Where are THE STONE ROSES? And why go completely apeshit when we actually track them down in the process of writing their second album, an item that the world is, desperately, still waiting for?
Because they were brilliant, that's why.
The feelings The Stone Roses prompted were, for the generation for whom punk rock was a distant childhood memory, unprecedented. But they were fleeting: no sooner had they spread euphoria than they vanished.
It began quietly, with two ignored singles, a dodgy post-goth identity and a following that was exclusively Mancunian. But then, a landmark album was released this very week four years ago.
It felt perfect: everything - the Jackson Pollock-style graphics, its instantly memorable songs, the all-pervading air of brilliant arrogance - conspired to give it the air of an instant classic. Eventually, 'The Stone Roses' was on every Walkman on every train, blaring out of every student bedroom and in every last club in the country. Everybody loved them.
They played at the Empress Ballroom in Blackpool and Alexandra Palace and had their first chart hit. Then they put out 'Fools Gold'. Over nine minutes long, it made the Roses sound like the next greatest rock'n'roll band in the world. And by the time we got to Spike Island, we believed they were.
The event was a farrago, for sure, but to most it didn't matter; the Roses brought 30,000 people to a Cheshire backwater, prompted journalists to talk about "the '90s Woodstock", and conveyed the rare feeling that we were about to take on the world and win.
Then….. the disappearance: legal wrangling, dashed expectations, and the horrible feeling that comes from the slow death of a subculture and the creeping realisation that none of it could ever happen again. We resigned ourselves to the idea that the Roses, like the enigmatic wide boys they always were, had taken the Geffen millions and run.
Still, we never could get them off our minds. Had they called it a day, decided to give up on their quest to become the biggest band in the world and retired to monied inertia? Or were they quietly slaving over the album that would slay America and have them pissing all over Dire Straits and Phil Collins and The Rolling Stones from a fantastic height?
No-one knew…… Until now. GINA MORRIS travelled to Manchester with a handful of contacts and a simple brief - find them - while IESTYN GEORGE and MARTIN TALBOT quizzed the industry about one of the neatest cover-ups in recent history. So read on, 'cos the resurrection is nigh! Additional research by JOHN HARRIS and FRED DELLAR.
A shiny black BMW turns, slowly, into the narrow side street and pulls up, 50 yards away from the front door of the suburban rehearsal studios outside Manchester.
It's early evening, after dusk, and it's difficult to see exactly who the driver is. A young man about the right height, with groomed, shoulder-length brown hair, gets out. Is that him? We've been searching for him so desperately that every passer-by has worn his face. He starts walking closer towards us, closer, closer. It has to be him. That slouching frame, those long arms. That grin, those lips, that cheeky expression….. It is him! Jesus - it's Ian Brown.
"What are you doing here?"
Erm, we've come looking for you.
"Well, you found us."
"I don't think you're going to find them, the chances are pretty slim." - Pete Smith
SMITH WAS - at one time - a personal crew member and close friend of The Stone Roses. Pete Smith hasn't seen his business comrades for a while now and, aside from the rumours, he's not sure where they are, or what they're doing. He says it has been too long, and that even the Roses' tight-knit crew have lost faith in ever working for them again.
Pete wants to know why we're so keen to find the band. Well, call us hopeless romantics, we say, but we just can't bear the silence any longer…... We miss them. They haven't played a gig since 1990; or released a 'proper' record since '91; they haven't written anything for ages - hell, they haven't even phoned.
"The Stone Roses stand neatly poised on the edge of immortality. They are electric with potential, alive with the threat of greatness." - NME Dec '89
When we wrote that, we put the Stone Roses reaching for the sky on the cover of the NME, at the peak of their career, on the summit of a Swiss mountain. The cover line read: "On Top Of The World" - and we meant it.
Four years on, after their first and only album hit the market, people are still talking about them. Still fascinated by them. It's not surprising. The Stone Roses were a phenomenal band; gloriously awkward, cunningly arrogant, sussed and infinitely notorious. From scrawling their name on every wall in Manchester, 'inciting' the 'baggy scene', inspiring the fashion wars, using paint as a punk rock statement, fronting hysterical, tabloid scenes on the courtroom steps - everyone knew who they were.
This prodigious rise to stardom seemed to end in retirement and dissolution. But the excitement and intrigue never died. The Stone Roses have retained their aura of mystique through three years of absenteeism, and though common sense pronounces them over, the faith in them continues - that's why we've come looking for them.
THE TREK begins early Tuesday morning, armed with a Manchester A To Z, a photo of the missing persons and a packed lunch. Our train pulls into Piccadilly train station and not one of the band has turned up to greet us. Typical. Out on the concourse there's not a mopped-top look-alike in sight, no baggy T-shirts, no floppy white hats - not even a pair of big trousers. Manchester has moved on and The Stone Roses, rumour has it, have moved out.
