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They were the greatest band of a generation and seemed invincible. At the height of their powers, their downfall seemed an impossibility. But now that JOHN SQUIRE has quit, surely it's the end for THE STONE ROSES. So what the hell went wrong ? JOHNNY CIGARETTES searches for an answer.
"The past was yours but the future's mine"
- The Stone Roses, '89
"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy," someone once said. But perhaps the one truly tragic aspect of the fall of The Stone Roses (and let's face it, without John Squire, they are no longer The Stone Roses) is that it isn't a tragedy. The Roses haven't burnt out. They haven't even faded away. They've just sort of…. crumbled.
The drama, romance and mystique which seemed to surround their every move until a couple of years ago has been replaced by an ignominious, stumbling soap opera. While a tragedy might have sealed their fate in all its doomed glory, it's turned out more like a farce. Myths have been shattered, blinding magic reduced to prosaic realities, and demigods brought down to the level of sawdust Caesars. The once unimpeachable legend of the greatest band of a generation is just that bit too soiled to regain the same credibility.
Or maybe we're just talking so much melodramatic balls. We should have learned by now that barely anything is sacred in rock'n'roll. No reputation ever remains unsoiled. Myths were never meant to be true. And the only legends we'll ever have are viewed through the rose-tinted glasses of a nostalgically-selective history. But that doesn't stop us dreaming, and The Stone Roses once had that ability to make dreaming seem like the most sensible thing in the world to do.
At the turn of the '90s it appeared, admittedly through the haze of a heady Ecstatic optimism, that they had every power to mould those dreams for years to come. The greatest rock debut album of the '80s was barely the half of it. It was the fact that they spearheaded a new generation, a new cross-cultural sub-culture and a new fashion for faintly ridiculous trousers.
They were everyone's ultra-cool older brother's street gang, complete with a style, a language, an attitude and an aura of invincibility that made them at once mysterious yet dangerously real, exotic yet earthy, untouchably glamorous yet unquestionably on your side.
Plus there was the fact that they were showing a Beatle-esque ability to stand majestically above the music scene and then step in, redefining its standards, declaring themselves ahead of it again and dragging it on behind them.
Just as 'I Wanna Be Adored' and 'She Bangs The Drums' were startlingly audacious and glorious statements of intent, 'I Am The Resurrection' was brilliant, pioneering proof of their genius. Within one album they ended an era of Smithsian Isolationism and generic snobbery in British guitar music and began a new one - in the wake of such eclectic classics as De La Soul's '3 Feet High And Rising', Prince's 'Sign O' The Times' and Public Enemy's 'It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back' - embracing an organic funk and soul along with the communal positivism of the rave scene.
Within six months of that album's release, they'd leapt forward once more, with 'Fools Gold', which sliced Hendrix into beautiful bloody pieces with a priceless breakbeat and bassline, a giddy psychedelia, an epic and hypnotic club-meets-dub groove, and the kind of dark, malevolent menace and prophetic genius that was as much in the class of The Stones as The Beatles. It also made the term 'indie dance' sound like the worst insult in the world.
And, of course, there were the events. Ally Pally, Blackpool, and most memorably, Spike Island: 30,000 plus steaming souls, our Woodstock, the peak of the summer of baggy, etc, etc. The Roses were showing us to the promised land, and we were with them all the way.
So what the hell went wrong ?
IN TRUTH, before 'Second Coming' was even released, the Roses myth seemed destined to crack under the escalating weight of expectation. Even if we ignored the suspicions that five years spent making a record meant something was rotten in the state of Roseland, and the rumours that they'd spent much of their time spending the Geffen millions/nurturing drug habits/scrapping whole albums' worth of songs (delete according to who you believed), the odds were stacked against them.
Three years ago we were waiting eagerly for them to ride triumphantly back into town and rescue our rock from the scourge of shoegazing, fraggle and the dregs of their post-baggy legacy. But by the time they turned up, we'd seen Suede, Blur and Oasis revitalise British guitar music in their own images. The new media-friendly bands no longer dealt in the same currency of mystique, and we were all far too ironic not to rip the piss out of the Roses' decaying reputation.
