The Rolling Stones: Fugitives in Exile

Summary

Disgraceland Episode Summary: "The Rolling Stones: Fugitives in Exile"

Release Date: June 7, 2025

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Introduction

In the episode titled "The Rolling Stones: Fugitives in Exile," hosted by Jake Brennan and co-hosted by Double Elvis Productions, Disgraceland delves deep into one of rock and roll's most turbulent periods. This detailed exploration covers the Rolling Stones' forced exile to the French Riviera in 1971, unraveling the myriad challenges they faced both professionally and personally. Blending music history with true crime elements, the episode paints a vivid picture of the band's descent into chaos and the creative genius that emerged from it.

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Background: The Tax Exile

The episode begins by setting the stage for the Rolling Stones' relocation. By 1971, the band found themselves in severe financial distress due to exorbitant tax debts in the UK. Each member owed over £100,000, and with the UK tax rate consuming 93% of their earnings, the Stones were effectively "too rich to grow." This dire situation compelled them to flee to the French Riviera, where they rented the sprawling mansion Villanellecot for £2,400 a week. As Jake Brennan narrates:

"Keith Richards escaped Britain for Villa Nelcot on the coast of France to begin the recording of what would become the Rolling Stones masterpiece, Exile on Main Street." ([04:50])

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Life at Villanellecot: Chaos and Creativity

Villanellecot, formerly Gestapo headquarters, became the epicenter of the band's creative and personal turmoil. The mansion, with its dark history and labyrinthine design, provided both inspiration and a breeding ground for debauchery. Keith Richards, grappling with a severe heroin addiction, became increasingly detached, focusing solely on his music. In contrast, Mick Jagger was navigating his new marriage and impending fatherhood, leading to growing tensions within the band.

Key incidents illustrating the chaos include:

• Drug-Fueled Conflicts: Keith's reliance on heroin to manage stress and maintain his musical focus led to erratic behavior. Anita Pallenberg, Keith's girlfriend and a central figure in the band's drug scene, exacerbated tensions with her own substance abuse and personal entanglements.

  "Anita wouldn't quit talking in that chic yet fascist Italian German accent. And she wouldn't quit fucking around either." ([08:20])

• Violent Encounters: The narrator describes a dramatic altercation where Keith, in a fit of rage over a minor traffic incident, brandishes a hunting knife against the harbormaster, escalating into a standoff.

  "Keith screamed while rushing toward the driver and the Jag that had hit him just then, a mountain of a man... Keith quickly crumbled." ([17:35])

• The Making of "Exile on Main Street": Amidst the turmoil, the band desperately worked to create new music. Sessions were often disrupted by theft, violence, and personal conflicts, yet these chaotic conditions fostered a raw and authentic sound that would define the album.

  "The music the Stones desperately concocted in Keith's sweaty basement would shine a light on the underbelly of Americana and show the world the potential of where rock music as a genre could go." ([28:50])

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Internal Struggles and Band Dynamics

The episode intricately explores the strained relationship between Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. While their partnership had always been complementary—Mick representing ambition and Keith embodying musical prowess—their time in exile amplified their differences. Mick's focus on family and financial stability clashed with Keith's descent into addiction and disregard for conventional responsibilities.

• Keith's Isolation: Keith increasingly isolated himself, prioritizing his guitar and musical experimentation over band cohesion and the looming financial crisis.

  "Keith didn't want to turn it into a batch of street skags... if they were going to make this kilo last a month before the Corsican zipped in again." ([25:45])

• Mick's Desperation: Mick struggled to motivate Keith to contribute effectively to the album, leading to frustration and desperation as the band's future hung in the balance.

  "Mick had a record to do, and Keith had more dope to do. Somehow they'd have to see themselves through." ([33:10])

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Key Events at Villanellecot

Several significant events are highlighted that encapsulate the chaos of the Stones' exile:

• The Harbormaster Incident ([17:35]): A violent confrontation that nearly leads to harm but is diffused by loyal associates, showcasing the volatile environment.

• Drug and Theft Rampages ([22:10]): Theft of instruments and rampant drug use, including involvement of minors, indicating the moral decay within the household.

