Exile On Main St.

Keith Richards spent the summer of '71 in Nellcôte with a portable studio, a heroin habit, and a house that smelled like damp French limestone. They weren't just recording an album; they were holding a séance for the ghosts of American blues and country. Bobby Keys was the glue, literally blowing his lungs out on sax while the rest of the band dissolved into the humidity. It’s the sound of a rock and roll band realizing they’re too big to exist but too fucked up to care. You own twenty-seven Stones records, but this is the only one that actually captures the room. Most of the '70s stuff you have is polished for the stadiums, but *Exile* sounds like it was recorded in a basement while the cops were knocking at the front door. It’s the ultimate lesson in controlled entropy. Most bands would’ve imploded, but these mofos just turned the gain up and let the tape roll until the sun came up.

source: the clerk