Every prophet must get stoned.
I first met Ian Brown twenty years ago. The Stone Roses were the next door band in the rehearsal space we shared and next door neighbours in the bohemian bedsit land of West Didsbury in Manchester.
We thought they looked pretty handy and they thought we were nutters. Even then they carried themselves with a supreme confidence, a confidence that belied the fact that they even played a gig yet. Turned out they were the nicest bunch of people in town, easy going and armed with a swagger that was born of hard...
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