They could still be the resurrection, but it needed a record of supernatural quality, resonance and power. The task facing The Stone Roses was to single-handedly redefine the Zeitgeist once more, with five years of changing cultural waters under the bridge. In the event, they didn't even bother attempting such a feat.
We can forgive them that, of course. Instead they chose to concentrate on redefining themselves alone, as a darker but more orthodox outlaw rock band, musically steeped in blues and rock tradition, less euphorically arrogant than grand and omnipotent. In theory. Alas, fate, fashion, fickle attitude and personal frictions would betray any new myth at every turn.
Maybe we would have kept the faith better had the album at least been a triumph on its own terms. Instead, it was a good rock record. At times it scraped the stellar heights we demanded, with the demonic riff growl of 'Drivin' South' evoking the spirit of Robert Johnson and Jimmy Page, and the transcendent heart-squeezing beauty of 'Ten Storey Love Song'. Elsewhere, though, flabby, half-baked studio jams like 'Daybreak' or flimsy dirges like 'Your Star Will Shine' reminded us that the band making this record were all too mortal. But if you call your record 'Second Coming', anything less than a masterpiece is bound to be a failure.
It wasn't a fall from grace, simply a fall to earth. We could gladly have sobered our view of the Roses slightly and let them get on with the job of still being an important, sometimes brilliant rock band, had surrounding events not continued to suggest a deeper, more terminal malaise was afoot.
See, the whole second coming of The Stone Roses was riddled by puzzling behaviour decidedly unsuited to self-proclaimed rock deities.
For example, the first pictures of the new Roses showed them in sou'westers and lifeguards' rubber rings - oh how we laughed. Then the video accompanying 'Love Spreads' was appalling. Fuzzy home video footage of Mani fannying about in a devil costume in someone's back garden was about the nearest we got to a view of our heroes. Then, after much prevarication, the band announced that they would be doing their first and only press interview with The Big Issue. Good attitude, cheers, respect and all that for helping the homeless, but it was a strangely obscurantist way for a band to return to the public arena after five years, and it appeared to reek of paranoia and revenge against a music press who just wouldn't leave the poor lambs alone. Inevitably, the interview was a non-event, full of mumbled platitudes and defensive self-justification that seemed designed not to pry too deeply into the mystery of five years in the wilderness.
Arguably, the single wasn't the best choice, either. 'Ten Storey Love Song', the second 45, would have made for a far more triumphant return, and would probably have made Number One to boot.
You're tempted to conclude that they actually intended to deaden the impact of their return, for reasons best known to themselves. Why, for example, release the album a week before Christmas, if you don't want to bury it in the Christmas rush ? "So people can listen to it on Christmas Day," explained Mani, implausibly. "It was ready to be put out," shrugged John Squire, and we remain none the wiser.
To the unsympathetic eye, these were the actions of a band who were either taking the piss in a wilfully perverse, contrary Mancunian way, or had a certain disdain and resentment for their audience's expectations, and quite possibly a degree of self-loathing, a subconscious desire to sabotage the legend that had haunted them throughout the making of this album.
In hindsight, you wonder to what extent The Stone Roses really wanted to come back. All of the band, bar Mani, had settled into various levels of domestic bliss, kids included, and Ian Brown has confessed in interviews since that he gets a bigger buzz from seeing his son than playing in front of thousands of people. Rock'n'roooooll !! And for a band who reckoned they were "itching to play live", they sure gave a good impression of advanced stage fright. The constant attempts to ease themselves back into action by way of secret gigs suggested once more a shrinking in the face of expectations. As soon as word got around about the gigs (meaning too much attention and pressure), they bottled it.
There might be a simpler explanation, however. Based on the fact that The Stone Roses as we knew them, as the ultimate street gang, the perfect thick as thieves unit, were no longer singing in harmony. The first tear in the human fabric of a classic group was about to be made, and things could never be the same again.
