NME 31st August 1996 Issue



STONE ROSES
The Third Coming




…in theory though, all this should be blown into the bargain bucket of history by the, erm, third coming of The Stone Roses. Alas, within seconds it becomes clear this is more like the eternal crucifixion.

For a few seconds the old magic glows through the air again, as Brown swaggers on, pouting and majestic in silk and shades, and the bassline dawning of 'I Wanna Be Adored' sweeps across a crackling expectant crowd. But then something terrible happens. Ian Brown starts singing.

It's not just that he's woefully, wincingly out of tune, it's that he's so utterly graceless, completely bereft of emotion, just a horrible, hollering moan. What's more, instead of looking shamanic and sexy as he slides around the stage, he now resembles Peter Hooton of The Farm. It would be funny if it wasn't so desperately sad.

At the Roses' press conference earlier today, the mood seemed positive and resilient enough, but you got the feeling that they still thought they could replace figures as unique and genius-tinged as John Squire and Reni with session musicians. As if the semi-devine spirit and supernatural chemistry of that celestial gang of four could be recreated by a supergroup of MOR journeymen and bitter, burnt-out shadows of stars.

Inevitably, Aziz Ibrahim, the new guitarist, can play, and make a creditable reproduction of the notes Squire used to squeeze, soothe and strangle out of his guitar. Likewise, you hum it, and Robbie Maddix can drum it. But they'll never feel it like Squire and Reni meant it. Instead, Aziz adds naff nuances into the licks, Robbie throws sadly inappropriate mini-fills into the rhythm, and Nigel Ippinson's piano gives the whole sound that chillingly ersatz ring of MOR mediocrity. At worst, it descends the whole affair into the realm of karaoke.

They even play two new songs tonight in their vain quest to carve out a new identity. 'High Time' is a decent enough pop song, and 'Ice Cold Cube' is a reasonable piano-laced canter, but whither the malevolence? The mystique? The soul?

Robbie Maddix ensures some semblance of stadium vibes are retained by shouting, "Here we go, let's see some hands in the air!" Oh my good Lord. We finally decide to abandon all hope when, unbelievably, a woman in miniskirt and thigh-length boots bursts onstage to dance, Pan's People style. Remember when the Roses were so self-contained and arrogant in their greatness they never even needed to show out? Oh, never mind…

But if we still want any unsoiled memories of the Roses, then let's erase this appalling, hollow charade from history. Because this was history being milked beyond tragedy and ending up as farce. Please God, no more resurrections.

Johnny Cigarettes













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