Moody Mancunian Morning Light

Photo taken on Salford Quays this morning as I headed to work.

I've wanted to talk about Friday night at The Stone Roses.
This is the first chance I've had.

I was in my late teens/early twenties when The Stone Roses exploded into the national press. As I was growing up in Manchester, the fact they were a local band meant the world to me.
I was at the Spike Island gig with my brothers; as shambolic as it was memorable.

So why would I want to see the band that meant so much to, so many years later? What could they do to prove they were better than they ever were?

Anyway, I'm not the type to get stuck in the past and wallow in nostalgia.
And apart from two or three difficult times in my twenties and early thirties, I never look back and think "what if" and I certainly don't do regrets.

So should I go back in time and revisit my love for this one band?

Well, I was there on Friday, with a nagging doubt that it would be, well, shit.

My brothers were there too; we were together again, ready for The Roses.
This time, there were friends, girlfriends and wives.

I don't know why I was worried. They came on stage and blew us away. They got better as the night went on.
Yes, this is the band that has Ian Brown as the singer, so everyone knows that there will be some vocal slip ups. And there were; but only on two or three occasions, and out of nineteen songs, that's good enough for me.

I turned to each brother at different times, and I said "they're good, aren't they? They're actually really f*cking good!"
And they both agreed.
I'm sure I saw a tear in their eyes at some points; I was struggling a bit, I seemed to have something in my eyes too sometimes.
My sister-in-law told anyone who was listening, on that night and on the following day, that she has rarely seen me so happy.
Singing, laughing, dancing.
(I guess I'm far too serious for too much of the time then.)
Grown men with tears in their eyes because of a bloody band. How silly.

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