Stoned Love

It’s finally happened, then. The Stone Roses will haul their creaking bones on stage at last, and bash through their significant back catalogue to hordes of 40-something men whose Joe Bloggs t-shirts and baggy jeans will need serious readjustment to fit their, ahem, more ample current frames.

Actually, I’m being a tad harsh there. I know a fair few people my own age (and younger) who’ll be hitting "redial" constantly on Friday morn, and the band themselves were a vital part of my musical education – I spent many hours learning the basslines from the first album, which still stands up to musical scrutiny.

All the same, when I think of the band as a working concern, they seem to belong to a very specific moment in time. 1989-90, to be exact. It’s not exclusive to them, of course. One of the reasons why I always reckoned Paul Weller never reformed the Jam was that they had their moment in time (77-82) and to try to recreate it in a different world would be ridiculous.

On a human level, it is nice to see that they all buried the hatchet, kissed and made up. At their peak, the band were three incredibly talented musicians fronted by a guy whose lack of vocal skills was made up by space age levels of charisma. It’ll remain a constant shame that they couldn't follow up their superb early work, due to record label issues, and that the long wait resulted in something as average as Second Coming. Despite the odd strong song (Ten Storey Love Song), the main thing I take from it now is that if the band write new material, John Squire shouldn't handle lyrics. See also: Seahorses, the.

But I’m selfish. I liked the Stone Roses to exist solely in the past, in the memories of listening to the first album for the first time and being captivated, wanting to play songs like that. I’m not sure seeing a bunch of guys knocking on 50s door is really something I want to add to my mental picture – although, to give Reni his due, he looks in really good nick.

Reading all this back, I've just come to the conclusion that the whole affair is essentially about a group of people reliving their younger days, and another group channelling that same feeling. Is it really about the music? Probably not. So that just makes me a miserable sod who should get over themselves. Arse. Ah well, there’s always the Smiths, hey?