Brian Jones was 20 when he formed the Rolling Stones and 27 when he drowned in his swimming pool, in circumstances that are murky nearly 40 years later. Spent from drugs and fame, he had just been kicked out of the group whose droogy vibe he had done much to establish. Rock critic Robert Christgau once wrote that ”Brian was one of the damned by choice of personality,” and that seems about right; where Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were workaholics under their bad-boy exteriors, Jones gave in to the rock-star mythos early and often and, in the end, fatally.

This would make a fascinating movie. It’s a shame that ”Stoned” isn’t it.

All the pieces are in place for an incisive tale of Brit-pop ego and madness, but filmmaker Stephen Woolley — a celebrated UK producer (”The Crying Game”) making his directing debut — lets the story get away from him. ”Stoned” suggests Oliver Stone’s ”The Doors” crossed with ”Gods and Monsters,” insofar as Jones’s hired handyman, Frank Thorogood (Paddy Considine), plays a pivotal role and that looming swimming pool is never far out of sight. But even ”The Doors” looked like a model of clarity next to this.

When Frank arrives to do some building for Jones (Leo Gregory), the rock star’s at the end of the line, living in addled splendor in a lavish estate that once belonged to A.A. Milne. Anita Pallenberg (Monet Mazur) has since ditched him for Keith, but Brian contents himself with a look-alike Swede (Tuva Novotny). In pushy, overedited flashbacks, we see Brian and Anita’s relationship disintegrate via drugs, kinky sex, and the collapse in him of anything resembling motivation. When Brian drops his first tab of acid, the trip montage that follows is scored to the Jefferson Airplane’s ”White Rabbit,” an idea that was embarrassingly old hat in 1970.

Meanwhile, Frank finds himself sucked into a life of decadence for which he’s hardly prepared; an unassuming working-class bloke, he becomes Brian’s cook, protector, and whipping boy. There are elements here of the old 1969 film ”Performance” (starring Jagger) and Joseph Losey’s ”The Servant” — in fact, there seem to be bits of every movie Stephen Woolley has ever seen. A producer’s job is to handle the big picture in all its details, while a director needs to hone the story to its essentials. Woolley is still a producer.

Brian can barely rouse himself from his couch, let alone join the lads in the studio. The checks are still being signed, though, and Stones gofer Tom Keylock (David Morrissey, slightly atoning for ”Basic Instinct 2″) hangs around as an all-purpose enabler. Still, only a fool wouldn’t be able to read the writing on the wall.

A better, more interesting ”Stoned” might have made the case that Brian read the writing and welcomed entropy anyway, and Gregory makes a few feints in that direction with his knowing, dissolute smile. The actor’s fundamentally miscast, though, and not just because he looks like David Spade in a fright wig. Jones had the knack of seeming simultaneously innocent and depraved, and Gregory’s able only to handle the latter part of that equation.

Considine thrashes about in an unfocused role, coming to life only in a harsh little scene where Brian’s girlfriend taunts him with the possibility of some hippie-chick action. ”Stoned” sets up an interesting conflict — a fading prince of rock royalty is viewed with contempt by the blue-collar longhairs landscaping his garden — and never develops it.

Instead, Woolley and his screenwriters (Neal Purvis and Robert Wade, who wrote the last two Bond movies and ”Johnny English”) press their case that Brian was murdered, dramatizing the climactic event with sudden conviction. (They cite a deathbed confession in the end credits, not mentioning that it’s since been disavowed by people in a position to know.) Believable? As much as anything here, which is to say not very.

The biggest sin in ”Stoned” is that it never conveys a passion for music. (The same can’t be said for the terrific 1994 early-Beatles movie ”Backbeat,” which Woolley produced.) Instead of Jagger-Richards classics, the soundtrack bulges with cuts by Robert Johnson, and that makes sense: Brian was the blues-freak purist of the Stones. The songs are mere ornaments, though, and you never sense how they speak to the man at the center of this movie. If there were hellhounds on Brian Jones’s trail, they never made it to the set.

(Ty Burr, Globe Staff, April 14, 2006)

… and that’s their appeal

The Rolling Stones have always held the answers to all of life’s troubles, and by answers, I mean lots of growling guitars and a frontman fond of stuffing his mic down his trousers. The band has become the musical equivalent of guzzling a 12-pack and belching all your problems away. It’s like Confucius once said, “Keep it simple, brah.”

And that’s why the Stones’ appeal never seems to get old, even if the same can’t be said of the band members.

Musing about the group’s ability to still pack arenas is a bit like wondering why lovemaking is still en vogue after all these years. Some thrills don’t suffer from repetition, even when they’re as predictable as Las Vegas weather. The forecast for the evening: nothing but clear skies, with a good chance of some lusty Brits swiveling their hips in your girlfriend’s direction. Not that she’ll mind. All taught stomachs and Tae-bo kicks, the Stones looked like the million bucks they probably were paid to play here. “There’s a lot of sharp angles up there,” a guy next to me noted, commenting on the band’s cut physiques. There were plenty of sharp riffs, too, particularly in serrated blues stomper “Midnight Rambler,” which the band teased out into a 10-minute come-on that ended as breathlessly as a one-night stand.

Of the Stones’ 20-song set, eight of the tunes were different from when the group hit town in November, including a two-song suite that had guitarist Keith Richards taking center stage to croak through newer numbers, the dusky, bittersweet “This Place Is Empty” and the hard-swinging kiss-off “Happy.” For the most part, though, the show was filled with all the expected favorites and few surprises, save for late in the set, when a portion of the motorized stage moved out into the crowd toward the back of the arena. There, the Stones serenaded the cheap seats — although cheap probably isn’t the operative word here, considering that even the most modestly priced tickets demanded that patrons choose between seeing the Stones or sending their kids to college. But the band worked hard for the money.

Frontman Mick Jagger’s voice never wavered, sounding as if it had been preserved in amber. He turns every song into an exhortation, a sweaty call to arms, even when he’s singing about a no-good chick — which is often. But really, it’s not what Jagger says but how he says it that makes folks clap their hands and stomp their feet, nudged along by Richards’ sly licks, which are more limber than muscular. Jagger could recite the warranty to your toaster oven, and thousands would cheer along. And that’s the Rolling Stones’ defining trait: creating a mountain of sound out of a molehill of meaning.

But hey, there’s no crime in refusing to over think things, and no shame in giving people what they want. But charging close to $500 a pop to do so? Well, now, that’s another story.

(Jason Bracelin, REVIEW-JOURNAL)

This website is dedicated to the band that has influenced my life to quite a degree. Ever since I first heard a Rolling Stones track on the radio back in 1964 I have been a collector of “The greatest rock & roll band in the world” – they certainly deserve this title!

The Rolling Stones have given me hours of listening pleasure, and with the advent of video recorders / dvd players, of watching pleasure as well. They awakened in me the wish to be a musician also, but moderate talent just allowed me to be a member of an amateur rock band. Yet, who knows, should I be reborn …

One thing is certain: My fascination with rock music has endured and will not fade away with me.

My sincere thanks go to my webmaster, Simon Tiffert, who delivered this baby design wise and who, from time to time, lends me a helping hand to complete these pages.