THE STONE ROSES
LONDON ALEXANDRA PALACE
"I COULDN'T see a f-ing thing."
"Made no odds to me where I was stood, I had me eyes closed most of the time.dancing." This passing flash of conversation from two soggy steaming scallies touched the heart of the matter.
Tonight, The Stone Roses are back in the arms of their ever increasing extended family -the old faithfuls from way back when and the new apprentices. recently turned on to their magical mystery. Whilst half the population have absconded to Madchester to be perverted by the irresistible smut of the Happy Mondays, their kid brothers and sisters-far younger and much prettier - celebrate life, youth and mash their Kickers on a beer-slopped floor. The (happy-go) lucky Lisas and baby-faced Sarah Jane's of this Rose tinted world have begged, borrowed and blagged their way down to the gig.
But then you'd do anything for people you really care about. And because the Stone Roses look after and out for their own, their loyalty and pride is returned threefold. They mean everything to everyone here tonight and those that aren't moved shouldn't be here. The Roses have kissed music and melodies back to life, resurrecting the sheer joy of live gigs. For the first time in a long time I felt excited about going out tonight. Almost nervous. You know how it is. Butterflies in your stomach, playing 'She Bangs The Drum' at least a dozen times whilst getting ready - the whole bit.
So waiting for the moment when the lights dim, they stalk coolly onto stage and the mood erupts, is almost unbearable. Then that music starts. The eerie hypnotic wail which signifies the start of the madness, the release of all that unbridled enthusiasm.
The Palace trembles and roars with the buzz of kinetic energy as 7000 party pilgrims automatically surge forward. Those sucked into the heaving mass down the front are mashed to a pulp, then spat out - bruised, battered but beaming. Those stuck at the back are blinded by a sea of bobbing bodies, so they innovate and indulge themselves in their own personal party. And the Roses have more than enough to contend with. The sound is criminally distorted by a monstrous, throbbing system; Cressa's freaky dancing is lost behind the stacks of equipment and occasionally lan's dreamy, spacey vocals sound terrible. But the faults and foibles are graciously ignored or quickly rectified. Thousands of maniacs want to remember this gig as their best yet, and hell, I'm all for that.
Just as 'Resurrection' seems to fall flat on its face, a million mouths whisper "and I am the light", lifting the anthem up to cloud nine. Cressa may be out of sight, but the mass of wavering arms, nodding heads and exotic hand movements displays a unity of minds. The sound of the suburbs is fronted by charming arrogance, embroiled in emotion and bolstered by deep devotion. The crashing crescendo seems to last a bloody lifetime.
People are driven by frenzy, totally lost in music. The Roses play the same trick every time-and we always fall for it. This time there's a sweet twist in the tale. 'Resurrection' tumbles giddily into 'Fool's Gold,' without giving us a chance to catch our breath. Squire rips his fingers to shreds belting out the funky wah wah and slip slap shuffle. The beauty of these fabulous flared four is that they never play to indulge themselves, but to feed their fans.
The way Reni beats seven shades of shit from his kit during 'Sally Cinnamon' is unnerving. Whilst the opening strains of 'I Wanna Be Adored' still make the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. The soft soul, R&B influences weave a golden thread through the set, sugared by a Scallydelic flavour. 'Sugar Spun Sister' is beautiful, I love that song. The fearless delivery of lan's velvet vocals colour the depth and character of each and every chord. It's all or nothing tonight, and we duly get everything we deserve.
Two hours later in a greasy spoon cafe I bump into two flushed fans. They quietly murmur the lyrics of 'Waterfall' to each other whilst waiting for their chips. They are totally besotted, deeply involved and still grooving. These are two of the lucky ones who've caught onto the word that the Roses are holding an all-nighter, a place for their friends to rave on or crash out. God knows what happens to the rest of the Northern refugees-probably still dancing in the street. The post-gig party lacks the essential trappings-the flashy strobes and solid House - but the spirit is there. The beat goes on.
Mandi James
NME