The eerie silence surrounding Reni's departure from the band, from both sides, was surely telling. Regardless of the inevitable whispers of drug addiction or money squabbles, the sense of embarrassment and frustration that emanated from John Squire, in particular, when asked about Reni, told its own story. More significantly, recently he admitted that The Stone Roses could never be the same without Reni, because part of the spirit died when he left. However good a drummer Robbie Maddix might be, he hadn't stood at bus stops in the rain with all the gear in the early days. He hadn't been through it with them, learnt his art with them, shared a vision with them, made the band special, more than the sum of its parts. And Squire admitted to feeling different about himself, choosing people to play with. A piece of The Stone Roses' heart and soul had gone forever.
HOPE SPRINGS eternal for The Stone Roses, of course. Ian Brown did his level best to make out that, 'Oh well, Reni's gone, never mind, because we've got my mate Robbie in and everything's great ! (besides, I never liked that crap-hatted bastard)' and our attention promptly returned to the question of when the bloody hell were The Stone Roses going to stop fannying about and play a gig in England ?!
The erosion of our patience coincided in exact proportion to the erosion of our belief and trust in the Roses' unimpeachable brilliance and everlasting genius. The more they pissed about, the more suspiciously clay-like those feet looked.
When you looked closer at the band set-up itself, the Roses' continually flaky behaviour seemed more than ever to be a symptom of the fact that the left hands within the camp rarely knew what the right hands were doing. Since Gareth Evans parted company with the band in early '92, they hadn't had a proper manager to kick their arses into gear. The nearest they have got is Steve 'Adge' Atherton, a former roadie, who has basically organised the essentials like studios, tours, trips to the all-night garage for Rizlas, and so on. But he remains, at the behest of the band, without the official power to whip them into shape. Compare that to Marcus Russell's firm guidance of the potentially just as flaky Oasis, and you see more opportunities missed.
So the story of the Roses' would-be triumphant return to the live stage turned into an embarrassing, never-ending farce. First John Squire's 'pneumonia', non-materialising 'event' gigs, then the leaking of the secret gigs scuppered their plans (although Renileavingitis might have played a part). To cancel one set of gigs may be regarded as a misfortune. To cancel two looks like carelessness. And then to cancel Glastonbury looks like nothing less than the betrayal of a generation.
In reality, of course, John Squire's broken collarbone was no flimsy excuse, but a cruel misfortune. But you wondered whether the gods had got tired of them crying wolf too. Either way, this was their big chance to make amends for everything, and they screwed up again. Saturday night at Glastonbury would have been utterly perfect - the ultimate event, a homecoming gig in front of the people who made them what they were in the first place. It couldn't have failed to be a religious experience.
For many people, this was the last straw. The Stone Roses had always taken the piss out of the people that deserved it - the media, other bands, the unbelievers, but never before had they so obviously seemed to be taking the piss out of their fans.
Meanwhile, yet more pieces of their reputation were flaking off in the gigs they played abroad. Their first actual live appearances since 1990, in Scandinavia, were widely reported to have been marred by Ian Brown's severely off-key vocals. The Americans told a similar story, even if the situation was slowly improving, the more gigs they played. When NME received a mixing desk tape from one of the early gigs, it was high comedy to listen to. But what people forgot was that Ian Brown never could sing. His voice had always been a glaring weakness live, if not quite this glaring. Back then, though, all the other magic filling the air blew such considerations away. Now, that magic had been contaminated, possibly beyond repair.
POPULAR OPINION has it that Oasis stole the thunder of The Stone Roses' return. They had appropriated that classic lip-curled arrogance, not to mention several tunes, Liam's entire stage persona, the 'event' gigs, and the vast majority of their fans. And Ian Brown's 'It's about time' endorsements suggested that he was ready to hand over his northern soul crown already.
