The War Of The Roses Rages On

By Joe Kavanagh

Hard as it is to believe, this year marks the 20th anniversary of the release of one of the UK's most seminal albums since the advent of rock 'n' roll, a record of such power and influence that every indie band which has appeared in its wake is all but assured of containing something of its essence in their sound.

It consistently places in the top five of every list of the greatest British albums of all time, usually vying for the number one slot alongside classics such as the Beatles' Revolver, Radiohead's OK Computer, Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon and Led Zeppelin III.

In contrast to those other albums, however, this record represented a precocious debut effort from a group of unknown Mancunians.

An intoxicating blend of rock riffs and dance backlines, they were ultimately crowned kings of a scene and credited with the invention of an entire new subgenre of music, but such was their accomplishment that their sophomore effort was almost doomed to disappoint.

The recent re-mastered release of their stunning debut album offers proof positive that while Stone Roses torch may not have burned for long, it surely burned as brightly as any on the music scene, underwritten by a sub-plot of dreams, drugs and bitter acrimony that continues to keep them apart to this very day.

It is perhaps befitting that a band whose life was snuffed out by bitter infighting should also have been born as the result of a good old-fashioned barney, when the teenaged Ian Brown saw a group of school kids thrashing another youth from his neighborhood.

Despite not knowing the victim, Brown refused to stand idly by while someone from his area was in trouble and waded into the melee, saving John Squire from any further bumps and bruises.

The pair immediately hit it off, and their sense of camaraderie was given further succor by a shared devotion to music, which saw them immerse themselves in the thriving punk music scene.

Attending gigs by The Clash and other punk acts, they soon found inspiration closer to home with the rise of local heroes, Joy Division, while they rounded out their musical education with a devotion to the Northern Soul scene, often traveling throughout northern England attending gigs and parties.

It was at one such party that Brown bumped into American soul legend Geno Washington, who was impressed with the youngster's palpable charisma, telling him: "You're a star. You're an actor. Be a singer."

Alongside Squire, Brown endured a number of musical incarnations in acts such as The Patrol and Garage Flower, before they formed the Stone Roses in 1984, so named because, in Squire's words: "The name was a contradiction. Something hard and something pretty; something noisy but tuneful."

Initially the band's sound remained true to the somewhat gothic edge that prevailed in Manchester at the time, and while an early track called Sally Cinnamon strayed from that blueprint, it was not until the addition of Gary 'Mani' Mountfield, that the group immediately began to move in a more groovy direction.

This sonic shift was completed with the addition of wunderkind drummer, Alan John 'Reni' Wren, whose skill was such that when The Who's Pete Townshend attended one of their early gigs, he declared the 20-year-old to be the most naturally gifted drummer that he had seen since Keith Moon and even enlisted his help with one of his own projects.

Originally signing short-term with record label, FM Revolver, the band went on to sign a long-term contract with Jive Records' off-shoot, Silvertone, an act that they would eventually bitterly regret, as Brown once put it: "Silvertone signed us for 35 years, we'd have only got 10 years for armed robbery."

At first, the relationship with Silvertone worked well but as the band began work on their debut album with producer, John Leckie, they received word that FM Revolver had just released a rough draft of the aforementioned Sally Cinnamon, complete with a ridiculously convoluted video.

Enraged, the band famously left the recording studio and made straight for the head offices of label boss, Paul Birch, where they proceeded to throw paint all over the building, and a brick through the window of Birch's high-end Mercedes.

The act bought the band a lot of publicity but almost got them thrown in prison, until a equitable judge decided that the publicity would translate into cash for the label and decided to fine them instead.

The unveiling of their eponymous debut album washed all of the negative publicity away in one deft swoop, offering a staggering collection of songs that stand the test of time to this day, despite the fact that they are inherently linked to the Madchester scene, flying in the face of the axiom that states: who lives with the scene dies with the scene.

Ironically, given the effect it has had, it is difficult to convey just how revolutionary the album sounded upon its release, breathing life into a stagnant genre and scaring contemporaries in a manner that called to mind the effect that Jimi Hendrix had on other guitarists when he exploded onto the scene.

Funky, fresh and packed with more hooks than a Peter Pan convention, the album turned the band into overnight sensations, as critics fell over clichés in their efforts to heap praise on the band.

But like their name, it was not simply all roses in the camp, as the band became embroiled in another bitter label dispute.

According to legend, because they signed before the advent of compact discs, there was no mention of distribution of CD sales in their contract, so the unscrupulous Silvertone proceeded to take all of the money from CD sales, essentially leaving the band with a pittance.

In a particularly rancorous dispute, the four-piece fought it out in court for five years before extricating themselves from the agreement, before signing a five-album deal with Geffen, purportedly for millions of dollars, while expectations began to grow as an addicted music public waited for their next fix.

Months turned into years, leading to an almost impossible sense of expectation as the scene evolved with the emergence of Britpop, and when the loftily titled Second Coming did finally materialize in 1995 (after no less that 347 10-hour days in the studio), the knives were out.

An accomplished album by anyone else's standards, it received a mauling from critics who bemoaned its lack of innovation, and stories emerged claiming that the band had allowed Squire to man the helm in the pursuit of his own Led Zeppelin guitar album, on the provision that they would embrace a more club-oriented sound on their next album; a record that would ultimately never materialize.

The first casualty was Remi who was allegedly fired due to a heroin problem, or left of his own volition, depending on which side you listen to.

The band traveled in separate tour buses, which - according to Brown - saw himself and the weed smokers travel in one, while Squire and the cokeheads traveled in the other.

The frostiness manifested itself in their stage shows, until Squire sensationally walked out on the band just before their ill-fated appearance at the Reading Festival in 1996.

In a testy press conference, the band called their former guitarist out for his arrogance and disloyalty, before walking on stage where they were booed by an unimpressed crowd that seemingly fed off their calamity. Mercifully, in the end, it all came to a halt when Brown and Mani called time in October of the same year.

Notwithstanding an overwhelming sense of what could have been, tempered with a notion of unfinished business, the band has thus far resisted all calls to reform.

Always painted as the least talented member, critics posited that Brown would ultimately be the biggest victim of the breakup but, due to his dedication and skills that he was never given credit for, the former front man has unquestionably enjoyed the most successful solo career of any member.

The supremely gifted Squire formed the rather banal Seahorses and released a pair of nondescript solo albums before devoting himself to his art, while Remi has struggled to find a musical footing despite his undoubtable genius as a drummer.

The always congenial Mani has managed to carve out a successful second act as the bassist for Primal Scream but even he has taken to calling for the reformation that fans bay for each year.

Despite a recent story in the UK tabloids to the contrary, that reunion looks as unlikely now as ever before, notwithstanding Brown's recent confession that Squire had broken a decade long silence between them to send him a new track.

In fact, in a roundabout way, that act may open the wound once again as Brown told The Word magazine: "My sons turned round and said 'Dad, you can't work on that. He sold you out, didn't he?' John's manager asked if I liked the tune, and I said: 'I did, but my sons won't let me work on it.'"

While their musical legacy ensure they will never be forgotten, perhaps some things are best left in the past, where they can grow in stature with every passing day, immortals untainted by the ravages of time.