Sit on a comfortable armchair, light a cigarette, and savor a good whiskey, preferably peaty and Scottish. The Stones, to escape the heavy taxes of the British Crown, took refuge in France, at Nellcôte, an ancient noble villa near Nice. At night they played, and at the break of dawn, Keith and the others would go by boat to Italy to buy fresh fish or have breakfast, or to Marseille, to stock up on another raw material. The studio was a damp and moldy basement. The band had become a real circus caravan, for our pleasure though, they had enlisted the BEST performers around. Charlie Watts' metronome, Bill Wyman's English Breakfast bass, Keith's old blues heart, and the scenic and hedonistic Jagger were joined by the crème de la crème of the world's best session musicians. Bobby Keys blows into his sax as if it were a breathalyzer his American blood, paired with a blues pianist of Nicky Hopkins' caliber, with Billy Preston on the organ, well. The sweetest ballads, reminiscent of those fiery red sunsets, derive from the influence of Gram Parsons, a great friend of Keith. Guys, here you'll find it all: blues, rock n' roll, folk influences, heroin, and so much, so much talent.