But it was ludicrous to expect The Stone Roses to compete with Oasis, certainly in sales terms. Five years is a long time for a band to maintain an audience without playing a record or playing any gigs, especially considering the Roses' crowd was restricted to a relatively narrow age group. Oasis have crossed the generational divides more successfully than the Roses ever did, appealing to eight and 48-year-olds. They have broken America, whereas The Stone Roses never had the focus or the drive to even get near. And yet, it's not the same as The Stone Roses. Oasis are simply a very good rock band with very good tunes that appeal to a very wide audience. But they never dragged a whole sub-culture behind them, and they have never inspired the same religious fervour or heartfelt belief as The Stone Roses. And Oasis will never record a song as ambitious, audacious and plain amazing as 'I Am The Resurrection'.
That is why they were legends, and that is why, when the Roses finally showed their faces back home, first at the Feile Festival in Ireland (many a British fan made the trip), then a secret gig (typical) in a tent in Somerset, and eventually at the legendary Bridlington Spa Pavilions, they were legendary. OK, so it was the event and the atmosphere that made it - hearing that opening bassline and dripping-from-heaven guitar pattern to 'I Wanna Be Adored' after so long was unforgettably spine-tingling - but the band managed to reclaim much of their former glory, for the time being. The loss of Reni was barely noticeable - on the contrary, Robbie Maddix's impeccably professional replication of the rhythms we knew and loved probably made for a tighter Roses sound overall.
Meanwhile, Ian's vocals were improving (allegedly with the help of a vocal tutor) to the point where the odd bum note in the odd song could easily be overridden by the experience of a revitalised rock band hitting the spiritual high notes.
That said, somehow Ian didn't cut quite the same regal figure as he once had. Where the walk had always been gracefully swaggering, now it was Hanna Barbera Manc lad. As if he was trying too hard to convince himself that he was still walking it like he talked it. The old invisible maracas that once seemed to wind us round his little finger were gone, replaced by an aloof, defensive, conservative wiggle of the mike. The ludicrous, marvellous sassy pout was replaced by a cold, stiff upper lip. And his hard brown eyes betrayed a certain unease, as if he no longer felt that divine right to be there on that stage.
We could live with this cardboard cut-out of the Ian Brown of legend, principally because John Squire had clearly sucked Ian's charisma in through his fingertips and become twice the guitar hero he ever was. The way he squeezed, tore, twisted and tickled all manner of blood, sweat and tears out of his Les Paul, while maintaining the delicate crystalline complexion of his greatest compositions, was mesmerising to behold. He showed himself to be the only musician of our generation who could play a guitar solo and have you still hanging on his every vibrato flicker a full ten minutes later, the words 'Eric' and 'Clapton' being a foreign language.
We knew he was the Roses' kingpin as soon as we saw he'd written 90 per cent of the album, and throughout the last two years he's been the one to retain a quiet dignity, never losing his cool for an instant. But when we saw him on that December tour last year, it seemed like he was The Stone Roses. There were long segments of the show when he would be bathed in celestial spotlight as the others mooched around in the darkness, and we barely minded because he had been the one who we couldn't tear our gaze away from throughout the gig anyway. It looked like he'd been beamed in as a sophisticated computer image into a different band whom no-one knew.
Ian Brown, on the other hand, was losing his cool offstage as well as on it. Where he had been a relatively approachable and articulate soul five years ago, he now seemed egotistical, prickly, morose, and wracked with paranoia to the point of social dysfunction. Now, The Stone Roses have often been described as arrogant, and in possession of gargantuan egos, but that was never the case. 'Ego' suggests an over-inflated bubble of unrealistic self-confidence, pomposity and insecurity. But The Stone Roses never needed ego. They just knew.
