Gary Dretzka
Noah Forrest
Leonard Klady
David Poland
Douglas Pratt
Ray Pride

Nothing gets a boomer’s middle-age heart beating faster than a good, old-fashioned rock-’n’-roll-trivia contest. This is especially true of those of geezers who enjoy outguessing our children, most of whom never bothered to memorize the titles of the book and record album Mark David Chapman had with him on the day he murdered John Lennon

Is there an aspiring Jeopardy! contestant over the age of 40 who couldn’t immediately provide the question, “Who was Pete Best?,” to the answer, “Sat in Ringo’s chair”? Ditto, “Who was Brian Jones?,” to the answer, “This Rolling Stone no longer gathers moss … or anything else, for that matter.”

Should I have been surprised, then, by the response I received to a similarly obvious – to me, anyway – question, this time from a woman young enough to be considered of dating age for Mick Jagger: “Wasn’t he in the Brian Jonestown Massacre?” After thinking of response that wouldn’t also include a spit-take, I recommended she see Stoned, Stephen Woolley’s trippy biopic of the former lead guitarist for the Rolling Stones.

Like Jimi Hendrix, Jones was a trend-setter musically, sartorially and chemically. His flamboyant sense of style anticipated such glam rockers as Marc Bolin, David Bowie and Mott the Hoople, while his anarchic-bordering-on-suicidal attitude toward the music industry pre-dated the Sex Pistols by at least a decade. He incorporated the rhythms of Africa, Asia, the Mississippi Delta and the South Side of Chicago into his rock ’n’ roll, as if they were stops on the same musical train.

And, yet, his legacy pretty much can be boiled down to that Jeopardy! question.

“I was amazed by how little we know about him,” said Woolley, during the Seattle leg of a cross-country press tour. “Unlike Jimi, Janis, Jim Morrison and other icons, Brian Jones’ reputation has diminished through the decades.”

That’s probably because his estranged band mates hardly missed a beat – or even a single gig – after his death at the too-young age of 27. Their pursuit of money and fame didn’t require the founder of the group’s presence, and neither, apparently, did their fans’ passion for the songs.

And, yet, something palpable did disappear with his passing.

“If ever a man genuinely lived the rock and roll life and naturally characterized the Stones in every way -- long before the five of us assumed a style -- it was Brian Jones,” wrote Stones’ bassist Bill Wyman, in his book, “Stone Alone.” “The band would not have existed without him … many attitudes and sounds of the ’60 were developed from Brian's style and determination. … He was the archetypal middle-class kid screaming to break away from his background, bumming around in dead-end jobs before finally finding his niche.

“And when he found it, he hammered it across to the world, with idealism and commitment."

That quote appears in the chapter dedicated to Jones in the Rock ’n’ Roll Heaven section of www.classicrockpage.com. The author describes him as “the first martyr of rock ’n’ roll. Before Jimi. Before Janis. Before Jim.”

Clearly, martyrdom is bestowed far more easily on dead rock stars than tortured defenders of the faith. Rock ’n’ Roll Heaven already had a pretty decent house band by the time Jones arrived, in 1969.

While indisputably sad, Jones’ death by drowning was no more or less tragic than those caused by an airplane crash (Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, Big Bopper, Patsy Cline, Otis Redding), Russian roulette (Johnny Ace), murder (Sam Cooke, Bobby Fuller), pneumonia (Little Willie John, Guitar Slim), car accident (Eddie Cochran, Chuck Willis, Johnny Horton), fire (Luther Perkins), an ill-advised USO tour (Phil Pill, of the Bubble Machine), boating accident (Johnny Burnette), cancer (Wynonie Harris), poison (Robert Johnson) or brain hemorrhage (Stu Sutcliffe). The eccentric blond guitarist was merely the first counterculture icon to make the trip.

Not that his death bore no significance whatsoever. By having a Sussex coroner declare his passing to be “death by misadventure,” it set the standard for an entire generation of hard-rocking boozehounds and dope fiends to come.

Apparently, something more than wine and downers were required for an excellent swimmer, like Jones, to succumb to the chlorinated waters of his backyard pool. A quarter-century later, in a death-bed confession, local builder and handyman Frank Thorogood admitted he abetted the drowning. That, and the reporting in several books written later about the incident, provided Woolley with a foundation for Stoned.

“The police simply blamed it on drugs and liquor,” said Woolley, a prolific producer, but first-time director. “They had what they wanted: a dead celebrity rocker who could be used as an example. There was some speculation about Thorogood’s culpability, but it wasn’t pursued.

