THERE ARE two defining moments which define tonight: moments which, while not actually tearing the fabric of reality in a jaw-droppingly sensational stylee, at least give it a good tweaking in a quite literal the-past-was-yours-the-future's-mine sort of way.
To wit, at the close of 'Sale Of The Century' - hitherto notable solely for a load of rather rubbish circus-ringmaster / concept-rock shouting - John Squire suddenly shakes his arse, cranks up his guitar and, for at least one whole entire minute, sprays the galvanised moshpit with the kind of coruscating, soul-skating sonic rifferama which caused 'I Am The Resurrection' to turn spinal chords into squidgy jam sponge all those years ago. Huzzah !
Conversely, towards the end of 'Love Me And Leave Me' - hitherto an amiably sweet pop diversion, as you may or may not expect from a songwriting credit shared with one Liam G - John Squire suddenly shakes his arse, cranks up his guitar and... his guitar promptly goes GRRNK ! GRRNK ! FART ! And completely and utterly packs up on him. Bugger !
And so it is that The Seahorses' first ever bona fide appearance in the UK hangs in the balance between a wild cheer and absolute buggeration. For there are times here when you wish they were called The Shoemakers just so you can dismiss them as cobblers. And then there are other times, when you can almost feel the entire Wulfrun Hall - sold-out crowd, bar staff, bouncers et al - willing John Squire onwards and upwards, striving to dig up something, anything that isn't charred beyond recognition lurking within the ashes of The Stone Roses.
There have been phoenix-style rebirths in this very venue before, obviously - Morrisey's hysteria-tinged solo debut show springs to mind. True, the reappearance of Squire hardly registers as highly as El Mozzer's on a scale of one to complete f---ing-insanity, but there is a vibe of genuine warmth mixed with eager anticipation oozing through the wide-eyed throngs. After all, Johnny boy was the Rose with the nous who didn't have an entire field in stitches at Reading, right ?
So John Squire has found his new brick road. And a gleaming, beaming shade of yellow it most certainly is not. In fact, much of this particular byway is a grim shade of grey. And many, many miles of it sound like Cast. Well, to be slightly deeper about the whole affair, 'Suicide Drive' starts like Cast, progresses (if that's the right word) into a pastiche of The La's and ends up pretending to be Dodgy, but the point is that The Seahorses are obviously mainlining on a strict diet of stompy Scousepop with a side order of Weller-tastic riffage to go. The riffage, somewhat predictably, emanates from El Squire himself,: within the first song the little plectrum monkey is aping Hendrix; within four he is flirting with a sincerely big-buttocked boogaloo a la 'Love Spreads'; and by the elongated encore of the cheekily endearing single 'Love Is The Law', The Floppy Fringe has completely taken over the show and is merrily building his very own deluxe squall of sound.
His fellow 'Horses go with the flow, give or take the odd flash of first night "F-k me !-look-at-all-those-bastard-people !" nerves. Drummer Andy Watts dishes out scrummy harmonies; Stuart Fletcher valiantly pretends that he isn't really playing his bass high up, like some session-muso wuss; and Lego-jawed singer Chris Helme gives it a bit of big-haired cocky action up front, vigorously frocking with his big acoustic guitar and only occasionally slipping into In Brown-patented 'abstract' technique of vocalising. In other words, The Seahorses are stout. F-k me, they are absoluuuutely rock bloody solid, sound of mind and united together in workmanlike fashion as they take these first tentative steps toward salvation, or whatever it is these nascent popsters aspire to. At worst, they have a stout, workmanlike tendency to sound like a badger belching in a bathtub, ie, A Bit Dull, Actually. At their best, they make music which is a bit chipper and craftily tuneful and marginally epic, and suggests that some day in the vaguely near future The Seahorses will shake off their shackles and start writing cracking songs that don't bring to mind The Hollies, The Monkees, Oasis or any number of diminutive Liverpudlian pop tykes halfway through the first verse.
Oh yeah, there are two other defining moment as well: prior to The Seahorses appearance, the PA blares out Bowie wailing, "We could be heroes". When they depart, Mick Jagger asserts, with absolute pithy confidence, "You can't always get what you want".
That John Squire. Man, he ain't square.
Simon Williams
Back To Media 1997