  "The home was invaded by bandits who stole three saxophones and nine guitars... the chef emerged from the kitchen enraged at the lord of the manor because grapevine had it that his lady Anita had turned the chef's 14-year-old daughter onto heroin." ([24:00])

• Creative Breakthrough ([31:20]): Despite the turmoil, a moment of spontaneous creativity occurs when Keith and Mick collaborate, leading to the embryonic stages of "Exile on Main Street."

  "Their voices saturated with junk and ambition respectively." ([34:15])

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The Escape and Aftermath

As pressure from both financial debts and increasing police scrutiny mounted, the band's situation became untenable. Anita Pallenberg orchestrated a meticulous escape plan, ensuring the safety of Keith, her child Marlon, and herself by using a pre-rehearsed drill from the mansion. This dramatic exit marks the end of their tumultuous stay in France and the beginning of their reinvention in America.

"In desperation, everything seemed to be happening except the making of music. A fact that no doubt annoyed Mick Jagger to no end." ([35:50])

Upon relocating to Los Angeles, the Rolling Stones channeled their experiences into the creation of "Exile on Main Street," a seminal album that encapsulates their struggles and artistic triumphs during this period.

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Conclusion: Legacy of "Exile on Main Street"

The episode concludes by affirming the enduring legacy of "Exile on Main Street." Despite—or perhaps because of—the chaos and adversity faced during its creation, the album stands as a testament to the Rolling Stones' resilience and artistic genius. It not only solidified their status as rock and roll icons but also showcased the transformative power of music born from turmoil.

"Exile on Main Street, the record they emerged with was a masterpiece. It was official. The race was won." ([36:50])

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Final Thoughts

"The Rolling Stones: Fugitives in Exile" offers a gripping narrative that intertwines true crime elements with deep music history, providing listeners with an immersive understanding of one of rock's most legendary chapters. Through meticulous storytelling and evocative quotes, Disgraceland brings to life the wild, destructive, and ultimately creative journey of the Rolling Stones during their French Riviera exile.

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Notable Quotes:

• "That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called stoned mellow games BK2." – Jake Brennan ([00:55])

• "Keith didn't want to turn it into a batch of street skags... if they were going to make this kilo last a month before the Corsican zipped in again." – Narration ([25:45])

• "Exile on Main Street, the record they emerged with was a masterpiece. It was official. The race was won." – Jake Brennan ([36:50])

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References:

For more information, visit Disgraceland Pod's website and explore additional episodes and membership benefits.

Transcript

[Jake Brennan]

All right, welcome to Disgraceland. If any of you are new to this podcast, here's what you guys can expect Award winning stories about musicians getting.

[Co-host]

Away with murder and behaving very badly.

[Jake Brennan]

Disgraceland explores the intersection of music history in true crime in 30 minute, ish, scripted and sound designed episodes on subjects like Jerry Lee Lewis getting away with murder, the Jay Z nightclub stabbing, Kurt Cobain's death, the death surrounding the assassination attempt on Bob Marley, and so many more. We launch a new scripted episode every Tuesday, bonus chat episodes every Thursday where you, the listener, get to interact with me, Jake Brennan, the host, and on Fridays we rewind a previously released episode.

[Co-host]

From our archive of over 235 scripted episodes on subjects like the Rolling Stones.

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Remember Rocka Rolla.

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[Co-host]

