Life Magazine July 14, 1972
Mick Jagger Cover
(article starts on page 30)

[books.google.com]

Great article.
Amazing photos of Mick.

And this quote:

"The Rolling Stones! Are they still among us? How can they be? In history's first disposable society, where everything from graceful landmarks to diapers to rock groups is used and thrown away, how can the Stones survive?"



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2016-09-08 15:50 by GS1978.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2016-09-13 08:12 by exilestones.

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards backstage, 1977
© Lynn Goldsmith



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2016-09-19 05:09 by exilestones.

Billboard - October 1, 1966



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Rolling Stones Keith Richards House In Weston, CT
October 29, 2013 by Billionaire Addresses


Today we thought you may be interested in seeing the home of The Rolling Stones Keith Richards in Weston, CT. Though the house is nothing spectacular the location is. Zillow describes the property as:

Unassuming elegance characterizes this spotless 4 bedroom/3+ bath stucco Colonial on 2.90 acres. Beautifully designed with vaulted ceilings, hardwood flooring and bay windows. There’s room for everyone! Security system, three fireplaces, foyer, spacious living room, separate study, work-at-home office, family room, exercise room. Stunning manicured property with sprinkler system, pool and spa, 2 patios. Weston has been designated Best Small Town in Connecticut for several years. It is a unique town that derives its beautiful rural atmosphere from natural beauty that has been protected by excellent town planning that cherishes open space and 2-acre zoning. Approximately one-third of the town is dedicated to open space in perpetuity. Weston has retained its rural character even though it is only approximately an hour from Manhattan; an easy commute via the Merritt Parkway, I-95 or Metro-North trains.



Though not for sale, he, 69, and his wife, Patti Hansen, 56, live there when not at their home Redlands Estate in West Wittering, UK. The 4,823 sq. ft., 4 bed, 4 bath, sits on 2.9 acres and was built in 1994.




keith-richards-mansion-waldon-woods-lane-weston-ct









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Patti Hansen: Rock Steady
JULY 15, 2010 12:00 AM
by JONATHAN VAN METER




Photographed by Annie Leibovitz
Patti Hansen and Keith Richards’s house in Connecticut is, much like the couple who live in it, a strangely successful marriage of the conservative and the outrageous, the ordinary and the sublime. Situated on a leafy road about an hour or so from Manhattan, it sits behind imposing gates that swing open onto a long driveway that winds past a Japanese garden with a wooden walkway, a guesthouse, a tennis court, a pool, and what must be the loveliest little greenhouse in all of suburbia. The house itself, built by the couple in 1990, pays homage to the great brick piles of New England, with its cutting gardens, huge glass conservatory, and grand-entry foyer, but . . . it is painted pink, orange, and blue, colors inspired by the houses along the canals on the island of Burano, Italy—one of Patti and Keith’s favorite places on Earth.

The lady of this particular manor, herself a study in contrasts in black jean cutoffs paired with a cashmere tank top, greets me at the door one afternoon in May with a menagerie of cats and dogs underfoot. She is both the essence of approachable American beauty—tall, tan, freckled, and blonde—and somehow its opposite, slightly intimidating in black eyeliner and just-out-of-bed hair: the original Kate Moss, 50-something Amazon edition. We head inside, past a wall covered floor to ceiling with black-and-white photographs of Hansen during her seventies—eighties glory days in Glamour and Vogue: Arthur Elgorts, Patrick Demarcheliers, Bill Kings, mixed in with family portraits and snapshots of nearly every person in her unusually large clan, as well as framed charcoal drawings by Keith.

All over the house are more amusing juxtapositions. In one bathroom, an elegant Henri Cartier-Bresson photograph hangs near a hand towel embroidered with skull and crossbones. In one of the many sitting rooms, there is a gilt-encrusted baby grand piano given to Richards by a Russian princess (“who obviously liked him a lot,” says Hansen); it sits beneath a portrait by Johnny Depp of the rock-star husband himself, cigarette dangling from his mouth: a painting made with layers of rolling papers.