But would the same four lads who perpetuated Manchester's musical myth between '89 and '91 pack up and desert the city? Probably. Ian Brown really has bought that dream farm house in Wales, John Squire has indeed moved out of his glum terraced house in Failsworth, and the once ubiquitous Mani hasn't been seen down the Hacienda for years. We know that less than a month ago, Reni was spotted buying a pie in a chip shop in downtown Didsbury. Not much of a clue to their whereabouts, granted, but it does mean they're still around and - so far - it's the only clue we've got.
The guy in the chip shop knows nothing, he's not very helpful, apparently people buy pies in here all the time.
Back in the centre of town, we randomly stop passers-by and ask them if they've seen or heard anything that will lead us to The Stone Roses. And - like UFO sightings - everyone we talk to has their own story. One young student told us she saw Ian Brown getting into a black BMW outside a block of flats in nearby Salford. One man jokes that Mani nearly knocked him down in his battered car on Oxford Road. Another giggles about the time they saw Mani in Legett's Wine Bar in Failsworth, the night United won the League. He was drinking Red Stripe and singing footy songs before the police came to break up the party.
The strangest tale comes from a still bemused teenager, who recalls one night, around tea-time, there was a knock at his front door and it was four blokes asking if Lisa was in. He told them no-one by that name lived here and shut the door. It wasn't until he'd tucked back into his fish fingers that he realised who those four northern lads actually were. Slightly less bizarre, we're informed they all used to drink in the same two pubs in a quiet area of Chorlton. It's a lead.
"Ooh yes! They all drank in here," wails the barmaid of The Beech. "They used to try all the different bitters, tell you the truth, they used to try anything, ha ha ha! But no, I haven't seen them for over 12 months now, have they split up?"
Across the street is The Horse And Jockey, where the barman remembers them well. "Yep," he says. "I remember them well."
And? "Oh, well, they all used to play football on the green outside but I haven't seen them for ages, where are they now?
Good bloody question.
JUST OFF Canal Street there's a trendy wine bar called Manto.
"Less than a year ago," recalls Rebecca of Fallowfield, "they were all in here, it was after the Manchester derby and they'd all been to the match." She hasn't seen them since. "But," she whispers conspiratorially, "see that bloke over there? He used to be one of their crew."
And so we strike gold. Pete Smith. A man who - despite not knowing where they are and not wanting to disclose his real name - offers a valuable insight into their real-life personalities, far from the arrogant, stroppy characters that their manager Gareth Evans invented for them. See, despite all that's been written about The Stone Roses, nobody really knows much about them. And that is, consequently, why it's proving so bloody difficult to nail them down.
At first Pete is a little wary, but we tell him our search is good humoured - we're not The Sun. He laughs. "Well, OK then."
Pete has known Mani the longest, since 1976. He met him on Market Street outside an alternative record shop run by a bloke who loved obscure vinyl. They were both punks. Shortly after, he met Ian and struck up a friendship. "We used to sign on at the same dole office in Didsbury. We used to go to the pictures or sit around smoking draw all day. His girlfriend was out working so if the band weren't rehearsing there wasn't much else to do."
Pete tells us the band have all had kids in the past year, even their tour manager Steve 'Adge' Hadge has become a daddy, and that they must have become complacent or they would have put something out by now. He says that on the few occasions he sees Adge and asks what 'the lads' are up to, he doesn't get a straightforward reply, usually just a garbled, 'Oh y'know? This and that.'
Is it like them to disappear?
"No. Ian really liked lots of people, he liked meeting people, and so to lock himself away, to move out completely and go buy a farm, to shut himself off, isn't him - at least it wasn't him before, maybe it's just his way of handling it. It's not unlike John though, John was the other way, he was always locking himself away from other people, and if he was locked away the only person that could get to him was Ian. Mani was another one who loved people, he was always out. I dunno what's happened."
Pete is not in the least bit embittered. He talks about the Roses with an almost parental fondness. He has faith in their return, but as far as the rest of the crew are concerned, it's all over. He says that most of them are tired of waiting and have all but given up on the Roses, given up expecting work. He says practically everyone who used to be involved with them has.
Money changes people; it would anyone. Rumour has it that when the Roses got their advance from Geffen they flew to Monte Carlo to blow huge wedges of cash in the casinos. Pete says the Roses have changed, but not that much, they're still the same people - he says theirs is more of a slow progression that's got steadily worse as they've got older. He also explains how people always misinterpreted their take-no-bullshit approach as plain arrogance. If someone asked a dumb question they wouldn't answer it. Simple.
