The walls of my bedroom are covered in a collage of iconic photographs—among them a 1964 portrait by David Bailey of Mick Jagger, torn from an old issue of Vogue. Jagger is the tousled sleepy boy, practicing his impish pose like a kid in a bathroom mirror. His big head and big hair make him look like a toy, a moppish doll. He plays it girly, his rounded collar buttoned up. Liquid-eyed, lips parted, he is a white boy singing the blues, just dirty enough to be fun, but hardly the devil in disguise. This is Jagger warming up, cultivating what in 20 years will become a jaded disaffection that dares you to entertain him if you can. But for the moment he’s still got the soft look of a boy about to bloom.