At one point during the tour we turn a corner and arrive at a closed door. Hansen, hand on the knob, pauses and gives me a you-are-not-going-to-believe-this stare. “It’s not like Keith goes down here anymore,” she says, rolling her eyes as only a woman who has been married to a man for 27 years could. We head down into the basement, the stairway walls lined with gold and platinum records, and emerge into what must be every aging Rolling Stones fan’s secret fantasy: a virtual barroom filled with rock paraphernalia and table games of every sort. Keith used to record down here, but no more: Patti moved most of the amps and mixing boards out (though there are guitars and saxophones and keyboards all over the house). On one wall, there is a giant framed bus-shelter poster of Hansen’s totally hot Gap ad from 1999. On another, every single Rolling Stones Rolling Stone cover—except of course for the one that is on the newsstand as we speak (the reissue of Exile on Main St. topped the charts all over the world). “I will have to find a spot for it,” she says sweetly.

Back upstairs, I sit at a table just off the kitchen, and Hansen brings over a plate of cheese, pâté, fruit, and olives. “My friend came over and helped me figure out what to feed you,” she says. “This is not my thing.” She gives me one of her deadpan glances. “I would have given you peanut butter and jelly.” She laughs and saunters back into the kitchen to fetch us some iced tea.
Despite Hansen’s casual, self-deprecatory mien, she is actually quite nervous. I am here today to talk with her about something she has kept from the world and out of the press for the past few years: bladder cancer. At the end of the Rolling Stones’ Bigger Bang tour in 2007, Hansen, now 54, who had been spotting for months, urinated blood. Within days, doctors discovered a mass. Within a month she was on chemo, and three months after that, she underwent complicated surgery. Because of the tumor’s location, Hansen’s bladder had to be removed, and her surgeons at New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering reconstructed what is called a “neobladder” out of her intestine. They also removed her appendix and performed a full hysterectomy.

As everyone who knows her says, Hansen is not the blubbering emotional type; she is stoic and close to the vest. In fact, she is so private that she has rarely given interviews over the past few decades. As she tells me the details, she squirms in her seat, fighting back tears. “The chemo is really horrible,” she says. “I don’t know how people get through it. I have friends who are on that wicked stuff for life. It’s so debilitating, so depressing. The first shot just totally ruined my arm. You have to go get yourself plugged in every week, and you sit there and you think, My God, I take such good care of myself. I’m so organic. I can’t believe I’m putting this poison in me.” She takes a deep breath and rubs her face with both hands. “But it shrank the tumor. Cancer is such a friggin’ monster. It’s radical. Then you have to go through the process of, What are you going to do? There are so many options. One doctor said I had two to three years to live with this thing in me. I was like, ‘Get that @#$%& out.’ You look at the beautiful Farrah Fawcett: What was she waiting for? Just get that monster out of your body! I saw one person who said, ‘It’s small, and you are going so radical.’ But you have to make these choices about what you’re going to do. I didn’t want it growing back.”

To call Hansen’s treatment a success is an understatement. “Everything that possibly could have gone right, went right,” says Richards’s manager, Jane Rose, who is very close to Hansen and was by her side through much of her ordeal. “They were able to contain it, and she was up and walking around that hospital floor before you knew it, and her scar became the sexiest thing in the world.”
Hansen is beyond grateful. “Thank God everything works the way it used to. Anything could have happened with that surgery.” I ask her if her bladder is any less of a bladder, and her answer is classic Patti: “No, it’s like bionic! I don’t need to ever do those diaper ads. I will never have a going problem. It’s better than the real thing.”

This is the main reason Hansen is doing this interview: to help remove the stigma of bladder cancer in women. “It’s not something people talk about,” she says. “When I found out that I had it, I thought, Oh, my God, this is an old man’s disease. You go to Sloan-Kettering and you’re sitting there with all these men with prostate problems. And all the information I was getting out of Sloan was for men. They have really got to move this forward for women, because now they are seeing more and more women with bladder cancer. I’ve already met two other women in this area with it.”

