Good things come to those who wait.
Except they don't, do they?
Ten years ago, no-one expected ever to hear new material by The Stone Roses. Even five years ago, it seemed unlikely - they'd hammer the arse off the nostalgia tour, then disintegrate with a whimper, John Squire's ego wrestling with Ian Brown's pride and Reni's disinterest to put an end to the reunion they'd all said could and would never happen.
So anyone who says they've been waiting 22 years for All For One is a fucking liar. And anyone who claims it was worth a 22-year wait is trying far too hard.
This is The Stone Roses in name only. There's none of the hushed psychedelia of their first album, none of the cocksure groove of their mid-period EPs, none of the thunderous Zep-aping rock swagger of their second incarnation.
All For One is a Britpop anthem as written by men in their 50s who were never Britpop first time around. All of what made the Roses The Best Band In The World is missing, and instead we get a shrill, over-produced mess.
The lyrics are dreadful - what few lyrics there are. "All for one, one for all, if we all join hands we'll make a wall" - didn't Pink Floyd spell out the dangers of that 37 years ago?
I initially misheard the verse lyrics as: "A tragedy, a catastrophe", which would have been apt. It's actually some faux Flower Power guff that would have sounded trite in 1966, and just sounds embarrassing 50 years later.
Musically, the biggest crimes are against the rhythm section. Mani's bass, a key component of the Roses sound, is barely audible.
Reni, master of the indie breakbeat and a drummer second only to Ginger Baker in the pantheon of the greats, is made to sound like any bog standard, four beats in the bar, hit them hard indie drummer.
John Squire's final howling guitar solo manages a late salvage job, but by then I'd all but given up.
I stick by my initial assessment - that it sounds like The Fratellis. More specifically, like The Fratellis labouring over a Seahorses album track for 20 years.
The internet enthusiasm for All For One has been baffling. Maybe people are just desperate to love it. Maybe they genuinely DO love it.
But as the enduring popularity of Donald Trump, Ed Sheeran and Mrs Brown's Boys show, the general public aren't to be trusted with important decisions.
(Says I, who heard it twice, didn't like it either time and immediately bought it on iTunes anyway.)
I'm going to resort to parental cliché - I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.
I certainly don't feel like I'm missing out by not seeing the Roses for a third time when they tour this summer.
I can't envisage where All For One will comfortably sit in their setlist - unless it's going to be surrounded by more new songs of similar quality midway through the gigs.
It was never going to live up to the expectation, and it continues the Stone Roses Law of Diminishing Returns.
By the time of their Fifth Coming in 2045, their comeback single will be Ian Brown bludgeoning Michael Jackson's Billie Jean to death.
Oh...
Showing posts with label The Stone Roses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Stone Roses. Show all posts
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Monday, July 02, 2012
The Stone Roses, Heaton Park, Manchester, Saturday June 30, 2012
The first Stone Roses song I remember being aware of is Love Spreads. The lead single from their long-awaited second album was released when I was 14 and still truly to fall in love with music. But that song caught my ear even at that age, when it was played on the radio amongst the reggae pop, Take That and Wet Wet Wet.
But as with almost all music I heard at that age, it slipped from my memory when the radio playlists moved on to something else.
It wasn't until 1996 that I rediscovered The Stone Roses, by which time they'd finished dragging the sorry remains of their carcass around the festival circuit, a poor imitation of the band that had once had the world at their feet.
The first Stone Roses album I owned was The Complete Stone Roses, a compilation of their output on the Silvertone label that was a birthday present from my Mither. As introductions go, it was more than enough to ignite a love for the band that has never diminished in the intervening 16 years.
Shortly afterwards, I picked up from Groucho's in Dundee a second hand copy of The Second Coming, the album that transformed the Roses from jingly-jangly psychedelic pop gods into thunderous Zeppelin-inspired rock gods. It was John Squire's cocaine album, the riffs and egos coming between a group of four childhood friends and forming chasms that eventually shattered the greatest band of their generation.