The stories about the Rolling Stones time in exile on the French Riviera are insane. Gunfights, heroin trafficking, burglaries, kidnapping threats and much, much more all went down in and around the walls of Villanellecot, the massive mansion and converted makeshift recording studio rented by Stones guitarist Keith Richards during the spring and summer of 1971. Having been chased out of the UK by over aggressive taxmen, the Rolling Stones were in effect, outlaws, a title that suited them just fine. They were also broke and desperate to create new music to help relieve their ruinous financial burden at a time when Keith Richards decided to take on a serious heroin addiction and singer Mick Jagger decided to get married and start a family while the rest of the band hung on for dear life. Through it all, they made great music, possibly the greatest rock and roll music ever made. That Music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called stoned mellow games BK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Joy to the World by Three Dog Night. And why would I play you that specific slice of junky cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on April 5, 1971. And that was the day that Keith Richards escaped Britain for Villa Nelcot on the coast of France to begin the recording of what would become the Rolling Stones masterpiece, Exile on Main Street. On this episode, Stoned Games, Junk E, Cheese, Debauchery, Desperation, and the Rolling Stones in Exile. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgrace. Keith Richards had a lot on his mind, which was saying something for a man who was the rock and roll equivalent of a great white shark, the most dangerous animal in the ocean that basically has two kill and eat. Similarly, the guitar player for the most dangerous band on the planet, the Rolling Stones, spent his days with basically only two thoughts of his rock and roll, mainly roll. He left most of the rock part to Mick Jagger, his singer, a man who woke up every day with a precise list of things to accomplish, to propel his band and his career forward and to satisfy his desires. Their partnership was more complementary than any other in the still young genre. Mick was sex, Keith was drugs, and together they were rock and roll. Unlike Mick, Keith rolled out of bed and moved through his days to the natural rhythms of the world around him. His main priority was always playing guitar, making music, writing songs, but not in the formal. I'm gonna sit down and write a song about X that has a rhythm like Y and moves to the bridge that sounds like Z and is perfectly calibrated for pop superstar success sort of way. For Keith, it was all about feel, vibe, a perpetual dance with the muse. And that meant Keith took his acoustic guitar with him everywhere, and playing it took priority over everything. He slept with it, and he fell asleep playing it in the middle of recording session takes, with his band sitting around dumbfounded, helpless to do anything but wait until their guitar player and songwriter awoke, hopefully still bound to his muse. So with his Gibson acoustic, he roamed the halls of Nelcott, the big mansion he was renting for $2,400 a week on the French Riviera, the former Gestapo headquarters with a swastika, engraved heating vents and complex maze of basement rooms believed to have once been a Nazi torture chamber during Germany's occupation of France, pausing to sit and storm away until he found the right feel, then maybe that feel would grow into a riff and that riff might evolve into a chord progression and if it still felt right, then Keith, if he could remember, might play that chord progression for his bandmates. And if the gods were smiling and if the tape was rolling and if the guitars weren't pushed out of tune by the Mediterranean humidity in the dank basement DIY studio at Nelcott with electrical wiring that was 5050 at best, if it didn't blow, and if the producer Jimmy Miller, didn't blow too many drugs and fuck up the take, and if the 20 year old engineer Andy Johns remembered to hit record inside of the mobile recording truck parked out back, and if Bill Wyman the bass player, was paying attention, and if Charlie Watts the drummer, hadn't lost interest, and if the kid's slide player Mick Taylor, wasn't scared into inaction, and if, and this was the biggest if of all, if his pain in the ass singer Mick Jagger deigned to show up for the session, then maybe, just maybe, Keith's original inspiration would find itself turned into a song. A hell of a lot of ifs for a band that desperately needed to complete an album in order to escape the financial ruin they had landed in, thanks to their own disinterest and shady accounting of former managers, the pseudo Svengali, Andrew Law Goldham and the cunning and powerful Alan Klein, now along with the band, all suing each other. Making matters worse, as of 1971 each member of the Stones owed the British government more than £100,000 in back taxes. And if