Sloan-Kettering asked Hansen if she would be a public face of the disease in women. “I said, ‘Definitely.’ But it’s taken two years to figure out how I’m going to do it. I don’t want to write a book; I don’t want to go on TV, because I stink at it. The only thing I have always been comfortable with is being in magazines. So here I am.”
Like most legendary models, Patti Hansen was discovered in the unlikeliest of places: selling hot dogs at her father’s concession stand on the beach in Staten Island when she was sixteen. The youngest of seven children, one of whom died before she was born, Hansen, a second-generation Norwegian, grew up in a close-knit working-class family. All four of Hansen’s grandparents immigrated to America from Norway shortly after the turn of the last century and settled in Brooklyn. That’s also where her parents met, married, and had their first three children. During World War II, they moved to Staten Island, where Hansen’s father found work as a bus driver. By the time Wilhelmina herself showed up on the family’s doorstep in 1973 and told Patti’s parents that their daughter could make $100,000 a year, Patti’s father was just worn out enough from raising so many kids that he gave his blessing and let her go.

For the next two years she traveled the world, mostly with her best friend to this day, the model Shaun Casey, doing shoots for Glamour. When she cut her hair into a shag, says Casey, “all the photographers flipped over her,” and she graduated to Vogue, where she quickly became known for her freckles and, at five feet nine and 130 pounds, her relative voluptuousness. “I loved when my boyfriends would call me their Amazon girl,” she says. “I never wore flats: The higher the shoe, the better. We would go stomping all night long in high heels. But I was definitely busting out of those clothes. The editors would say, ‘Oh, no! The collections aren’t fitting Patti!’ But it wasn’t like it kept me from working.” Hardly: She was soon shooting with Helmut Newton and Avedon and Francesco Scavullo, who once told People magazine, “Patti makes Cheryl Tiegs and Farrah Fawcett seem old hat.”

At eighteen, she was living on her own in the city, and before long was spending most nights dancing with all the boys at Studio 54. On her twenty-third birthday, in 1979, she was partying as usual when the last call came at the bar and Patti wanted another bottle of champagne. Shaun Casey knew Bill Wyman, the bassist for the Rolling Stones, so when she saw Keith Richards come in (“He was hiding out from somebody,” says Patti), she sidled up next to him and said, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday. Can you help us get some champagne?” Naturally, he obliged. “I dragged Patti off the dance floor, and she said hello and then went dancing back,” says Casey. “That was the first time they met.”
Jane Rose was there that night with Keith. “He saw Patti on the dance floor, dancing absolutely exquisitely with her wild hair, and I saw this expression on his face. It was just a very beautiful glimmer in his eye. I know him so well, and for some reason I got this bee in my bonnet at that moment and thought, That’s the woman.”

It would take another nine months for them to finally hook up, this time on Keith’s birthday. “I was working with Jerry Hall at Avedon’s studio,” Hansen remembers, “and she said, ‘Do you want to go to a birthday party tonight?’ I said, ‘Sure.’ It was at the Roxy roller rink. Keith and I met that night, and we have been together ever since. That quick. And I had no idea who he was. Jerry was dating Mick. That was all I knew. It was all very meant to be.” She and Keith became inseparable. “My friend Billy would say, ‘You can’t go out with this guy. He’s crazy.’ And I would say, ‘I want to go out with him! At three o’clock in the morning he wants to go check out some clubs and hang out.’ I was just ready. I really never liked to go to sleep. I think he saw that I was a trouper. That I could hang with him.”

They were married in 1983 in Cabo San Lucas, and in 1985, Theodora was born; Alexandra arrived one year later. “We lived on the beach for the first five years of the kids’ lives,” says Hansen. “We were down in Antigua and Jamaica, having a great time living in the sun. Until I had to put them in school. So here we are in Connecticut.”

Despite the fact that she is the youngest of seven, Hansen is now the family matriarch. It is a role that she does not take lightly. For the past 20 years, Hansen has traveled with her husband as he tours the world with the Rolling Stones, raised her daughters, and kept her wildly extended family close, a group that also includes Keith’s children, Marlon and Angela, with Anita Pallenberg, a thirteen-year relationship that ended in 1979. Ten years ago Hansen’s sister Beverly died at 56 of complications from esophageal and lung cancer, and her two daughters, Melena and Marissa, who live nearby, are now like daughters to Hansen. (Hansen’s only other sister, Barbara, died of lung cancer at 65 in 2008, right after Hansen’s own surgery.)

