If art could talk, Joe Dallesandro's abs (The Smiths) would probably tell a better story than his crotch (Sticky Fingers), even if the Rolling Stones do a much better job at exploiting sex in a way that wasn't too edgy for the Seventies. But where rock is concerned, there will be chicks: if Mick Jagger wants to reel in the purdy Marianne Faithfuls with his sensitive-guy musical-hubris ("Wild Horses") or find another excuse to get on the dancefloor ("Bitch") with a ugly honky tonk chick like Janis Joplin, he should, that's one of the perks in the genre. It's rock-n-roll! (yes, gross, I know) at its tightest; before the listener ponders the misogynistic message behind "Brown Sugar," dancing in the nearest sweaty cobweb-infested barnyard is simply a funner choice. When they reach down to the catastrophic lows that plague "classic rock," remember that the Stones really are a gospel band under the painfully stupid exteriors they've come to embrace as geezers, which only makes it funnier when they jump into sex-overdrive.