that weren't bad enough because of their success and their earning power as taxpayers, they were in the top UK tax bracket, meaning that out of every dollar they made, they had to fork over 93% of it. 93%. During their rocket ship ascent to the top of the charts with bank busting record and concert sales, the band had spent nearly all of their money maintaining their overhead and indulgent lifestyle. English country homes to live in and skyrocketing legal fees to keep them out of prison due to their various drug busts. The situation was dire and the Rolling Stones were desperate and there was simply no money left to pay the taxman. And with the tax rate being so prohibitive, the Rolling Stones were actually too rich to grow and make any more money. The only possible way to make money to pay their bills was to flee their home country for somewhere friendlier, to enterprising decadent millionaires and to then remake their fortunes as the most famous fugitives on the planet, tax exiles. There was a tremendous amount of pressure and the band's financial burden troubled Mick Jagger the most. A new record was key. Without it, they couldn't tour the States and that's where the real money was. So no record, no bread, and the band would cease to exist. Mick couldn't make a record without keys. He needed him. And Keith, whether he knew it or not or would ever acknowledge it even to himself, needed Mick. But the problem was that in the spring and summer of 1971, Keith Richards was in no mood for Mick Jagger. A man who, throughout all of the madness of the band's nine year existence, Keith had thought of as a brother. A man who he had more in common with musically, despite their many personal differences, than anyone he had ever met. A man Keith loved. Mick Jagger. A man who had, not too long ago and not too secretly carried on a torrid affair with Anita Pallenberg, the love of Keith's life and mother of his son. So forget whatever pressure Mick was feeling or whatever desperation was in the air. Keith Richards could give a fuck. And not giving a fuck was Keith's natural state. Who the fuck is Mick Jagger? So it was easy. Icing out Mick, icing out Anita was a different story. Try as he may, focusing on music was becoming more and more difficult. Mick, Anita, the Stone's problems, his celebrity, thoughts of all of it, began seeping into Keith's mind. And a new feeling, something approaching stress, reared its beastly head. So Keith turned with more frequency to heroin. And with a hit of smack, Keith could block everything out and focus solely on his true love, his guitar. But Anita wouldn't quit. Wouldn't quit talking in that chic yet fascist Italian German accent. And she wouldn't quit fucking around either. With whoever micked the various hangers on at Nelcott, it didn't matter. And she wouldn't quit shooting heroin. She was a full blown junkie. King junkie. William S. Burroughs had recommended the facility for her most recent detox. But it didn't take. Anita escaped to Nelcott where it seemed her primary function was to lounge about the house day and night in a leopard print bikini apparently made of dental floss. That of course reinforced her piercing sexuality and drove everyone wild. But bikinis weren't Anita's main fashion concern. Suspenders were specifically those worn by her favorite drug dealer, Johnny, who Keith had nicknamed Johnny Braces because of his suspenders. And Johnny Braces was en route to Nelcott to help sort out Anita and Keith's problem not having a regular supply of heroin. Anita wouldn't shut up about it, which to Keith's estimation was a minor victory. At least she wasn't talking about Bianca Perez Mora Macias, the Nicaraguan beauty who Mick had just married in a fever down the coast in St. Tropez, an event that still had Anita upset. For some reason, Anita swore Bianca was a man and she let everyone she could know about it, which made sense. Bianca was a stunning woman, but she looked just like Mick. So much so that Mick's previous girlfriend, the British starlet in Stone's muse, Marianne Faithfull, Anita's best friend, who had once slept with Keith and who was seeing Mick at the time Anita was sleeping with Mick while Anita was seeing Keith, who Anita had left Brian Jones for. But I digress, Marianne Faithfull had said of Mick marrying Bianca. He had finally given in to his narcissism and married himself. If the reason behind Anita's preoccupation with Mick's marriage to Bianca rankled Keith, he didn't let it show. He was entirely too cool for anything as conventional as jealousy. But he did continue to ice Mick out and he welcomed the dope and became more dependent on it. It was self medicating and blocked out the blinding sun. Anita Pallenberg, who the various Rolling Stones, planets all revol around, allowing Keith to focus on what really mattered. Music. He'd eventually let Mick in and eventually Mick would show up for real. Until then, there'd be other distractions like guitars, dope and gunfights with the locals.

