Jagger turned 67 this year. He has been posing for photos — an activity he readily admits he finds “really awful, really boring” — for nearly half a century now. He has a knighthood, a fortune estimated at around $310 million and an assured place in the pantheon of rock gods. But none of this seems in any danger of making him complacent. On the contrary, he is as attentive to the nuances of his hairdo as any newly minted teen idol. “Public people put a lot of energy into what people think about them,” he tells me the following day. “Everyone does. I don’t care what they say. Everyone cares about it. You always want to control your image. I mean, you obviously can’t control it 100 percent. But if you’re a famous person, you obviously have a public personality that you try . . . that you want to project.” We are sitting in the Carlyle hotel’s Royal Suite, Jagger’s regular residence when he is in New York. A grand piano sits in the corner of the cathedral-like living room. A couple of guitars — an acoustic and a Gibson electric — are leaning against the sofa. Lying on the coffee table, alongside a bottle of Bobbi Brown Hydrating Face Tonic, is a copy of the new Diaghilev biography that Jagger has just purchased.