At 82, Mick Jagger still moves with the same electric energy that once set the world on fire.

But behind that swagger, behind the strut and the legendary lips, lives a man who has always been more student than star—a collector of sound, a lifelong listener who never stopped learning.

After more than sixty years at the top of rock and roll, Jagger has finally named his ten favourite albums—the records that shaped him, challenged him, and, in many ways, built the Rolling Stones themselves.

They are not just albums; they are the story of a man who turned curiosity into immortality.

 

The first, After School Session by Chuck Berry, was the record that started it all.

Mick was still a skinny kid in Dartford when he first heard Berry’s voice burst through the radio like lightning.

Chuck made the guitar talk, laugh, and tell stories.

He wrote about cars, girls, and rebellion, but what Jagger heard beneath it was something bigger—a whole generation learning how to wake up.

Chuck Berry taught him that rock was never about being perfect; it was about being alive, about owning the moment.

Every riff, every lyric was sharp, fast, and fearless.

That energy became the DNA of the Stones.

 

Then came Electric Mud by Muddy Waters, the godfather of Chicago blues.

Released in 1968, it was an act of rebellion in itself—a blues legend plugging into distortion and feedback, refusing to stay stuck in the past.

Purists hated it. Mick adored it.

For him, it proved that tradition isn’t about preservation; it’s about survival.

Without Muddy, there would have been no Stones, no Zeppelin, no British blues explosion at all.

Electric Mud reminded Mick that the blues could evolve, that sound could stretch, twist, and still stay true.

 

When the Beatles released Revolver, Mick was watching closely.

In 1966, the Fab Four stopped being just a pop act and became something else entirely—architects of sound.

Songs like “Eleanor Rigby” and “Tomorrow Never Knows” made him realize that success didn’t mean safety—it meant freedom to fail, to experiment, to risk everything.

“They made us all look lazy,” he once joked, but what he really meant was that they inspired him to push harder.

The silent rivalry between the Beatles and the Stones wasn’t hatred—it was mutual evolution.

 

James Brown’s Live at the Apollo was another revelation.

When Mick first saw footage of Brown onstage, he was hypnotized.

James didn’t just perform; he transformed.

Every scream, every drop to the floor, every sweat-soaked resurrection was choreographed and yet felt completely spontaneous.

That was when Jagger learned that great performance wasn’t chaos—it was precision disguised as madness.

“The stage is sacred,” he would say years later.

“You never walk on it casually.

” That same discipline still drives him through every concert, every encore, every roar of the crowd.

 

Then came Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, the record that rewired Mick’s brain.

Dylan turned rock into literature.

When “Like a Rolling Stone” exploded onto the radio, it hit like a sermon and a revolution at once.

Suddenly, songs weren’t just about love or heartbreak—they were about truth, power, and mystery.

Dylan didn’t explain his lyrics; he made you live inside them.

Mick realized that rebellion could be intelligent, that swagger could have substance.

From that point on, the Stones’ lyrics grew sharper, darker, and more human.

In 1971, Marvin Gaye released What’s Going On, and Jagger felt something shift again.

It wasn’t loud or angry—it was soft, soulful, and devastating.

Marvin sang about war, poverty, and injustice, but he did it with tenderness.

It was a protest wrapped in beauty. “He didn’t scream,” Mick said.

“He ached.” The lush production, the layers of harmonies, the gentle sadness—it showed Mick that strength could be quiet.

It was proof that emotion, not volume, was the loudest instrument of all.

 

By the late ’70s, punk had taken over, and The Clash were its fiercest prophets.

Instead of dismissing them, Jagger listened.

London Calling was a jolt of new blood—fury and thought fused into one.

Joe Strummer sang like a man on fire, but behind the chaos was intelligence and discipline.

“They reminded me why I started,” Mick said.

“Not for fame—for freedom.” The Clash weren’t chasing stadiums; they were chasing meaning.

That spirit reignited something in him—the reminder that rock and roll isn’t a genre, it’s an attitude.

 

Then came Are You Experienced by Jimi Hendrix, an explosion of color and noise that redefined what a guitar could do.

Mick heard it and felt the earth tilt.

Hendrix made every note feel alive, wild, and spiritual.

“He made the guitar talk like a god,” Jagger said.

It reminded him that mastery wasn’t about control—it was about surrendering to sound.

He also chose Exile on Main St., his own creation, not out of ego but survival.

Recorded in chaos and exile in the south of France, it was a miracle the album even got finished.

The sessions were messy, drug-fueled, and uncertain, but the result was pure magic.

“We didn’t know if we’d make it out,” Mick admitted.

“But we did.” To him, Exile was living proof that imperfection can become immortal if it’s honest.

 

Finally, there was Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen.

When Mick first heard it, he recognized a younger version of himself—the hunger, the defiance, the need to escape.

Springsteen made rock feel cinematic, heroic, and human all at once.

“It reminded me of why we all start bands,” Jagger said.

“Because we want to run toward something bigger than ourselves.”

 

Now, at eighty-two, Mick Jagger is still listening, still moving, still learning.

These ten albums are not just his favourites—they are the sound of his evolution.

From Chuck Berry’s rebellion to Marvin Gaye’s grace, from Dylan’s poetry to The Clash’s fury, each one left a scar, a lesson, a spark.

Together, they explain the mystery of Mick Jagger: a man who has spent his life chasing sound and finding himself inside it.

 

“Greatness,” he once said, “is borrowed, bent, and made into something new.

” And maybe that’s the real truth about rock and roll—it’s not about being first or being perfect.

It’s about taking the fire that came before you and making it burn your way, for as long as your heart still beats to the rhythm of the world.