So by the time I finally picked up a copy of The Stone Roses' debut album, from Woolworths in Dundee's Wellgate, I thought I knew everything there was to know about the band. Except I didn't. The Complete Stone Roses, while containing most of the tracks from that debut, included shortened, neutered versions of that debut album's monumental bookends, I Wanna Be Adored and I Am The Resurrection. It also missed out anti-monarchy lullaby Elizabeth My Dear and the laid-back groove of Shoot You Down.
This wasn't just a record. This was THE record. The world's most perfect record. When I am Grand High Poobah of The Whole World, I will insist everyone receives a copy with their birth certificate.
Since then, I've acquired various other Roses records - "lost" debut album Garage Flower, a shouty burst of punk-inspired Goth anger that barely hints at the band the Roses would blossom into; an almost unlistenable bootleg of the legendary Spike Island live show; the Turns Into Stone compilation that shoehorns together all of the Silvertone singles that didn't appear on the debut album; an ill-advised but passable remixes album from the turn of the century; various CD singles and live EPs; and, as my salary has grown as middle age approaches, the beautiful but expensive 20th anniversary edition of the debut - heavyweight vinyl, three CDs, a DVD and a lemon-shaped USB drive in a hefty presentation box.
My love for The Stone Roses has been one of the constants in my adult life, and until recently, so had one unbending certainty - The Stone Roses would never reform. The divisions between Ian Brown and John Squire, and between Reni and John Squire, were too wide. Brown was adamant that he didn't need the quitar player, that his solo work stood on its own two feet where Squire's was empty posturing and none-too-subtle ego-stroking. It was the first question asked in any interview with a former Rose - when would they return? And the answer was always the same - we won't.
That always seemed the best solution to me - I'd rather their reputation remained unsullied by an ill-judged money-grabbing reunion. Better to remain that tight-knit group of 20-somethings from the Blackpool Live DVD than four 50-year-olds milking the cash cow.
But at the same time, I always maintained that if they ever did reform, I'd be first in the queue for tickets.
All of which is a very lengthy preamble to the weekend just finished. I've driven 770 miles in a 2003 Renault Clio, from Montrose to Manchester and back again, via Falkirk and Newcastle in both directions. Given the chaos that the Biblical rains brought to the rail network over the weekend, it still appears to have been the better option.
Our gang of three decided to eschew the support acts - we weren't in Manchester to see Hollie Cook, The Wailers, Professor Green or Beady Eye. Our Saturday was devoted to one act and one act only.
Having attempted and failed to catch a tram to Heaton Park - not even standing room on the first tram we saw heading out on the Bury line from central Manchester, and then a line of trams heading for Oldham Mumps - we took a taxi to the venue, our cabbie giving us a list of what indie clubs we should head for after the show.
We caught the end of Beady Eye, who sounded just as flat as when we saw them at the Barrowlands last year. It's an indication of how far Liam Gallagher has fallen that people were standing in the car park drinking warm beer rather than rushing to catch his set. Even a rendition of Rock'n'Roll Star dedicated to Ian Brown, and a run through of Morning Glory, failed to ignite the crowd.
But from then on, we were in countdown mode. Barring a late, but by no means unlikely, disaster or falling out, we would be seeing The Stone Roses in the flesh.
I've rarely encountered such a peaceful atmosphere at a gig that size. We didn't bother attempting the crush for beer, but bumped into someone fresh from the bar queue who sold us four bottles of Fosters for £20. But everywhere you looked, people were smiling. Even as the crowd started thickening at the front of the stage, there seemed to be none of the aggression that would normally accompany the inevitable shoving.
When the Roses did appear on stage, there was no fanfare, no fireworks, no elaborate backing track. Just four men ambling on stage, picking up their instruments and bursting into I Wanna Be Adored. And from that second onwards, I was 16 again.
