Guitar legends who risk God-like status and tread the precarious path of the solo artist have had a torrid time lately.
What with Johnny Marr and Bernard Butler failing to reach the far-flung heights of former glories, John Squire's second solo release is hardly, as the Stone Roses at their majestic peak arrogantly declared, what the world is waiting for.
Sadly, Marshall's House is wretched. Songs such as Summertime and Yawl Riding A Swell are mundane, pedestrian affairs that will have even Roses' die-hards scurrying back to the Seahorses and King Monkey's primal rants. But lacklustre material becomes a secondary concern when you hear Squire's voice.
What can only be described as a sub-standard Butlin's Bowie drawl renders the album virtually unlistenable and sends it hurtling towards the comedy genre. All this from the man who wrote zeitgeist-defining epics such as Waterfall and Made Of Stone. It could be time to get busking, John.
Updated: 09:01 Thursday, February 19, 2004
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