The Rolling Stones: “Jump Back: The Best Of ‘71-’93” (Virgin)

Mick’n’Keef were heroes to most, but they never meant shit to me, if I may slightly bastardise the words of Mr. Chuck D. I say were, because although they’re not dead, as Elvis was when Public Enemy articulated their almighty apathy towards him, they have long since ceased to be role models for anyone who is not a connoisseur of first-class dead horse flogging.

Rolled Gold - The Best Of The Rolling Stones is one of my favourite records, because it ends at 1969. They were only any good when they were being petulant or scary – even they couldn’t manage both at the same time. For example, ‘We Love You’ and ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ display those qualities, in that order, in excelsis and as such are masterpieces. But after 1970’s Let It Bleed, self-satisfaction dulled them and their best years were gone. This compilation starts in 1971.

‘Start Me Up’ opens the show, and is a pleasant strut. Swagger is the dirt that holds this highly unvarnished document together, and oozes out of every groove, whether it be Keith’s rampaging riff for ‘Brown Sugar’ or Jagger’s monstrously self-assured vocal for ‘Tumbling Dice’ (from my vote for most overrated album ever, Exile On Main Street).

Mick’s attempts at vulnerability are the best thing about this compilation. ‘Angie’, which Keith stresses in the sleeve notes is named after his daughter, when both we and Keith and Angie and indeed David know it’s about the ex-Mrs. Bowie, is affecting, although I still prefer Sandra Bernhardt’s heartbreaking lesbian version. ‘Wild Horses’ I have to say I like, because Gram Parsons did – in fact he sang it before the Stones did, and any friend of GP’s is a friend of mine.

The early stuff, from Sticky Fingers and Exile . . .,.and the most recent two songs, from Steel Wheels, deliver the most exciting twenty minutes or so on the album. 1973-1986 is a shining example of how to turn self-parody into an art form. You already know these songs and they don’t need the money. It’s only rock’n’roll but . . . it’s all right I suppose.

• Niall Crumlish