“The whole matter was kept hush-hush, which is exactly how the Stones’ record company wanted it to be. Despite the new evidence and confession, no one is interested in re-opening the case now … almost everyone is dead.”

Jones is acknowledged to have been the leader, sparkplug and architect of the Rolling Stones, which, from the beginning, was a band committed to the furtherance of American blues of the electronic variety favored by such Chicago-based artists as Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf and Willie Dixon. There were many such tribute bands throughout England at the time (and almost none in America). By the time the British “invasion” took hold in the colonies, the Stones had already toured here, but to no great acclaim.

It wasn’t until the managers of the Beatles and Stones agreed to cause a bit of a stir by creating a rivalry between the groups. The Beatles, by this time, had traded their leather jackets, motorcycle boots and D.A. haircuts for Nehru jackets, half-boots and mop-top hairdos. The Stones adapted the stance of the anti-Beatles, unregimented and shaggy. It worked, marvelously.

Jones’ passion was reserved for the music of American blues greats, most of whom were still active. He wasn’t involved in the writing of original material, and, thus, wouldn’t benefit from residuals and the endless repackaging of the band’s early hits. When his mates aspired to becoming the “world’s greatest rock band,” Jones remained content to chill out in his home near Hartfield, 50 miles southeast of London.

The Cotchford Farm he took over from Richards had once belonged to A.A. Milne, the author of “Winnie the Pooh.” With a garden decorated with statues of the characters from the book, it literally was the “house at Pooh corner.” Thorogood had been hired by Stones’ management to maintain the property, but, after a while, Jones’ lethargy rubbed off on the laborers, who appeared to resent his wealth and lifestyle.

Life at the house that Pooh built reflected all the chaos, anarchy and glamour of the period. Jones, whose wardrobe even Liberace would envy, abused all manner of drugs, smoke and booze, as did his girlfriends, fellow musicians and guests. Jones’ longtime squeeze Anita Pallenberg -- a stunningly beautiful hedonist, who eventually hooked up with Keith Richards – would be his partner there, in bed and debauchery. (Monet Mazur, herself quite a looker, makes for an extremely credible Pallenberg.)

In the weeks before his death, Jones and his then-girlfriend Anna Wohlin were attempting to straighten themselves out, and prepare for a re-emergence into the world of rock music. There was talk of a new supergroup, and a desire to clean up his arrest record so he could tour in the U.S.

Stylistically and thematically, Stoned can stand as a companion piece to Donald Cammell and Nicolas Roeg’s Performance, a twisted little thriller from 1970 that featured Pallenberg, Mick Jagger and James Fox. Woolley’s account chronicles the kind of backstage excitement every teenage boy – and, perhaps, more than a few girls – dream about when he gets his first guitar. It’s extremely difficult to convey what goes on inside the head of someone who’s ingested massive quantities of LSD, hashish and brandy, but Woolley comes close … or, at least, I imagine that he does.

“I used several different cameras and period film stocks to suggest different themes and moods,” adds Woolley, whose production credits include Backbeat, The Crying Game, B. Monkey, The Good Thief and Breakfast on Pluto. “The most difficult part was editing it all together.”

Woolley hadn’t intended to direct the story, but after years of researching Jones’ life and untimely death, it seemed to be the obvious thing to do. He was already familiar with top behind-the-camera talent, and had supervised four dozen titles as a producer or executive producer..

“If I didn’t direct it, it probably wouldn’t have gotten made,” he allowed. “As a producer, I would have driven everyone nuts by interfering with their choices. As it was, we had a lot of fun.”

A tight budget precluded the use of any vintage Rolling Stones material in the film. Because Stoned isn’t about the band’s rise to fame, however, what’s included is sufficient to convey what Jones was listening to at the time.

Some of the best moments in Stoned come in its depiction of music-industry potentates who couldn’t possibly be more unctuous, disingenuous and greedy. When Jones’ productivity dropped to zero, they decided to cut off his allowance. Minus writing credits, Jones faced economic ruin, along with his other physical and emotional challenges.

“Brian was living on borrowed money, which he couldn’t possibly have paid back, because he didn’t play the game,” Woolley explained. “The rest of the Rolling Stones didn’t start making the money they deserved until the ’70s, when they took control of their music and tours. Brian didn’t like playing the big stadiums and singing the same old hits.

“He was more of an artist … always looking forward. Brian could never have been part of their current success.”

March 25, 2006

- Gary Dretzka

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