Bitch by The Rolling Stones. (1971)

About The Song

Love embodies the term “bitch,” without singling out any particular woman. Mick Jagger drew inspiration from numerous relationships, one of which was his separation from Marianne Faithfull. This occurred during their time in Australia in late 1969 while Mick was involved in the filming of Ned Kelly. Following Marianne’s recovery from a suicide attempt, Mick ended their relationship.

The Stones recorded this song, along with several others on the album, at the Stargroves estate in Hampshire, England, utilizing their mobile recording unit under the supervision of engineer Andy Johns. Keith Richards joined the effort at Stargroves after his fellow band members had struggled with the song’s pace. According to Johns, the song felt lethargic until Richards picked up his guitar. “When he took out his clear Perspex guitar and increased the tempo,” Johns explained, “the song shifted from a lackluster state to becoming all about the rhythm. It was an instantaneous transformation. Once Keith began playing, he molded the song into its intended form.”

Despite its somewhat provocative title, this song became one of the Rolling Stones’ more popular tracks, frequently included in their live performances. Although it was never released as a single, it received substantial airplay on rock radio.

In 1974, Elton John broke through on pop radio with “The Bitch Is Back,” challenging conventional norms. The song reached #4 in the US. Together with “Under My Thumb,” this did little to improve the Stones’ reputation with women’s groups.

The album cover was designed by Andy Warhol and featured a close-up photograph of a man wearing jeans complete with an actual zipper. The zipper caused issues during shipping as it could scratch the record. It was eventually discovered that opening the zipper before shipment would minimize the damage.

Keith Richards, in a conversation with Rolling Stone, commented, “It may sound effortless, but it’s quite intricate. There’s a unique bridge to be mindful of. Apart from that, it’s the straightforward rock and soul that we cherish. It’s Charlie Watts’ quintessential style.”

This track features Bobby Keys on saxophone and Jim Price on trumpet, both of whom contributed horns to The Stones’ albums and tours during the early ’70s.

In 1997, the Goo Goo Dolls covered this song as part of the compilation album No Alternative.

The album’s title, “Sticky Fingers,” alludes to the inclination of someone who is prone to theft, aligning well with the rebellious image cultivated by The Stones.

Song Video

Lyrics

Feeling so tired, can’t understand it
Just had a fortnight’s sleep
I’m feeling so stuffed, I’m so distracted
Ain’t touched a thing all week

I’m feeling drunk, juiced up and sloppy
Ain’t touched a drink all night
I’m feeling hungry, can’t see the reason
Just had a horse meat pie

Yeah when you call my name
I salivate like a Pavlov dog
Yeah when you lay me out
My heart is beating louder than a big bass drum, alright

Yeah, you got to mix it, child, you got to fix
It must be love, it’s a bitch
Yeah, you got to mix it, child, you got to fix
It must be love, it’s a bitch, alright

Sometimes, I’m sexy, move like a stud
Like kicking the stall all night
Sometimes, I’m so shy, got to be worked on
Don’t have no bark or bite, alright

Yeah, when you call my name
I salivate like a Pavlov dog
Yeah, when you lay me out
My heart is bumping louder than a big bass drum, alright

I want it, woo
I said, hey, yeah, get alright now, get it
Got to be
Hey, I’ll get alright now, get it
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey, yeah
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey, yeah
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey, yeah
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey, yeah, get on
Hey, hey, hey

He Sang It in 1969 — Nearly Three Decades Later, His Daughter Answered the Song… and the Internet Couldn’t Handle the Emotion.

THEY EXPECTED A DUET — UNTIL ALAN JACKSON LET THE MOMENT BELONG TO HIS DAUGHTER. The audience waited for two voices to rise together. A classic father-daughter harmony. A predictable, beautiful ending. But after singing the opening lines, Alan Jackson slowly stepped back and let the stage fall silent around him. The spotlight didn’t move. He did. Standing alone under the lights was his daughter, suddenly carrying the full weight of a song that felt far deeper than a simple performance. She didn’t turn toward the crowd. Instead, her eyes searched the side of the stage, where her mother stood frozen, one hand covering her mouth as emotion overtook her. Her voice trembled — not from weakness, but from something real. Something honest. In that fragile pause, the entire room shifted. The performance lost its polish and became something far more powerful. No script. No perfect timing. Just a daughter finding her voice in a moment that felt bigger than the music itself. And the reason why that moment touched every heart in the room… was something the audience would only truly understand after the song ended.

“1993 NEVER FADED — THREE DECADES LATER, THE ECHO OF THAT VOICE RETURNED.” The lights felt gentler that evening, as if the room itself understood what was about to happen. When Michael Twitty walked onto the stage wearing his father’s suit, the atmosphere shifted. Not with noise—but with silence. A deep, attentive silence that only comes when something meaningful is about to unfold. He didn’t try to copy Conway Twitty. He carried him. Every note held a quiet familiarity, that unmistakable low, steady resonance that once filled countless halls. It moved slowly through the room, like a memory finally finding its way back home. The suit seemed to carry stories of its own—years of roaring crowds, endless miles on the road, and songs that lingered long after the last chord faded. In that moment, time didn’t rush ahead or drift into the past. It simply paused… and listened. Some legacies don’t need to be recreated. They only wait—patiently—for the one voice strong enough, and gentle enough, to bring them back to life.

BROTHERS BY HEART — THE UNBREAKABLE QUIET FORCE BEHIND ALABAMA. Long before the bright arena lights, platinum records, and roaring crowds, there were simply two young men from Fort Payne learning the rare art of understanding one another without many words. Jeff Cook didn’t need long speeches — his guitar spoke for him. Randy Owen carried the melodies, the stories, and the voice that millions would one day recognize. Together, they created a balance that never chased the spotlight — it quietly earned the world’s respect. Their connection was never dramatic or loud. It was steady. Reliable. If Randy lifted the song with emotion, Jeff grounded it with calm precision. When the endless miles of the road weighed heavy, they didn’t complain — they endured. Night after night. Year after year. Fame arrived quickly, but ego never followed. That’s why Alabama never felt like just another band. They felt like something deeper — like family. And when illness later pulled Jeff Cook away from the stage he loved, Randy Owen didn’t step back or move on. He stepped closer. Not as a lead singer guarding a legacy, but as a brother protecting a lifetime bond. No grand speeches. No dramatic announcements. Just quiet loyalty. Many groups fall apart when the spotlight fades. Alabama never did. Because the real strength of the band was never the crowd, the charts, or the applause. It was two men who always understood when to lead, when to support, and when to simply stand side by side. And a brotherhood like that doesn’t disappear when the music stops. It only grows stronger in the silence.