THE STONE ROSES EMPRESS BALLROOM, BLACKPOOL

THE essence of pop is NOW. Look at the Morrissey paraphernalia in Manchester shops and see how old-fashioned it suddenly seems. The King dethroned, Morrissey, now yesterday's man, is no longer essential and becomes less necessary with each passing day. We're into a new cycle, Manchester has found new gods and the rest of the country will shortly follow suit.

The Empress Ballroom is all you'd expect from the name - a room of aircraft hanger proportions crowded with so many swinging chandeliers. For most people here this has been the event on the summer calendar and it's been organised as such, set in the tinsel heart of the tackiest summer resort in the country. It's just like "Seaside Special" - you almost expect Cilla Black to appear as compere. Instead the familiar "woooarrrrr chang chang" intro to "Don't Stop" comes over the PA and it's mass hysteria time, 4,000 people surge to the front and the atmosphere is raw E. The Salem witch trials were nothing on this.

The Stone Roses appear and their appeal is instant and obvious: simultaneously they look like anyone and they look untouchable, four blokes in the Stretford End and four teenage Jesus Christs. Up comes the usual Manchester chant and lan Brown retorts with a beautifully deadpan, "Manchester, yeah yeah I love you! 'Cause I'm from Glasgow."

The set itself holds no surprises, beginning with "Adored" and finishing with "Resurrection", Still, they are frighteningly good: "Elephant Stone", usually a weak link as John Squire struggles to make the wah-wah guitar sound powerful, is a monstrous swirl, while "Waterfall" seems to feature live backwards guitar (it's there if you want it to be). I'll swear that's the Milky Bar Kid to my left and he's freaky dancin' like there's no tomorrow, while to my right there's a bloke the wrong side of 40 in a "Made Of Stone" tee-shirt with the biggest grin.

There's a beach ball bouncing over the heads of the audience when Manny plays the intro to "She Bangs The Drums" and everyone roars. Someone throws a pint of beer at lan Brown and he opens his mouth to catch it, impossibly cool.

Much of this is a blissful, colourful blur and when they start "Resurrection" I look at my watch and I'm amazed to see they've already been on 50 minutes. As the song reaches from its grumbling bass intro to its full scale Wagnerian climax, the group are almost drowned out by a hall full of people bellowing "I am the resurrection and I am the life", knowing that within a few minutes it'll be all over. During the coda the ubiquitous bongos appear and lan holds them aloft, out of our reach, as if to say, "This song is a classic and nobody wrote it but us. "Fully justified arrogance. Of the dozen or so songs they play, this and "She Bangs The Drums" are the stellar moments. The rest is just straight brilliance.

So what do you say to someone who doesn't understand what makes the Roses so special? I'd say that they're the only group I can think of who began as stadium mush and have progressed to this evening's other-wordly level of pop perfection. Almost like The House Of Love in reverse. People say they draw from the past - so did The Beatles, Stones, Pistols, Smiths. You need reference points to become one yourself. But enough theorising. Outside they're already selling "Stone Roses - Blackpool '89" tee-shirts. This was everything it could have been.

Stone classic.
BOB STANLEY