LES INROCKUPTIBLES FESTIVAL
PARIS LA CIGALE
12/10/89

"VERY TENSE, she sat up straight and she squeezed the joint between, her thumb and forefinger, stuck it in her mouth, sucked in quietly and breathed out again, much too fast so that the smoke didn't reach her lungs but came out straight out through her nostrils, wasted.

"Quite suddenly, without warning, she squeaked and put her hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide with revelation: 'Oh, 'she said. 'Oh, such colours, such beautiful colours and shapes, such beautiful... oh, wow... such beautiful, beautiful shapes.' "For a moment, no one said anything and she was lost in visions, gazing up through the ceiling with all-seeing eyes. Then her husband reached over, tight-lipped, and touched her: 'Wrong drug, he said. (from Nik Cohn's Come Alive With Pepsi)

AVERAGE, everyday people stroll around the seedy music hall, their baggy trousers trailing in puddles of overpriced lager. They are waiting for The Stone Roses, they are of sound mind, they are sensible and drugs are most definitely not on the agenda.

Within seconds of the band appearing on stage a callow youth stares at the spotlight, wide-eyed and vacant, arms flailing, his entire body only vaguely moving in time with the music. There is a domino effect until two out of every three callow youths are doing the same.

To reiterate, illicit substances are not on the agenda, this particular happy band have little to do with any drugs culture. Welcome to the placebo culture.

If there is a corner of a far-flung foreign field that is forever England, this particular part of Paris is temporarily Manchester. The venue holds about 1,200. At least half that number are British, coaches full of 'em made their way down the M6 the night before, and the locals don't stand a chance.

"Manchester, Manchester," chant the visiting supporters, realising they make up the majority.
"Paris, Paris," lan Brown lamely responds from the stage, siding with the underdog, before giving up and getting on with 'Waterfall'. Α cheer goes up and Mancunian limbs start waving all over the shop again.

This is the Parisiennes' first glimpse of The Stone Roses and they seem bemused by it all. The city's top DJ Bernard Lenoir, who I am reliably informed is France's very own John Peel, sticks near the back and frantically scribbles notes, while the smart set sneer at the sartorial deficiencies of the visitors.

The Roses are in spanking form, nothing near as special as the breathtaking spectacle of Blackpool in August, but 'She Bangs The Drums' has rarely sounded better, while 'I Wanna Be Adored' goes down a storm, appealing as it does to the narcissism of our hosts.

Not all goes well, some bright spark lets off a homemade tear gas bomb sending dozens running to the door with moist eyes, but the band carry on regardless and the air is clear in a matter of minutes with no real harm done.

Terry Staunton
NME