And then there are all the other siblings: One of Hansen’s brothers has eight children, five of whom are married with children of their own. A couple of days after Hansen started chemo in December 2007, she held a Christmas gathering: 75 people, all family. “It’s an abundance,” says Alexandra. “There are some new members I haven’t even met yet.” Theodora agrees: “The Hansen clan! It’s insane! They are going to dominate the Earth at some point.” She laughs. “Honestly, it can get to be a bit much. I think she has had a family barbecue every Sunday for the past six Sundays.” Adds Rose: “She is very old school. That is the most deceptive thing about her: When you meet her, she is this wild, fantastic free spirit, always. But she has such ethics and principles; she is very sure of who she is and the things she believes in.”

It comes as no surprise, then, that when the news hit that “the rock of the whole family,” as Theodora puts it, was sick, everyone felt lost. When I ask Hansen how her daughters handled it, she pauses for a few seconds. “They probably picked up the same attitude I have about it. They were very strong; they didn’t lose it.” How about Keith? She rolls her eyes. “He just didn’t deal with it. I think he felt so helpless. He just didn’t know what to do. And I said, ‘You know what? You have given me all of this’ ”—she gestures around her huge house—“and the opportunity to have a car pick me up and to have a nurse. I was taken care of first class. I didn’t have to work; I don’t have a job. I have my gardens to walk through and to meditate in.” She pauses for a long moment. “You do think about death. It’s like, OK, the possibility is there. I wrote my letters. I didn’t dwell on it. You have to pull yourself out of that. It’s so not healthy to wallow in it.” She pauses again. “I think most people do, though. I think Keith thought I was a goner. He’s a pretty positive guy, but when you say cancer to people it’s just like a death sentence.”
According to everyone, Keith was devastated. “He just had the hardest time understanding it,” says Rose. “He would say, ‘Rather me than her!’ He could not get beyond that. It was awful. You felt that there were two patients. Keith and Patti were one, in a way. But she was stronger because she was going to be the fighter. Keith didn’t know exactly how to fight. He was like, My fighter, the fighting part of me, is ill.”

Keith, Alexandra points out, was going through a difficult time of his own. He had fallen and hit his head on the root of a tree in Fiji and came very close to death himself. “He wasn’t working, and he had a lot more time to be alone,” Alexandra says. “He doesn’t drive in America, so he couldn’t take her to the appointments. He couldn’t actually be there the way he wanted to. I’m not going to say he didn’t handle it the right way, because we all go into shock, but he didn’t handle it well at all. It wasn’t a good time for any of us.”
When I get Theodora on the phone to talk about her mother, she bursts into tears. “How could anything ever happen to her?” she says. “Dad keeps on falling and always comes back. He’s like a machine. But with Mom, nothing like this had ever happened.” She goes on, “It’s a misconception that my father never shows emotion and that he’s this hard rock-‘n’-roller. This was a completely vulnerable experience for him. I’ll never be able to get into what his mind-set was, but I know that it was probably one of the hardest things he’s had to go through.” But now that her mother has bounced back so completely and the operation has been such a success, she says, the family is back on track. “You look at our family and it’s just, like, nothing can kill them; nothing can beat them. Both of my parents are these forces to be reckoned with: the Hansens and the Richardses combined. I thought that I was immortal for a while.”
Speaking of immortality, Keith’s official memoirs, written with the journalist James Fox, are coming out in the fall from Little, Brown. Hansen is nervous. “I never really read any of the books about Keith,” she says. “I’m living it. Why do I want to read someone else’s interpretation of it?” When Fox asked Hansen questions about certain aspects of her husband’s life, her response was often “I don’t know anything about that.” “I didn’t talk much,” she says. “Let’s just say that. Let it be about the music.” She sighs. “It’s a very emotional situation, with him talking about himself. You must have read how he’s embracing sobriety now. That’s a whole other way to look at life. It’s heavy. But he wants to put it out there.” She laughs. “I’m sure I’ll be going straight to the index.”
A week after my visit to her house in Connecticut, Hansen meets me for lunch at a little Norwegian restaurant in the West Village. She and Keith happened upon it a few nights earlier, and sat at the bar and had Swedish meatballs and lingonberries. She is wearing black jeans, floppy brown leather eighties boots, and layered black tank tops with a lot of groovy silver jewelry. As usual, she looks both insanely feminine and badass all at once. She tells me a story about the first time she and Keith went to Norway, many years ago. “I called my mother and held the phone out onto the street,” she says. “I said, ‘Mom, listen to them party in the streets, drinking everywhere. Now I know where we get it from!’ ”
We are just a few blocks from Fifth Avenue and Eleventh Street, where Hansen lived during her hard-partying single years, exactly the age that her daughters are now. Both of them are living on their own in the city, modeling and deejaying and making the scene. What’s it like for her to see them doing what she was doing 30 years ago? “You know, it’s the best time of your life. I see them and I remember what it was like. I just want them to be healthy and happy and be with men who will love them forever.”