It was a near-perfect setlist. The only way it could have been bettered would have been by extending the gig by adding Elephant Stone, Tightrope, Driving South and Breaking Into Heaven. All of the songs from the debut album made an appearance:
I Wanna Be Adored
Mersey Paradise
(Song For My) Sugar Spun Sister
Sally Cinnamon
Where Angels Play
Shoot You Down
Bye Bye Badman
Ten Storey Love Song
Standing Here
Fools Gold
Something's Burning
Waterfall
Don't Stop
Love Spreads
Made Of Stone
This Is The One
She Bangs The Drums
Elizabeth My Dear
I Am The Resurrection
Personal highlights were a roaring take on Fools Gold, a song I've never been too fussed by, but that on this showing gave the musicians a chance to shine; Waterfall and Don't Stop - the latter including some phenomenal bass runs from Mani; and the double header of Love Spreads and Made of Stone.
I hadn't long said to one of my mates that Squire hadn't really let the guitar rip when he howled into the opening riff of Love Spreads - that was a genuine goosebump moment. The song ended with Ian Brown rapping over the fade-out:
A pen and a paper, a stereo, a tape
All this with a nice big plate of
Fish, which is my favourite dish
But without no money it’s just a wish
Now I don’t have to dream about getting paid
I dig into the books of the rhymes I've made
I hit the studio and get paid in full
Sugar spun sisters outgoing the distance
Get me, I’m seeking some assistance
High in the realms tonight,
Sky-high like a meteorite
I’m easy like the holy ghost
Ain’t no voice, it’s just a toast
High in the realms tonight,
Sky-high like a meteorite
Stone Roses all the rage
Stone Roses up on the stage
Not a pause, down the doors
Let’s have a round of applause
The first verse is lifted from Eric B & Rakim's Paid In Full, but the rest is all Brown.
It was followed by Made of Stone, my all-time favourite Stone Roses song, and the one I've always thought has the best interplay between Mani and Squire.
Reni's drumming was ferocious throughout. If you'd taken away the rest of the band, it would still have been an absorbing show just watching him drum. It frequently sounded like he was playing live hip-hop rhythms. It's good to have him back.
Those were just my personal highlights, but there wasn't a weak spot at any point during the gig. The band's song and album titles lend themselves to plenty of cliched review titles: What The World Is Waiting For, This Is The One, I Am The Resurrection, Second Coming and so on.
But Ian Brown summed it up as the band stood centre stage post-gig: "We're back".
But as with almost all music I heard at that age, it slipped from my memory when the radio playlists moved on to something else.
It wasn't until 1996 that I rediscovered The Stone Roses, by which time they'd finished dragging the sorry remains of their carcass around the festival circuit, a poor imitation of the band that had once had the world at their feet.
The first Stone Roses album I owned was The Complete Stone Roses, a compilation of their output on the Silvertone label that was a birthday present from my Mither. As introductions go, it was more than enough to ignite a love for the band that has never diminished in the intervening 16 years.
Shortly afterwards, I picked up from Groucho's in Dundee a second hand copy of The Second Coming, the album that transformed the Roses from jingly-jangly psychedelic pop gods into thunderous Zeppelin-inspired rock gods. It was John Squire's cocaine album, the riffs and egos coming between a group of four childhood friends and forming chasms that eventually shattered the greatest band of their generation.
So by the time I finally picked up a copy of The Stone Roses' debut album, from Woolworths in Dundee's Wellgate, I thought I knew everything there was to know about the band. Except I didn't. The Complete Stone Roses, while containing most of the tracks from that debut, included shortened, neutered versions of that debut album's monumental bookends, I Wanna Be Adored and I Am The Resurrection. It also missed out anti-monarchy lullaby Elizabeth My Dear and the laid-back groove of Shoot You Down.
This wasn't just a record. This was THE record. The world's most perfect record. When I am Grand High Poobah of The Whole World, I will insist everyone receives a copy with their birth certificate.
Since then, I've acquired various other Roses records - "lost" debut album Garage Flower, a shouty burst of punk-inspired Goth anger that barely hints at the band the Roses would blossom into; an almost unlistenable bootleg of the legendary Spike Island live show; the Turns Into Stone compilation that shoehorns together all of the Silvertone singles that didn't appear on the debut album; an ill-advised but passable remixes album from the turn of the century; various CD singles and live EPs; and, as my salary has grown as middle age approaches, the beautiful but expensive 20th anniversary edition of the debut - heavyweight vinyl, three CDs, a DVD and a lemon-shaped USB drive in a hefty presentation box.