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Hey Discos. If you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly After Party Bonus episode where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these after Party bonus episodes we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails and DMs and discuss your thoughts on the wildlives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpodmail.com or disgracelandpod on the socials and join the conversation every Thursday in our After Party Bonus Episode.

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[Co-host]

Depending on who you ask. The cast of characters hanging around Nelcott during the summer of 71 while the rolling Stones set out to make their next record were either wildly entertaining or wildly distracting. There was the aforementioned dealer, Johnny Braces and Anita the Witch. Another dealer, Spanish Tony Puss, the heiress, Rupert the Prince, Michelle the actress and Madeline the Dancer, the American record exec of Royal Blues and R B lineage. Marshall Chess, head of the newly formed Rolling Stones Records, was in and out. Graham Parsons, cosmic American country singer, fall down drunk and world class junkie had made the scene, as did the impossibly handsome race car driver Tommy Weber, who, it was said, dabbled in a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Tommy didn't move enough weight to satisfy Keith's definition of what a dealer was, and was instead more of a drug buddy and procurer of whatever Keith and Anita might need or might need to go away. And right now, after a heavy dinner around the massive Nelcott dining room table and too much Courvoisier and Mandrakes, a powerful downer that is the European answer to the American Quaalude. Keith and Anita needed rest, so they, along with Spanish Tony, Tommy, Michelle and Madeline, retreated to Keith's bedroom, where they all fell onto Keith and Anita's massive Louis XIV bed. Half of them promptly passed out. Spanish Tony was kept awake by the sounds of Tommy, the race car driver, penetrating the master of the house's old lady, Anita Pallenberg. In the morning. When he awoke, Keith Richards was either none the wiser or simply didn't care. Either way, he had a mission. That day. Nelcot rested on the banks of the French Riviera and Keith wanted a boat, a speedboat. He was inspired by last night's high and knew just what he'd name his new, speedy vessel, the Mandrax. The French Riviera. In the early to mid 20th century was the place for the jet set. It was a playground with a rich history, where the internationally famous and wealthy aristocrats and celebrities among them would overindulge themselves, their kinks, fetishes and bad behavior, away from the prying eyes of the press. Back in their respective homelands, Errol Flynn famously brawled with the local police. Winston Churchill succumbed willingly, perhaps to the unwanted seduction of a local socialite. The Hemingways and Fitzgeralds summer there, getting up to God knows what sorts of madness. The French Riviera, located between Monaco and Marseille on the southeastern coast of France, was positioned perfectly for the drug trade. All manner of riff raff, dealers, hustlers, pimps, prostitutes, con men, they all washed up onto the shores near Nice where Nelcot was. The English playwright Somerset maughamously dubbed the French rich Riviera, a sunny place for shady people, which suited Keith Richards perfectly. The sun was blinding. The speedboat he was interested in purchasing was just up ahead, docked in the harbor. The beach roads became increasingly small. As he, his two year old son Marlon in Spanish Tony approached in Keith Jaguar xke. The road narrowed even further and then, incredibly, another Jaguar helmed by two locals, attempted to squeeze by Keith's car, ripping a violent sounding scratch along the side of his brand new Jag. Keith, immediately incensed, started screaming out of his window at the couple in the other car. What do you think you're well doing? I'll smash your heads in. And he meant it. In an instant, as both cars stopped to assess the damage, Keith bounded out of the driver's side brandishing his massive German hunting knife, the one he kept on him in a leather satchel whenever he left the house. You stupid fucking idiot. Keith screamed while rushing toward the driver and the Jag that had hit him just then, a mountain of a man. The harbormaster, seeing what was all about to go down, vaulted from his office and quickly interjected himself. Keith swung at him, connecting his massive skull ring directly with the harbormaster's cheekbone, which quickly began dripping blood. The harbor master, shocked, unloaded with a heavy right