John Squire's post-Stone Roses career has something of the Gary Barlow about it. Generally considered the most musically talented of a generation-defining band he played the withdrawn, artistic genius to Ian Brown's gobby messiah. Squire wrote the riffs, designed the sleeves and, it was anticipated, would carry the Roses flame following their ignominious spilt.
We now know differently. While Mani was busy revitalising Primal Scream it was Brown – supposedly sullying the Roses reputation forever following their wretched final Reading appearance – who forged the successful solo career and maintained the Roses' untouchable aura. (Reni is still recording his own album eight years later, but we live in hope.) Squire formed the ill-fated Seahorses and has since released two underwhelming solo records. Perhaps this is why he played the quiet one: because he had so little to say.
Tonight, playing a combination of Roses classics and the tracks inspired by Edward Hopper from recent album "Marshall's House", the assumption goes unanswered.
His voice is actually reminiscent of Television's Tom Verlaine or The Only Ones' Peter Perrett. If only the songs were as good as "Marquee Moon" or "Another Girl, Another Planet" (or even "Dolphins Were Monkeys"). Unfortunately, they remain mired in session muso hell - the odd guitar break is reminiscent of former glories but the majority remains resolutely earthbound. Squire barely speaks and never really looks comfortable in the spotlight.
This raises further issues when it comes to playing "Waterfall", "Sugar Spun Sister" or "Shoot You Down". Never has Ian Brown's voice and – more importantly – his presence been more sorely missed. These anthems should inspire a Cup Final response. Instead it's like a Sunday afternoon kickabout.
Guitar-dominant encores of "Tightrope" and "Fool's Gold" fare better but there is a tinge of sadness in the air. The Roses were supposed to be an antidote to all this dewy-eyed nostalgia. They mattered because – unlike the Mancunian five-piece who stole their thunder – they had aspirations beyond getting rich and tossing TVs from hotel windows. These copycat versions are no way to remember them and a nightmarish vision of freaky dancing pensioners ensues.
Of course, it would be foolish to write John Squire off – he's achieved too much and changed too many lives for that. But equally, as Brown himself has proved, rehashing the past is no way to go forward. On current course he'll wind up as the Jake La Motta of British rock - and that would be a terrible, terrible shame.
