Christ, they’re still at it, can you believe it? There’s a new Paul McCartney album out as well, meaning that, in the year of our Lord 2026, the British album charts look essentially the same as they did in 1966, except much of it is now “generated” by soon-to-be-sentient-and-vengeful supercomputers, plus Cliff Richard actually appears younger than he did 60 years ago, probably due to improvements in the storage and refrigeration of conveniently drinkable quantities of infant blood.
But this endemic ghoulishness extends beyond Sir Cliff’s preferred methods for remaining forever young, because if you want my opinion, there’s something inherently necrophilic about the incessant revivification of deceased forms, tropes, and archetypes, a macabre kink that has become wholly characteristic of mass culture in “the West.” It’s not restricted to rock, of course, but it’s certainly at home there, with entire summer music festivals now boasting lineups comprised solely of long-forgotten “acts” from the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s whose members went their separate ways and, in some cases, literally died during the first Bush administration.
The ostensible goal of this annual emptying of rock’n’roll retirement homes is, of course, to squeeze cash from nostalgic millennials, most of whom would rather still be 12 years old, thank you very much. But I would further argue that the fundamental psychosocial origins of this macabre, Ancient Egypt-like veneration of the dead are to be found in the risk-aversion and lack of social mobility inherent to “techno-feudalism”, meaning that rock no longer functions as a dangerous, dynamic vessel for youthful tempestuousness, but rather as an emotional safety blanket; nursery rhymes for the middle-aged, written by the incurably arthritic.
Which, come to think of it, would perhaps have made a fitting title for the new Rolling Stones album, but they missed a trick and opted for Foreign Tongues instead. I’m partial to the Stones, though I’m not their biggest fan, and I would unhesitatingly take, say, the Pet Shop Boys any day of the week over the “foundation rock” guitar wankery of Messrs. Jagger and Richards. But it is precisely this arch scepticism that permits me to confidently proclaim Foreign Tongues an exemplary album and, quite possibly, my absolute favourite Rolling Stones record.
There’s simply no way around it; it’s great from start to finish, with barely a bum note to be heard. The extent to which it channels the Stones’ classic sound is remarkable – maybe too remarkable, in fact, though we’ll get to that presently. They do experiment a bit; “Jealous Lover” is a nod to Prince; Amy Winehouse is respectfully covered; and if I’m not mistaken, “Never Wanna Lose You” marks the first appearance of Disco Mick since 1978’s Some Girls. Overall, though, they stick to what they’ve always been good at, and quite honestly, I don’t skip anything, with the highlights including the infectious arena pop of “In the Stars”; the bluesy, funky “Side Effects”; and the country-soul closer “Back in Your Life.”
Similarly striking, not to say alarming, is the extent to which Jagger is still singing about the same things that preoccupied him in the 60s and 70s; the delights and pitfalls of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll (“Rough and Twisted”); idealising avoidant and indifferent femme fatales who are understandably repelled by his geriatric antics (“Some of Us”, “Covered in You”); plus a few reflections on mortality and a long life well-lived, depending on your definition of “well” (“Divine Intervention”, “Ringing Hollow”). There’s bluesy Weltschmerz in abundance but, as ever, it’s all undertaken with lashings of Jagger’s sly humour, the delicious British snark that the Stones have, thankfully, never cast off at any point during their 60-year career.
And yet, an abiding unease persists over how pristine all of this is. Churning out twelve songs of this quality and vitality, in your seventh decade of making music, is, well, borderline indecent, to be frank. May god and any passing lawyers forgive me for even thinking this but, if I asked an AI to conjure a new Rolling Stones album in 2026, I imagine it would sound very much like Foreign Tongues. And here we find ourselves confronted by the final and most sinister phase in the necrophilisation of popular culture alluded to in the opening paragraphs of this review; artifacts produced not by ghosts from the past, but by machines that wouldn’t know a ghost if it leapt on stage at a Sisters of Mercy gig and started lighting its own farts.
Rating: * * * *
Standout track: “In the Stars”