Stuart Macbeth seeks satisfaction in a Rolling Stones tribute act — and finds it

I arrive at Joe’s Bar & Grill in Summertown to find Keith Richards sitting outside, smoking a fag. I casually stroll up and ask what time he’s on. Keith snarls at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke and shouts “9.15.”

It’s a convincing start to a Thursday night watching The Rolling Stoned. Billed as “the greatest Rock ’n’ Roll Tribute Band in the World” it’s an entertainment enough to see the act manoeuvre on to the minuscule stage. But overlook the middle-aged spread and they could be the real thing. I witness the carnage from the comfort of my barstool.

“The place is packed,” as the genuine Stones sang on their 1964 album 12 X 5. Most punters squash around tables, elbowing each other as they navigate knives and forks.

Rock ’n’ roll and food make for an uneasy mix, in my opinion, so I stick to the £16-a-bottle house Tempranillo. At that price, I swig cautiously.

The outfits proclaim we’re in the Stones’ early-70s heyday. Mick leaps around in a green jumpsuit while Keith, Bill, Charlie and Mick Taylor squeeze to either side. All have trouble finding space to swing their arms.

The waiting staff also struggle to move. One waiter has to drill his way down the gangways with handfuls of plates. His ordeal worsens when a route is blocked by middle-aged party animals, all attempting to dance around him. Eventually, he loses his temper. But who wouldn’t?

Thankfully, the band rise above it all, with a flawless performance. All the classics pour out. Early singles rub shoulders with album tracks from Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main Street. A performance of You Can’t Always Get What You Want sets diehard fans squealing. By 10pm a bunch of women have claimed the dance floor in front of the stage.

I spoke to one regular attendee to these tribute nights. “Rod Stewart is my favourite” he confessed, “because he gets off stage and runs up and down the room.”

The man says he finds sitting down for food a nuisance, but it’s the only reason his wife will agree to spend a night listening to a live band with him. They’re coming back, in a few weeks, to see an ersatz Take That.

What I like about hearing the music in this intimate venue is that it really could have been where the real Rolling Stones ended up, had it all gone horribly wrong in the 1980s.

Had Keith served a jail term, he might well have make his comeback at Joe’s, sharing the bill with racks of ribs and gourmet burgers.

It’s pretty much how Big Joe Turner ended his days. But perhaps these Stones are made of sturdier stuff. It seems so when Brian Jones makes his first appearance on stage since his death in 1969. He arrives with a huge pair of wings; apparently down from heaven to join in the fun.

Brian tips the contents of a wine bottle down his throat and launches into an electrifying harmonica solo. I order another Tempranillo, so I can copy him.

In the words of a Bono tribute act, even better than the real thing.