THE STONE ROSES
STOCKHOLM

IN THE dressing room, lan Brown, the son of the Devil's music, sprawls near-naked, his dripping thighs and shoulders barely covered by hanky-size towels. Around him The Stone Roses and roadies alike strip out of perspiration-drenched tops and into clean yellows, reds, and greens. They've just finished their 16-song set and feel fine.

A table tennis ball gets kicked around the room, the excited chatter is scattered with laughs, and autographs are scribbled across posters and T-shirts. John Squire says it was nice to play a gig where you didn't need a passport to get from one end of the venue to another. And also admits to wanting to play live more in England.

Out in the main hall Shaun and Colin from Preston babble ridiculously. "We're the only Brits following them round, we've got a car, my dad's over there, he's a fan, are you going backstage?! was walking down the street with Brown yesterday, this is the same shirt as the one he wore at Ally Pally." In the Stockholm docklands, clutches of bootleggers sell armful after armful of T-shirts with ease. The record company rep feeds eager journalists with information and sets up introductions. In a matter of three days and two gigs The Stone Roses have become a brand new delicacy on the tedious Smorgasbord of Swedish life. Japan, Britain, and now Scandinavia; this band is spreading like a disease.

The last time they were here, five years ago, they stayed a month in a hippy's flat and played four gigs put on by an amateur promoter lan had met whilst hitch-hiking to Berlin. But as everyone knows fortune came all over The Stone Roses last year and right now nothing stains their charisma.

Backstage, bassist Mani unleashes his grin on any who care to be splashed by it, Reni chats to photographer Pennie Smith, and John Squire wanders in and out of the inner-sanctum-a sauna/shower area-in a curious combination of black and white floral shirt and combat trousers.

The band have reason to be pleased. Like The Jam and The Smiths before them, they've caught the attention of the young and impressionable and their gigs are getting more and more exciting.

"WE PLAYED an hour and a half last night and they still commented that it wasn't enough, these are the longest sets we've played," says John later with a wry smile.

The set hadn't differed that much to The Stone Roses' last British gig at Alexandra Palace last November. Loud and rough, it sparkled with whispered vocals and thunderous, often lofty, guitar parts. Set alone, Squire's guitars could have strolled off some pre-punk golden rock album, rolling with the blues, stalked by Mani's bass, and crested with Reni's troubled funk drumming.

The band rocked with confidence, grins proliferated, and lan Brown cast a huge shadow up the side of the former frozen-meat-store walls. By the time they'd ended 'I Wanna Be Adored', their opener, they not only had all the young Swedes eating out of their hands but licking their fingertips too. The beginning of 'Adored' is one of those that tells you something phenomenal's about to happen. The bass steals around dropping hints and raising the tension before the guitar sneaks in and dances its evil jig. When lan Brown spills his soul we're deep in the hot sticky clutches of Lucifer and there's no going back. It can only be a matter of time before they start soundtracking Vietnam footage with this song.

The singles 'Elephant Stone' and 'She Bangs The Drum' followed before the rest of the eponymous debut was exorcised. Fast and glorious they radiate warmth and float a thrilling halo above the band. Sinners or angels, when The Stone Roses are in full flight it's hard to tell which side of the line they tread.

The songs are long and loud and the audience love it, they clap into and out of all known numbers, chant the familiar choruses ('Shoot You Down'), and even applaud when the new single 'One Love-a less pacey '60s pop affair-falters before running its course. This band inspire devotion and like The Beatles and Stones before them it's simply down to cheekbones and tunes.

LUST AND excitement are international languages and the audience and performers swap them keenly. Dropping 'Sugar Spun Sister' because Squire's geetar malfunctions, they glide through 'Fools Gold' and 'What The World Is Waiting For' proving that whilst studio work might boast technique, there's nothing like
a stage, a crowd, and amplification to create real atmosphere. lan Brown is a front man who excites without having to force it. The more laid back he appears the more the audience want him.

There is undoubtedly something magical triggered when The Stone Roses play their music. It may sound bawdy in this old warehouse but the combination of John's wah-wah and lan's haunting lyric on 'Fools Gold', with its even more funked up rhythms than de rigeur, is compulsive.

The sound blasts over the top of fervently shaking heads but whenever a song appears to be fogging, the next will incite both band and fans. 'Waterfall' pours from its lofty heights and crashes all around. This song pumps more electricity through the venue than the Stockholm central generator. It sounds like the sun shining, has the same spurting changes of pace as your heart when you're falling in love, and lewdly funks about with its guitars.

Cavorting beneath a lightstorm of blue and purple diamonds, pseudo psychedelic back projections for art'n'architecture fans. The Stone Roses remind you this is the Devil's music they're playing with. Backward masking a speciality. Freak-out dancing encouraged. Lascivious stares recommended. The wanton moral abandon of the past sounds less unbelievable and more like a future possibility. Innocence or insanity, this music blurs the edges.

Having mellowed out temporarily the band pick up and race for the hell of it through 'Made Of Stone'. It shines a sing-a-long chorus across a sinister edge and trail-blazing lead guitar riff. The eerie nursery rhyme 'Elizabeth My Dear' slides through the keyhole and unlocks the door for the stomping beat of 'Resurrection' to come bouncing out. Like the others it's unashamedly '60s in structure and origin but the boys who sing and play it are more NOW! and exciting than the Rolling Stones who scorched this sort of path before.

Long passages of pop guitar bounce lan Brown's vocal along before the real dark and deadly riffs break out and threaten to collide hard rock and heavy funk right before our eyes. The song goes on gleaming before cruising into a cymbal smashing climax. Only the early U2 held such bold solos for such lengths of time with such freshness.

The Stone Roses came to Scandinavia for a mini-tour to warm up for Spike Island; by Sunday they should be scorching. They're thrilling to listen to, and although the current lack of regular performances means the sound is tetchy, it also means the rarified air the band exist in isn't littered with the Coke-white stretch marks of expanding egos and insolence. They enjoy what they do and are yet to become cranked into a creative routine. As lan kept saying to these children of the appalling Zing Zand sound, a national music designed for zombies and donkeys, Tak, Tak, Tak, Tak, Tak. Thank you, for the music.

Abba would have been delighted.
James Brown