My love for The Stone Roses has been one of the constants in my adult life, and until recently, so had one unbending certainty - The Stone Roses would never reform. The divisions between Ian Brown and John Squire, and between Reni and John Squire, were too wide. Brown was adamant that he didn't need the quitar player, that his solo work stood on its own two feet where Squire's was empty posturing and none-too-subtle ego-stroking. It was the first question asked in any interview with a former Rose - when would they return? And the answer was always the same - we won't.
That always seemed the best solution to me - I'd rather their reputation remained unsullied by an ill-judged money-grabbing reunion. Better to remain that tight-knit group of 20-somethings from the Blackpool Live DVD than four 50-year-olds milking the cash cow.
But at the same time, I always maintained that if they ever did reform, I'd be first in the queue for tickets.
All of which is a very lengthy preamble to the weekend just finished. I've driven 770 miles in a 2003 Renault Clio, from Montrose to Manchester and back again, via Falkirk and Newcastle in both directions. Given the chaos that the Biblical rains brought to the rail network over the weekend, it still appears to have been the better option.
Our gang of three decided to eschew the support acts - we weren't in Manchester to see Hollie Cook, The Wailers, Professor Green or Beady Eye. Our Saturday was devoted to one act and one act only.
Having attempted and failed to catch a tram to Heaton Park - not even standing room on the first tram we saw heading out on the Bury line from central Manchester, and then a line of trams heading for Oldham Mumps - we took a taxi to the venue, our cabbie giving us a list of what indie clubs we should head for after the show.
We caught the end of Beady Eye, who sounded just as flat as when we saw them at the Barrowlands last year. It's an indication of how far Liam Gallagher has fallen that people were standing in the car park drinking warm beer rather than rushing to catch his set. Even a rendition of Rock'n'Roll Star dedicated to Ian Brown, and a run through of Morning Glory, failed to ignite the crowd.
But from then on, we were in countdown mode. Barring a late, but by no means unlikely, disaster or falling out, we would be seeing The Stone Roses in the flesh.
I've rarely encountered such a peaceful atmosphere at a gig that size. We didn't bother attempting the crush for beer, but bumped into someone fresh from the bar queue who sold us four bottles of Fosters for £20. But everywhere you looked, people were smiling. Even as the crowd started thickening at the front of the stage, there seemed to be none of the aggression that would normally accompany the inevitable shoving.
When the Roses did appear on stage, there was no fanfare, no fireworks, no elaborate backing track. Just four men ambling on stage, picking up their instruments and bursting into I Wanna Be Adored. And from that second onwards, I was 16 again.
It was a near-perfect setlist. The only way it could have been bettered would have been by extending the gig by adding Elephant Stone, Tightrope, Driving South and Breaking Into Heaven. All of the songs from the debut album made an appearance:
I Wanna Be Adored
Mersey Paradise
(Song For My) Sugar Spun Sister
Sally Cinnamon
Where Angels Play
Shoot You Down
Bye Bye Badman
Ten Storey Love Song
Standing Here
Fools Gold
Something's Burning
Waterfall
Don't Stop
Love Spreads
Made Of Stone
This Is The One
She Bangs The Drums
Elizabeth My Dear
I Am The Resurrection
Personal highlights were a roaring take on Fools Gold, a song I've never been too fussed by, but that on this showing gave the musicians a chance to shine; Waterfall and Don't Stop - the latter including some phenomenal bass runs from Mani; and the double header of Love Spreads and Made of Stone.