handed punch to the side of Keith's head, and Keith quickly crumbled. Spanish Tony took a swing at the harbormaster. It landed weak and the harbormaster was unfazed. And the petrified couple in the other car took the escalating melee as their cue to beat a quick retreat to safety. Inside of the harbormaster's office. Keith pulled himself to his feet and over into his car and emerged with a.38 pistol. He pointed straight into the Face of the harbor master, who was quick to pull his own gun. And the two were now squared off. Silence. But for the gentle sounds of the harbor. The melee had turned into a standoff. A seaside spaghetti western on the banks of the French Riviera. Two pistols pointed straight at each other, gripped tight by their alpha owners, the harbormaster and the rock and roll pirate, neither intent on giving an inch. Then, in a moment of what can only be described as pure genius, Spanish Tony and knowing full well the stubborn fuck all constitution of Keith Richards, dove at his friend and in a flash ripped the pistol from his hand and chucked it into the harbor, in effect defusing the situation. The two of them quickly gathered Marlon and made their way back to Nelcott. Once safely ensconced back at his rented mansion, Keith held court, detailing his latest adventure to the various jokers and debauched royalties surrounding him. Graham Parsons was mesmerized by his hero's recounting of the excitement. It was almost enough to distract him from his jones. Graham, like Anita, was fresh off a failed stint in detox and excited to be back around Keith and the Stones. The former Bird was on the outs with his current band, the Flying Burrito Brothers, and was secretly hoping Keith would produce his solo debut for Rolling Stones Records. Johnny Braces was also among the group, and he found the story particularly funny. And Johnny needed a laugh. Jim Morrison, rock star, singer of the Doors and boyfriend of Pamela Corson, who Johnny was carrying on an affair with, unbeknownst to Jim, of course, had just overdosed and died on what Johnny was pretty sure was dope that he'd sold him. And dope was the reason Johnny Braces was at Nelcott. Dope and distraction. Because distractions, like the dust up at the harbor, were a regular event. There was always something going down at Nelcott that summer. There were the instruments that went missing, seemingly right under the noses of Keith and his entourage while they nodded off in front of the television one afternoon, the home was invaded by bandits who stole three saxophones and nine guitars, including the Flying V Keith had played back at their Hyde park show in 1969. There was the time when Fat Jack the chef emerged from the kitchen enraged at the lord of the manor because grapevine had it that his lady Anita had turned the chef's 14 year old daughter onto heroin. And then there was the sketchy Oliver dude from the far out living theater, A stage hero of Jim Morrison's, who, while staying at Nelcott, survived on a diet of bourgeolet and Mandrax, AKA Randy Mandy's, that three young local boys accused him of plying them with and attempting rape. It was a bad scene filled with bad juju, remnants of the Gestapo, dope crazed behavior. In desperation, everything seemed to be happening except the making of music. A fact that no doubt annoyed Mick Jagger to no end. Mick was newly married, had a baby on the way, a massive tax debt, a tour of the United States. He was trying to set up an album he desperately needed to complete. An album that he and his bandmates had barely even begun to make. And a heavily distracted songwriting partner in Keith Richards. A songwriting partner who at the time seemingly had Mick and Mick's problems on the pay no mind listening to. As if the dope distractions at Nelcott weren't enough, Keith was also distracted by the baby growing in the belly of his heroin addicted girlfriend, Anita. It wasn't the prospect of another kid that occupied his thoughts. It was the thought of who the father might be in his heroine haze. That summer, Keith and Anita seldom had sex with each other. Keith preferred the convenience of manual ejaculation. Anita preferred whatever whoever was nearest, willing and most charming traits Mick Jagger, despite his new marital bliss, had in spades. And the tension was thick enough to perhaps make lesser men throw in the towel on the madness of exile on the French Riviera and inject the suicide files of morphine left behind by the Nazis in the basement of Nelcott. But Mick had a record to do, and Keith had more dope to do. Somehow they'd have to see themselves through. But first there was the matter of the Corsicans. We'll be right back after this word. Word, word.

