Yves Saint Laurent’s former villa keeps its rhythms. In the overgrown garden where he once hosted Mick Jagger, the wind still carries saxophone notes from some unseen source. The caretaker swears that on humid nights, the pool house mirrors reflect a 1965 party—women in Pucci prints, a bass player from Casablanca, ice clinking in cut-crystal glasses. The current owner (a reclusive jazz collector) occasionally hosts midnight sessions. The rule? No electricity. Just candlelight, the original acoustics, and whatever spirits decide to join in. The invitation comes by word of mouth only.
