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Does it bother you that your musical life together isn’t enough for him—that he wants to make solo records?

He’ll never lie about in a hammock, just hanging out. Mick has to dictate to life. He wants to control it. To me, life is a wild animal. You hope to deal with it when it leaps at you. That is the most marked difference between us. He can’t go to sleep without writing out what he’s going to do when he wakes up. I just hope to wake up, and it’s not a disaster.

My attitude was probably formed by what I went through as a junkie. You develop a fatalistic attitude toward life. He’s a bunch of nervous energy. He has to deal with it in his own way, to tell life what’s going to happen rather than life telling you.

Was he like that in 1965?

Not so much. He’s very shy, in his own way. It’s pretty funny to say that about one of the biggest extroverts in the world. Mick’s biggest fear is having his privacy. Mick sometimes treats the world as if it’s attacking him. It’s his defense, and that has molded his character to a point where sometimes you feel like you can’t get in yourself. Anybody in the band will tell you that. But it comes from being in that position for so long—being Mick Jagger.

You and your wife, Patti, have two teenage daughters, Alexandra and Theodora. And as a dad, you have a unique perspective on the mischief kids get up to, because you’ve done most of it.

I’ve never had a problem with my kids, even though Marlon and Angela [two of his three children by former girlfriend Anita Pallenberg] grew up in rough times: cops busting in, me being nuts. [Another son, Tara, died in 1976; he was ten weeks old.] I feel akin to the old whaling captains: “We’re taking the boat out, see you in three years.” Dad disappearing for weeks and months—it’s never affected my kids’ sense of security. It’s just what Dad does.

What about serious talks? About drugs?

That’s something you see on TV ads. Alexandra and Theodora are my best friends. It’s not finger wagging. I just keep an eye on them. If they got a problem, they come and talk to me. They’ve grown up with friends whose idea of me—who knows what they’ve been told at school? But they know who I am. And they always come to my defense [smiles]. Which is the way I like it.

Describe your life at home in Connecticut: When you get up, what do you do?

I made a determined effort after the last tour to get up with the family. Which for me is a pretty impressive goal. But I did it—I’d get up at seven in the morning. After a few months, I was allowed to drive the kids to school. Then I was allowed to take the garbage out. Before that, I didn’t even know where the recycling bin was.

I read a lot. I might have a little sail around Long Island Sound if the weather is all right. I do a lot of recording in my basement—writing songs, keeping up to speed. I have no fixed routine. I wander about the house, wait for the maids to clean the kitchen, then fuck it all up again and do some frying. Patti and I go out once a week, if there’s something on in town—take the old lady out for dinner with a bunch of flowers, get the rewards [smiles].

Have you listened to the new guitar bands—the Hives, the Vines, the White Stripes? The Strokes are opening for you on this tour.

I haven’t really. I’m looking forward to seeing them. I don’t want to listen to the records until I see them.

But is it encouraging to see new guitar music being made in your image?

That’s the whole point. What Muddy Waters did for us is what we should do for others. It’s the old thing, what you want written on your tombstone as a musician: he passed it on. I can’t wait to see these guys—they’re like my babies, you know?

I’m not a champion of the guitar as an instrument. The guitar is just one of the most compact and sturdy. And the reason I still play it is that the more you do, the more you learn. I found a new chord the other day. I was like, “Shit, if I had known that years ago . . .” That’s what’s beautiful about the guitar.