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[Co-host]

Mick Jagger was in the basement, the dank, dusty makeshift recording studio Keith had cobbled together to record their new album in. It was as dark down here as the debauchery upstairs in the living quarters. Mick wanted no part of what was going on up there. He was down here with Charlie, Bill and the other Mick, banging around an old blues that stank of desperation, hoping to inspire Keith to join them and get something down on tape. But the jam without Keith was obviously uninspired and besides, Keith was obviously preoccupied. Johnny Braces had made the connection. And finally it's what Keith and Anita were waiting for. A connection to Weight. Serious dope. Enough heroin to fuel Nelcott for a month at a time. $9,000 worth. The Corsicans had come through for Johnny, which was a relief. Had they not, Johnny would have been out serious bread and with little recourse. These Corsicans were a nasty lot. Big and intimidating. They sweat Tropicana and their glands released a scent that could only be described as a mix of cheap cologne, hand rolled tobacco and feta cheese. Their gold chains and sweat stained Dax summer suits screamed nouveau drug money while the bulges along their waistbands screamed indiscriminate murder for hire. Riviera cowboys every bit as outlaw as the tax exiles and junkie hangers on sitting across the table from them. They fit right in. But Johnny Braces was worried. The Corsicans might have a look around the mansion and realized there was a bigger score to be had than the nine grand a month in dope trade. Kidnapping can fetch big bucks and that little boy, the one they call Marlin, looked mighty vulnerable running around unattended to by his junky parents. But something in the vacant eyes of the pirate looking father with the snaggle toothed wiry fuck all frame warned them off the monthly nut would have to do. They took their cash and split back on their speedboats and off into the ocean from whence they came. Graham Parsons stood by wild eyed, his whistle wet with junky anticipation. He watched as Keith stepped on the fresh batch of Corsican delivered heroin. Keith was shabby but surgical in his approach. Hovering over his rented mansion's dining room table, shirtless, wearing nothing but low slung striped corduroys. He carefully, carefully doled out the appropriate balance of kenyin and then talcum powder and added it to the pile of pink Thai heroin. The heroin was incredibly pure and thus deadly. Graham suggested cutting it with laundry detergent. Inexperienced in most things in life compared to Keith Richards, Graham Parsons was overruled. This incredibly lethal heroin needed to be tempered, but Keith didn't want to turn it into a batch of street skags. Last year, while on tour in the States, Keys had heard of a drug dealer in Harlem who had been flying in nearly pure heroin from Vietnam and distributing it at a 12% potency compared to the usual 5% of most street dope. The Harlem dope king's trick was cutting the smack with Kenyon and Mannite non intoxicating medication, as opposed to cutting it like most dealers did with rat poison or, as Graham had suggested, with laundry detergent. If they were going to make this kilo last a month before the Corsican zipped in again up the French Riviera on their speedboats, then Keith needed to cut the smack properly. Kenine, yes. Talcum powder, maybe. Laundry detergent, definitely not. Graham felt the sting of dejection but shrugged it off. He needed a fix. Getting a hair across his ass about it wasn't going to help matters. Satisfied that the heroin was properly calibrated, Keith dipped his German hunting knife into the pile, scooped out a sizable bump, turned to Graham, who was standing at his side, nearly salivating, and in a voice that was part laughter, part two, pack a day cough, said, have at it, boy. Graham delicately brought his nose to the blade, looked up to Keith dutifully, and with gratitude pressed his right thumb to his right nostril, vacuuming up the powder in one quick snort. The heroin shot through room like a comet, hard, fast, and without regard for anything in its path. Graham stumbled a bit, groped about with his hands, resting them on the dining room table surface, and hung his heavy head to his chest. His long dark hair swung delicately as he tried steadying himself. He then gently slumped back into the chair behind him and nodded off. Keith laughed to himself, thinking lightweight, and then finally decided it was time to go to work. Graham awoke to the sounds of Keith and his bandmates messing with the slow blues from the studio in the cellar. Mick laid it on thick with a vocal, but the tune quickly devolved. It was obvious that Keith lost interest in whatever diddly ask hoodoo Mick was attempting to conjure. Then Graham heard the newly familiar chorus to what would become a Stone's masterpiece all down the line, burbling up from the basement into a blast of swampy sonic magnificence. G C, D back to the G. Keith carved out the riff with his telly. Charlie and Bill pulled the rhythm into form. Mick Taylor skidded across the top of it all with his loose slide, while Jagger channeled Big Mama Thornton through his skinny English frame. Keith then pushed the tune to the four chord. Mick hit the chorus. Keith couldn't contain him himself. He muscled over to Mick and sang out into Jagger's handheld mic alongside him, the two of them a shambolic mess of spontaneous rock and roll brilliance, their voices saturated with junk and ambition respectively. And before jumping back into the riff, Keith let out a short, ecstatic yeah. Graham heard it all unfold from upstairs. He brimmed with jealousy. In the basement while the Stones were recording was strictly off limits unless you were contributing to the music in a meaningful way. And, well meaning as he was, there was nothing meaningful about Graham Parson's contribution to the Rolling Stones recordings while exiled on the French Riviera. Unless, of course, you count being Keith Richards junkie pilotfish as particularly meaningful. Now during working hours, midnight ish to whenever Keith passed out, Graham was relegated to the upstairs with the women and the rest of the junkie hangers on. None of this is to say that Graham and Keith didn't have a special relationship. They did, for sure. He and Keith would get high and sit around talking country music until the sun came up. It was a genuine mutual admiration club, and it drove Mick Jagger nuts. Here was Mick fighting for the survival of their band, trying to move hell and earth to engage Keith, his songwriting partner, creatively, only to be continuously