She is pragmatic about the fact of aging. “Why would I want to do something to my face?” she says. “You can’t recapture that. I look at my daughters and see all that lovely collagen in their lips. Everything about them! I look at them and I go, Oh, God, you’re so beautiful.” But then she sees friends her age who have had work done and is tempted. She puffs out her lips: “Oooh, oooh, should I? And then I’m so glad I come back here to Connecticut.” But she has a confession: “After we met I kept thinking, Gosh, do I tell him that I did do Botox in my neck?” She pauses. “Yes! I have tried it! Don’t do it all the time, but I have done that.”

When I ask her if, at her age now, her style has changed, she shakes her head. “I don’t want to be that person who never changes, but I look at my style and it’s still the same. I mean, of course, now I would rather wear a bra than not. I don’t show my nipples when I go out like I did in the seventies and eighties, when everything was see-through. I guess I’m pretty conservative. Still the same look: leather jackets, jeans, T-shirts.” Only Patti Hansen would describe that look as “conservative.” (For the first time, Hansen is going to market an element of her rock-chick chic; in partnership with two women, she is launching a line of handbags that will be sold online [hungonu.com], based on a bag she’s had in her closet for 20 years. Part of the proceeds will go to charity.)
Clearly her husband has had an enormous influence. Indeed, she is wearing a big chunky silver ring that belongs to him, one that was designed by David Courts, the guy who made Keith’s famous skull ring. “I hate the skull,” she says. “Everybody with the skulls! But I love Keith’s interpretation of it: ‘That’s what we all look like.’ ”

A week ago, I asked Hansen, point-blank, what it has been like being married to Keith Richards for 27 years. “Any marriage, Rolling Stone or not, there’s definitely going to be some rocky mountains there. We have had our trials; that’s for sure. But on the whole, it’s great. We both have the same morals and background. We both come from working-class families. I think we are very similar in many ways. You know, he works and I have the house waiting for him with all the flowers and make sure he has all his bangers and mash in the fridge.”

Today at lunch, she expands on their differences. “I’m a Christian. I’m a believer. I believe that Christ is God. And Keith questions all that. I think he believes in a God, but he’s not a Christian. And he just gets into this ‘You believe because your parents believed,’ and I’ll say, ‘Don’t do that to me, Keith.’ I have a strong faith. You are sort of brought into it and then you make a choice yourself. It’s my choice. And politics? I definitely want to be an Independent now, but my family is Republican. Keith is essentially a Democrat.” She laughs. “But maybe that’s what makes it work. We make it work.”

As Alexandra says, “I think that’s the challenge that both of them love. They love each other very much, and I just always see them working it out.”

It is another one of Hansen’s paradoxes that she fell in love with Keith because he is so deeply unconventional—despite her own deeply conventional tendencies. At one point in conversation I refer to her husband as a kind of anti-establishment sacred cow, a deity for the wild at heart. “Isn’t it crazy?” she says, truly astonished. “And then I treat him like any old husband.” She laughs and then deadpans, “He does need to get on tour soon so I can look at him like that again.”

Rolling Stones Guitarist Keith Richards Lists Fifth Ave Penthouse For $12.23M

Richards and wife Patti Hansen purchased the penthouse in 2014
BY ZOE ROSENBERG @ZOE_ROSENBERG MAR 17, 2016, 10:45A



Two years after closing on the penthouse of 1 Fifth Avenue, Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards and wife, model Patti Hansen have put the pad back on the market. The duo snagged the shelter for $10.5 million in 2014 after it underwent a $4.5 million pricechop. Unsatisfied by the pad, Richards and Hansen are now asking $12.23 million.

