There is no questioning how great The Stone Roses once were. They’ve influenced just about every British band since the release of their incredible debut. Swirling psychedelic guitars and breathy vocals were backed up with a cockiness not seen in the then dour world of indie miserablism. That said, something has left the memory of The Roses tainted.

Various solo projects since the demise of The Stone Roses have left a bitter taste in my mouth, leaving me screwing up my face like I’ve been licking urine from a thistle. Shambolic live performances toward the end of the life of The Roses (notably, the horrendous Reading ’96 show at which I was present) left me feeling like I was witnessing the death of something that could have been truly great and longstanding. Instead, I was left with a cartoon image of Ian Brown monkeying around in front of a bunch of session men.
On to solo careers, and Squire’s Seahorses saw his songs suddenly sounding paper thin and without much merit. Brown’s solo career has been patchy, but has maintained a great following… almost like the fans of a struggling football team who have decided to voice their support through thick and thin. It seems that The Stone Roses are only as good as the sum of their parts… which leaves many breathless at the rumours that they’ll be getting back together next year (click here to find out more).
These outings and rumours have somehow sullied the memory of a band I once unreservedly loved. No longer do I get a tingle when I hear the opening riff of Sally Cinnamon… no longer the headrush when the bassline of She Bangs The Drums kicks in. Now, I’m faced with a po-gobbed Ian Brown self publicising like an anaemic Ali, Squire and Reni MIA and Mani keeping the memory still twitching by actually talking fondly of the fun. With that, The Stone Roses are probably better left dead, and if I can ignore the strut of Ian Brown for two seconds, I might just fall in love with them again.

Posted by Stuart Waterman on Wednesday December 12th, 2007 at 1:25 pm