iced out by Keith while he got high and traded old honky tonk songs on acoustics with another songwriter, Graham Parsons, for hours on end. Graham knew Mick hated him, hated the contention that someone else, someone like Graham Parsons, was going to teach him, Keith Richards, or any of the Rolling Stones for that matter, about country music. After all, on their previous smash hit, Long Player Sticky Fingers, Mick had written the country inspired Dead Flowers. Fuck you very much, Mr. Parsons. The rivalry drove Mick, and eventually Mick's drive did what it always did. Caught Keith up in his draft and pulled him into the creative fray. Until finally the two got down to doing what they'd left England to do. Make the greatest rock and roll record of all time. But the record wouldn't be completed at Villanelle Cot. French police were polite but stern. They'd come calling to follow up on various reports. Corsican drug dealers were seen entering the house. There were reports of Rampant drug use, including from minors. And there were also rumors of minors being assaulted sexually, a result, no doubt, of Sketchy Oliver and his Randy Mandy's. Despite this serious list of transgressions, the local authorities did not, it seemed, take the searching of the house seriously. When they left, Anita moved quick. She knew what was up. There was no search because the cops were looking for a bribe, which Keith was too oblivious to offer, which meant, by Anita's estimation, that the authorities would be back and this time not so lackluster in their search. Convinced they were still out there watching the house, Anita grabbed as much dope as she could fit into her purse and then grabbed Keith by the hand, who then grabbed Marlon and the three of them headed to their upstairs bedroom. The drill. The bus drill had been well rehearsed. Out the bedroom window, onto the roof of the mobile recording truck, down its side onto the manicured lawn, down the back steps to the dock, onto the speedboat and the out of Dodge. And just like that, they were gone in the wind. Outlaws. Up next, the Wild Wild West Los Angeles. The Band, due to the heavy sales of their previous record Sticky Figures, had banked enough bread during their time away from the uk in France, to finance the completion of the record in America, a country whose music, blues, country and R and B. The band, like most of their contemporaries, found endlessly compelling American music. So compelled the Rolling Stones that no matter what their situation, exiled, addicted, whatever, they were able to lock into the music and keep themselves from spinning off at the face of the earth. Despite whatever desperate circumstances they found themselves in, the Rolling Stones always seemed to rise to the creative challenge. Their approach to their craft, making the greatest rock and roll music the world had ever heard, being the greatest rock and roll band the world had ever seen, and doing it all without a playbook was inspired. America was big and its music worthy of respect. Mick and Keith knew that if they were going to fuck with it, they needed to treat it with the reverence it deserved. So when it came to their craft, the band worked hard. Dope, guns, money and women could wait. As careless as it seemed, rock and roll was serious business for rock musicians in the early 70s. For Graham Parsons, Eric Clapton, Leon Russell, Elton John, Led Zeppelin, the Grateful Dead, the Band, the Eagles, John Paul, George, even Ringo. The race was on to see who could crack the code to American roots music. A music with a fascinating, fascinatingly rich stew of influences. Delta, blues, country, soul, gospel, R and B. This mixture had produced the first generation of rock n rollers that the Stones and their contemporaries had all grown up on and who had influenced them to start making music to begin with. Artists like Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bo Diddley and others. How could this endlessly fascinating music, American music, be reimagined into something entirely new for today's generation of of rock and roll fans? That was the question. And at Villanellecote in the summer of 1971, almost by accident, the Rolling Stones answered. It was a question they were uniquely qualified to answer. Their situation in exile meant they were as steeped in desperation as the financially strapped post war blues musicians who inspired them to pick up guitars in the first place. And they'd spent the entirety of their post pubescent lives studying and trying to replicate American music, all while embodying the fuck all ethos of the evolving rock star avatar. If success for the straight world is when preparation and opportunity align, then success for the Rolling Stones was when circumstance and necessity aligned. Preparation wasn't part of the equation musically. They'd been preparing to make this record their whole lives. And that record, the one they began at Nellcott, the basic tracks they'd cobbled together in a basement through a haze of dope, desperation and distractions, thick personal tension, electrical fires, small time burglaries, police raids, gunplay. What the Rolling Stones emerged with while exiled in a foreign country away from their home country, was a wholly unique interpretation of another country entirely America. The music the Stones desperately concocted in Keith's sweaty basement would shine a light on the underbelly of Americana and show the world the potential of where rock music as a genre could go. Exile on Main street, the record they emerged with was a masterpiece. It was official. The race was won. Despite their dysfunction, despite their desperation, the Rolling Stones were kings. They may have been exiled outlaws, but they were now rock and roll royalty. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland.

[Jake Brennan]

Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes [e-mail] if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok Twitter and Facebook. Facebook, Disgracelandpod and on [e-mail] Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla.

[Kaley Cuoco]

He's a bad, bad man. All right, here we go.

[Co-host]

New Phineas and Ferb is here. We're back, baby. For 104 more days. I know what we're gonna do. Today of summer vacation, I am ready for summer shenanigans. Let's do it. Oh, yeah.

[Kaley Cuoco]

We're going to bust Fideus's burp once and for all. Are we going to do this again?

[Co-host]

New inventions, shenanigans, innators, adventures and songs. Brand new summer vacation.

[Disney Channel]

New Phidias and Ferb. Starts June 5th on Disney Channel and.

[Co-host]

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