The four-bedroom, four-bathroom penthouse includes three units that were combined in a 2011 renovation by architect Joe Serrins. Some of the classy touches Serrins incorporated: a leather-wrapped bronze handrail on the stairs, and a sliding wall that allows a library on the main floor to be opened up or sectioned off from the living area. The penthouse also comes with three terraces, four bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, and of course the cachet of having been the one-time home of a rock idol.





MORE: [ny.curbed.com]



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                                                                                                   Anita Pallenberg is shown as leaves court with attorney Jacop P. Lefkowitz. July 23, 1979. Photo by Arty Pomerantz

1979, June: 17-year old Scott Cantrell shot himself in the head in the master bedroom of Keith Richard’s house in Lewisboro, New York, after sharing a bed with Anita Pallenberg. Some saw eerie parallels with Performance.

According to Wikipedia: ‘The youth had been employed as a part-time groundskeeper at the estate and was involved in a sexual relationship with Pallenberg. Richards was in Paris recording with the Rolling Stones but his son was at the house when the teen killed himself. Pallenberg was arrested; however, the death was ruled a suicide in 1980, despite rumours that Pallenberg and Cantrell had been playing a game of Russian roulette. The police investigation stated that Pallenberg was not in the room or on the same floor of the house at the time the fatal shot was fired.’





Scott Cantrell, the seventeen-year-old caretaker of Keith Richard's New England estate, was found shot dead in Anita Pallenberg's bed.

Keith Richard's house was located near the East Coast headquarters of the Process Church.

According to an article in the English newspaper Midnite, a Connecticut police officer, Michael Passaro, who had responed to the "suicide''
reported "strange singing" from the woods a quarter mile from the Richard's mansion.

According to the newspaper, "There have been several bizarre satanic rituals in the area over the past five years."

In 1967, the Rolling Stones released Their Satanic Majesties Request.



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Grandaddy cool! Mick Jagger takes his daughter Karis and her two children for a shopping trip in Beverly Hills

By REBECCA DAVISON FOR MAILONLINE
PUBLISHED: 11:28 EST, 18 May 2015


He famously refused to acknowledge paternity of his eldest daughter Karis in 1970 - but the pair looked every inch the happy family when they stepped out together on Sunday.

Mick, 71, accompanied Karis, 44, and her two children, Mazie, 13, and Zak, 11, on a shopping trip to Barneys New York in Beverly Hills, where he treated his grandchildren to some presents.

The Rolling Stones rocker adopted a low-key outfit wearing a shirt with jeans and Nike trainers. He tied a jumper over his shoulders and hid his famous locks under a light coloured baseball cap.



Family time: Mick Jagger was every inch the trendy grandfather when he took eldest daughter Karis and her
two children Mazie, 13, and Zak, 11, on a shopping trip to Barneys New York in Beverly Hills on Sunday

When he split up with Marianne, Marsha moved into his Chelsea home and she fell pregnant.

By the time Karis was born in November 1970, Marsha had moved out and Mick was already dating Bianca.





Mick and Karis now enjoy a close father-daughter relationship - she was said to be a great support to him following the deaths of his father Joe in 2006 and his girlfriend L'Wren Scott last year.

No doubt both she and her children were thrilled to be enjoying some quality time with the iconic musician, with the family resemblance clear to see.
Meanwhile, The Rolling Stones are set to answer questions in their very first Twitter questions and answers session on Monday evening.


That's a familiar look: Mick's grandson Zak appears to have inherited his trademark pout

Read more: [www.dailymail.co.uk]
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook



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Zac Watson Pictures > Mick Jagger with daughter Georgia May, her boyfriend Josh McLellan, daughter Karis, her husband Jon & their kids Zak & Mazie Watson at Dark View Falls - early April/2014 (after they attended to L'Wren Scott's funeral)

[fanpix.famousfix.com]

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Georgia Jagger and Josh McLellan

[www.famousfix.com]



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Richard Young





Richard Young

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2016-09-24 19:07 by exilestones.

Never fails to amuse me how a magazine from around 1986 is talking about the Stones in their "autumn years," and here they are still playing in 2016. Of course I've been hearing people moan that they're too old for rock and roll since around - oh...1972 or so..

"Gonna find my way to heaven ..."

T H A N K. Y O U!!!

Redhotcarpet,

Glad you are enjoying the articles.