"They're all really decent blokes. I remember when Ian had a fight with one of the park guards at Spike Island, helping out this kid. There were loads of kids hanging about and Ian was just talking to them. Then this one young guy saw Ian and came running across the field and a park security guard jumped on him and hit him. Ian saw what happened and it all kicked off. It was quite funny watching these blokes having a go at Ian, they didn't know who he was and they didn't know he did karate - he could have split them in half, he's really tough, but like I say, he's a good bloke.
"He was handing out free tickets to the kids outside before the gig, so they didn't have to buy them off the touts."
Is Manchester missing them?
"Yeah, well them and a few others. It's all been part of the downfall of Manchester. I mean, we all knew it was a lot of hype, The Stone Roses really kept their heads through it all, they never believed what was written for a minute, they were part of it but they were always watching from the side. But them disappearing was still probably the start of the end."
Pete believes that if they come back, they'll probably play small venues to see what interest it generates. "But I dunno, everything is so secret, nobody knows what's going on or what they're doing. I don't think you'll get near them, not at the moment. I mean, they've always been a close band - they'll be really close now."
IT'S GETTING late and we haven't found them yet. Most of the rumours suggest they're writing new material, others suggest they've not written anything at all. So, is their supposed glorious return simply record company hype? Or have they really hit a creative block that's proving impossible to work around? Whatever, they must be somewhere, doing something.
Before he left, Pete gave us the address of a guy who knows New Order, he thinks he might know where they are. But it's fast approaching midnight. Today, as interesting as it was, provided few clues, few leads. So we retire; tired, frustrated, disappointed, yet unfoundedly optimistic. Tomorrow, we'll find The Stone Roses.
THERE'S A new café opened in the city centre. It's the new hang-out for all the media and music biz moguls. Paul Mason, manager of the Hacienda, is sat having lunch.
"I haven't seen any of them for ages," he muses. "But if you find them, ask them if they want to play In The City."
The chef who cooked his lunch, it transpires, used to do band catering, and though he hasn't seen the Roses for a long time he thinks Ian still lives in his flat in Chorlton.
We head for the flat. Parked outside is a black BMW. Coincidence? Maybe, but shit, it's exciting all the same. After five minutes of ecstatic but nervous deliberation, we decide it's all or nothing, so we knock on the door. And knock, and knock. Nobody answers. Damn. It's almost three in the afternoon now - we're running short of time, and clues. But there's still Pete's friend, the New Order contact. He wasn't expecting us but, hey, the element of surprise is all we've got. We start to ask the same questions, all too expectant of the same old negative response, when…..
"Yeah, I think I know where they are."
WHAT!
"Yeah, I head they'd block-booked a load of rehearsal time at a studio about 25 minutes from here."
Stuttering our thanks, we fall over each other in our haste to get out. This is it. Christ, we may have tracked them down. And, what's more, if we have….. they're actually rehearsing.
The studio is an inconspicuous stippled grey building that looks like a family bungalow, situated at the end of a row of terraced houses. The narrow road is lined with cars, though there's no black BMW among them. The front door of the studio is wide open, just above it hangs a sign which reads 'NO ENTRY WITHOUT STRICT AUTHORISATION'.
We go in.
"Can I help you?" asks a stern looking man.
Erm….. yeah. We've just come to see the Roses, are they here?
He eyes us suspiciously.
"Who are you?"
Friends, we've come to say hello.
"Mmm, well I think they've all left for the afternoon, they might be back later."
"Who are you looking for?" asks a passing bloke struggling with a large amplifier. "The Roses? Well I think one of them's still here, upstairs. Down that passage there's a door, just knock on it."
So we're standing in front of a wooden door, sick with apprehension. Adjacent to the door is a large room, full of equipment - The Stone Roses' equipment. There's Reni's paint-splattered drums, the bongos and Ian's tambourine.
They're here.
In the middle of the room there's a tape recorder - with a tape in it. As fans we're desperate to steal it, but the first outsiders to listen to the new songs, hear what they sound like now, find out if they really have gone Led Zep. But we don't - decency prevails - we just might possibly live to regret it.
See, more importantly, we've found them, they're doing something, together, no-one's been fired, they're still a band. Furthermore, all that separates us from them is this rather innocuous brown door. Unfortunately, from this side, it may as well be the north face of the Eiger. We knock. No reply. We knock again and again, still no reply. We're not giving up this time. We hammer on the door ferociously. Silence. Then, for what seems like an eternity, the sound of slowly descending footsteps prolong the agony of our expectation, accentuated further by the drawing of locks and the creak of hinges. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots. A face peers from out of the gloom.
It's John Squire.
Initially he appears bemused - not surprisingly - but then his expression relaxes into one of cool indifference. He opens the door further and stands in full view. He looks incredibly healthy, his hair is still as unkempt as ever, but longer and darker, his unshaven appearance befits the guise of the artist at work, and it suits him. He seems preoccupied, shy perhaps, but nonetheless laid-back. He's wearing a loose-fitting maroon shirt and jeans - straight jeans.