I hadn't long said to one of my mates that Squire hadn't really let the guitar rip when he howled into the opening riff of Love Spreads - that was a genuine goosebump moment. The song ended with Ian Brown rapping over the fade-out:
A pen and a paper, a stereo, a tape
All this with a nice big plate of
Fish, which is my favourite dish
But without no money it’s just a wish
Now I don’t have to dream about getting paid
I dig into the books of the rhymes I've made
I hit the studio and get paid in full
Sugar spun sisters outgoing the distance
Get me, I’m seeking some assistance
High in the realms tonight,
Sky-high like a meteorite
I’m easy like the holy ghost
Ain’t no voice, it’s just a toast
High in the realms tonight,
Sky-high like a meteorite
Stone Roses all the rage
Stone Roses up on the stage
Not a pause, down the doors
Let’s have a round of applause
The first verse is lifted from Eric B & Rakim's Paid In Full, but the rest is all Brown.
It was followed by Made of Stone, my all-time favourite Stone Roses song, and the one I've always thought has the best interplay between Mani and Squire.
Reni's drumming was ferocious throughout. If you'd taken away the rest of the band, it would still have been an absorbing show just watching him drum. It frequently sounded like he was playing live hip-hop rhythms. It's good to have him back.
Those were just my personal highlights, but there wasn't a weak spot at any point during the gig. The band's song and album titles lend themselves to plenty of cliched review titles: What The World Is Waiting For, This Is The One, I Am The Resurrection, Second Coming and so on.
But Ian Brown summed it up as the band stood centre stage post-gig: "We're back".
Friday, October 21, 2011
What The World Is Waiting For
...This IS the one we're waiting for.
Although I've been saying for 15-odd years that I never want The Stone Roses to reform (and posted about it here almost five years ago), I now have tickets to see them in Manchester next June. I haven't stopped shaking with excitement since 9.35am.
Please. Pleeeeeaaaaaaaase - let it be good.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Please Contribute!
I've been hammering posts out at this farflung outpost of the worldwide interweb for a few years now, and hopefully I've kept some of you entertained during that time.
With that in mind, I'd be very appreciative if you could all find it within yourselves to purchase this ludicrously extravagant 20th anniversary edition of the greatest album ever - The Stone Roses' debut - on my behalf.
All contributions gratefully received!
Friday, August 15, 2008
My Favourite Albums: Number 1: The Stone Roses - The Stone Roses
There are some records that define certain years for me - Oasis' Definitely Maybe was the soundtrack to 1996 for me, despite being two years old at that point.There are records that I heard early on in my musical development, and which acted as stepping stones into new worlds - an appreciation of Paul Weller's solo work acted as a starting point for my forays into punk, soul and r&b.
And there are records that have had such a cultural impact that they are inescapable, and are as much a part of living in Britain as the Queen, Coronation Street and Tetley's tea.
But my favourite album is none of these. It doesn't define any specific point in my life, having remained a constant source of joy since the first time I heard it. It never encouraged me to find out more about any other bands, primarily because I was already well versed in the works of The Beatles, The Jam and The Rolling Stones by the time I came to The Stone Roses.
And while The Stone Roses is most definitely a British album - and Her Majesty is the inspiration for Elizabeth My Dear - the Roses never reached the heights scaled by Oasis and Blur in their wake.
But, since the age of 18, I've been unmoved in my assertion that The Stone Roses' debut album is the greatest ever made. Given that I regard The Beatles as the greatest band ever, it's a bold statement.
I was only nine when the album was released in 1989, and I didn't really discover it until it was almost 10 years old. It was actually the third Roses album I acquired, having received a copy of the compilation The Complete Stone Roses as a birthday present and purchased a second-hand copy of Second Coming from the magnificent Dundee institution that is Groucho's.
The Stone Roses grabbed me immediately. The opening bass rumble and nimble finger-picking of I Wanna Be Adored's intro sets the scene, and even Ian Brown's foghorn voice can't impact on vintage pre-Britpop psychedelia.
I could attempt to explain why each of the songs on the album is a classic (with the possible exception of Don't Stop - just Waterfall played backwards with new lyrics whispered over the top), or why the whole package transcends the sum of its parts.
But I can't, and I won't attempt to. All I can really do is urge you all to buy a copy of the album and give it a listen. And I'll leave you with the album's final track, the euphoric, climactic eight-minute burst that is I Am The Resurrection.
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