As rock 'n' roll stories go, the one about Stone Roses and The Seahorses has got to be up there with the best of them. In the late 1980s Stone Roses released their eponymous debut album to mass critical and commercial success. The band's dance/indie crossover sound was forged through a mixture of chugging rhythm, louche swagger, and guitar heroics that catapult listeners into collective epiphany. The guitarist was John Squire, the most effectively narcissistic solo instrumentalist since Jimmy Page. Men playing air guitar became fashionable once more. Five years later, a follow-up record was finally ready for release. The Second Coming (by name, but definitely not by nature) spelt the end of the band that inspired a generation, but not for its most high profile members. John Squire formed The Seahorses over a year ago and released Do It Yourself, an album that proved one thing: Ian Brown is a lousy singer. Stone Roses' former singer Ian Brown released a lacklustre debut solo album, Unfinished Monkey Business, at the beginning of this year. His iconic status diminishes by the month.
This is where the story gets interesting. Along with the drummer and bassist, The Seahorses' new vocalist, Chris Helme, was not pulled from the ranks of semi-well known band members. This was to be no hyped Supergroup. The new members of the band were plucked out of total obscurity (i.e. small town bands that played their local Fig & Gherkin once a week). Lucky Chris Helme, however. One month ago, very few people outside of Helme's home town of York knew his name. The next, he was the "new" Ian Brown. The only way was up, but that's only because he'd been so far down.
Just before being chosen by Squire to front The Seahorses, Helme was a busker in York, France, and Brighton. "Buskers have a bad press, which is probably to do with the fact that most of them are rubbish. But they are entertaining, and they brighten up a place. It depends where you go. People in York don't mind them. People in Brighton think you're a beggar. It's possibly a North/South thing. They're a bunch of snobs down South anyway, there's no doubt about it," he says.
Prior to busking, Helme was a waiter for five years, and a graphic designer for two. "I've been sacked from every job I've ever had. I was singing in the bathroom one day and was told I had a good voice. I started busking because I realised I could make money out of it, and that I could practice while getting paid.
"My life back then was pretty normal, really," he recalls from his hotel room in Gothenburg, Sweden, where the band is playing support to The Rolling Stones, and where his shirts (washed and ironed) have just been handed to him by his tour manager. "I was on the dole and busking as well, so I was making more money than if I'd been working." Helme sounds as if he has adjusted to life in the fast lane very smoothly. Initially, he found it difficult to settle into the cocooned lifestyle of the successful, high profile rock star. At one time, he was a busker who had to steal food ("Best way to rob a tin of beans? Have a big coat and big pockets.") Now, where his next meal is coming from isn't exactly a high priority.
"It's all hype," he says of the music business, about which he has quickly become cynical. "I used to be interested in the industry side of things, but it bores me to tears these days. People are paid to be nice to you, to tell you what you want to hear. I've taken to sitting in a spare room at venues so that no one comes in. You just get sick of it. Meet and greets? Plastic. But you can make them squirm by telling record company people what you think of them, and they bite their lips because they're not allowed to answer back.
"I have a lot of respect for some people who work in record companies, but others can be so false. The music is the real thing. I'd do it if I wasn't getting paid for it. The music makes all the other crap worthwhile. I suppose coming into this was a baptism by fire. Then, I was pretty scared at what was going on, but it's fine now."