Hello John.
"Hello."
The shock of being presented with our quarry is somewhat overwhelming. Momentarily we all stand in limbo, it's obvious he's wondering why we're here, and at this point, so are we. Right now, it doesn't feel like The Stone Roses ever went away. He shuffles slightly and it somehow breaks the tension. He wants to know why we're here. It's because….. well, we're doing a story on where the hell you've been.
Thankfully, he smiles. "Right?"
It's just that there are so many rumours going around, so many questions we want to ask, we just want to know what's really going on. He frowns. Are you angry that we've found you?
He shakes his head casually and gently shrugs, "No."
So will you talk to us?
"I can't right now, I'm putting something down."
For a new song? We inquire.
John looks at his boots before giving us a non-committal glance.
"Why don't you come back later, what time is it now, four? Come back about eight, that's when the others are turning up."
We try to suppress our excitement at the possibility of talking to them all. Do you mind if we take a picture of you before we go?
"Yes."
Why?
"Well it's just……"
You haven't brushed your hair?
He laughs. "Yeah."
With an affable smile he sinks back into the gloom. This is all quite unreal. He wants us to come back. Furthermore, now we know they're rehearsing, writing and - thankfully - still The Stone Roses.
AT SEVEN-thirty we're back. We're early because we can't help being suspicious. John has practically agreed to an exclusive interview after having refused to speak to absolutely everyone for such a long time. We're convinced it can't be this easy. But his red car is still in the drive. And here comes Mani walking down the road clutching a packet of fags. His head is shaved and he's wearing a long white T-shirt and jeans. Despite looking cheerful and oddly care-free, he strides determinedly towards the studio like he's on a mission. He goes inside. Next to arrive is their 'manager' Steve Hadge, looking equally as intent and just as happy, he also goes inside. No sign of Ian yet.
At eight on the dot we ring the bell and an unidentified voice comes on the intercom: "Yes?"
We're here to see the Roses, they know we're coming, can you let us in?
"Erm, they're in a meeting," we're hastily informed. "We can't disturb them, try later."
Oh good.
We sit outside for almost an hour. Nothing happens. Then Hadge comes out, smiling.
"Hi, how's it going?" he asks congenially, casually strolling towards our car. "You alright?"
Well, we're not, but we tell him, yes, we're fine. So what's happening Adge? Are they going to speak to us?
"I dunno," he replies, "I doubt it, not while they're grafting."
That's odd, we wouldn't have come back but John told us to.
He looks around him, perturbed, something is bothering him.
"Erm, yeah, I know he did….. but Ian's not here yet, and you know what he's like, he'll probably talk to you. Anyway I'm off to get some milk. See ya."
He drives off in his car - the shop is a one-minute walk away - and after 15 minutes waiting for his return, we being to understand what's happening. We figure Hadge, amiable as he appears, has told the band that under no circumstances are they to speak to us, and instead of being rude, he's telling us to piss off in the nicest possible way. We're further convinced when his car arrives in front of a black BMW, the car we've been waiting for.
Our guess is that Hadge has parked around the corner to warn the last remaining band member that we're here. But it's Ian we most want to see - we want to see if he's changed, if he's still a lithe, fashion guru. (One reported sighting suggested Ian was now a podge casual - he's not). We want to see if he looks worn, tired, emotional. If the rigours of the past stressful years show at all. They haven't.
Ian Brown gets out of his car, grinning, and strides towards us. He actually looks better than he ever did. No bags under his eyes, no worry lines, his hair is back to how it was circa Spike Island but clean and brushed. He looks as stylish and as handsome as ever in his jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket. We explain why we're here. His listens, nods and looks none too surprised.
"It's too soon though, innit?" he says, almost rhetorically.
Not really, we only want to know what's going on.
"Yeah, but it's just too soon," he insists. "We're not ready. Don't take my picture."
He starts to walk off towards the door of the studio, slightly uncomfortable at the sight of a camera. It's only fun, we're not the tabloid press, and you know us, don't you trust us?
"I do trust you," he says, turning briefly to smile at us. "Come back in a few months and we'll do a proper interview, it's too soon now. Sorry, but I really gotta go now."
He heads towards the patio doors, shouting out as he disappears behind the curtains, "Come back in two months."
Through the gap in the curtains, we can see them playing pool. They may be in the studio again but they don't look much like they're recording. Perhaps, in spite of all the mad rumours - Mani being sacked, their advance-blowing spree in Monte Carlo, John buying Lanzarote, Mani becoming a techno recording artist and the stories that they had a double album's worth of material when they signed to Geffen in '91 - this is what they've been doing for the past three years.
The hunt is over, the rumours have been quashed and the waiting is almost over. Now the anticipation can begin, in earnest. See you in two months……
Go To part two
Back To Media 1993