The Ian Brown we have seen in the last year, onstage, in social situations, interviews and via the usual rumours, we didn't seem to know any more. One of the more revealing occasions was at a Cork hotel after the Feile performance, where he shared the bar area with such luminaries as Paul Weller, Blur, The Beautiful South and Lush. Whichever rival musician he talked to seemed to offend him with some innocuous statement within seconds, as if he was one of Reeves & Mortimer's Bra Men. In interviews he was often impossibly hostile and neurotically humourless - he was the one Rose who could never forgive this paper for giving 'Second Coming' six out of ten. Perhaps Ian Brown was trying far too hard to maintain the myth that he'd become haunted by it, whereas Squire knew that you don't have to believe it, you just have to live with it, and keep your cool. There was a very fragile ego cowering within this man, and yet he had always been someone who always spoke righteously, stressing the Roses' lack of pretensions and empathy for the common man. Perhaps it was the conflict between his position, his reputations, and his values that was confusing and tormenting him, just as it had for Kurt Cobain.
Whatever strange fever had gripped him, it appeared to be distancing him from John Squire more noticeably than ever by the end of last year. The two kids who claimed to have met in the sandpit had grown apart a long way, and this must surely lie close to the core of the reason why John Squire left The Stone Roses. You only had to look at them - Ian in that bloody ridiculous floppy-eared hat and post-baggy casual urchin gear, John in modish, elegant, faintly louche rock aristocrat's garb. They barely ever seemed to be interviewed together if they could possibly help it, whereas five years ago they would be finishing each other's sentences, and when they were interviewed they let Mani blabber on about how great everything was and how they were going to conquer the world, so they never had to really express their true feelings. And Mani's protest-too-much proclamations just made you more suspicious that all was not really well.
Robbie Maddix, meanwhile, may have been a further factor in the deterioration of their relationship. At first his enthusiasm and drive, along with that of keyboard player Nigel, gave the Roses fresh heart. But you don't have to be a mind-reader to guess that Squire would have greeted Robbie's attempts to spout forth in the press about Britpop, the future of the Roses and the price of fish with a profound distaste bordering on, "Shut the f--- up, Ringo". Was it significant that Robbie appeared to be much closer friends with Ian than John ?
What we do know is that John Squire turned up for band rehearsals before the opening Bridlington date of the British tour two days later than the others, and that he rarely socialised with the band on the tour. Maybe in his heart he already knew it was only a matter of time.
John Squire always used to baulk at the idea of going out on his own, especially the idea of a Butler/Marr-style freelance axeman. He used to say he didn't consider himself proficient enough as a guitarist to imagine himself surviving without his band to fall back on. But with every review spraying superlatives across the page about his virtuoso guitar performances, and making out that it was him carrying the band along virtually single-handedly, he's bound to have been convinced of his worth before long. And also, might we suggest, of his colleagues' relative worthlessness. Maybe he just thought, after finally honouring their promises and finishing the British tour at Wembley Arena, it was time to go out on a high, while he still could. Because John Squire knew that spiritually, if not physically, he was not in the same band any more.
SO WHAT now ? Will the Roses continue ? Frankly, one hopes not. Losing Reni was like losing a limb, but losing Squire is tantamount to taking away their entire upper body. No doubt Ian Brown can write a half-decent ditty ('Straight To The Man' being the case in point) when he tries, and Mani and Robbie will be able to jam something out of the ether, but we all know it won't be The Stone Roses any more.
As for John Squire, his increasingly solitary persona onstage would suggest either a career as a hired gun or, as whispers are predicting, a solo album. You can't see him doing a Shaun Ryder and gathering together fellow travellers to build an ever greater band than his first, but maybe a band would curb those prima donna tendencies and keep him tied to the rich British rock tradition he's helped build. And what will the fans make of it all ? Will there be a split in loyalties, as with Suede, with some disciples pledging allegiance to The Stone Roses name or Ian Brown, and some recognising that no Squire equals no Stone Roses.
Maybe it's not even the end - he might return to the fold next week and they'll all live happily ever after. Somehow, though, you know it's not going to happen.
So if this is, officially, the end, just promise us, John, that you'll leave us with our memories, and never, ever reform the band. At least then we can still see The Stone Roses as something unique, priceless, and untarnished, and their legend might last long enough to be worth believing in once more.
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