“Hey! Do you mind, mister?” a large, white duck screamed as my left foot stepped on its back exactly where a stair used to be.

“Sorry,” I uttered. I was confused and sweating profusely. My heart whacked against my chest as if it were an imprisoned alien. I fell against the railing, grabbing hold for dear life as the winds from the subterranean passage blew savagely. I forced my head upward, longing to arrive at the top step before falling to my pitiful death in the abyss.

Finally reaching the top step and making it to the bedroom, I crawled into bed. My eye’s became very heavy and I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed of a colorful combination of monsters and family bliss—an eerie cross between the Outer Limits and Father Knows Best. In the morning, when I would be trying to make sense of it, I would wonder if it had something to do with my father’s drinking problem and how that monster had impacted my life and influenced me. And I prayed that the same fate would not befall me.

—

Keep rockin’! Read Walk, Don’t Run — the book named an “Indie Groundbreaking Book” — now!