In September 1991, entering a Midlands boarding school felt like being placed into a social meat-grinder. The environment was a hierarchy of predators and prey, where the loud and physically aggressive held power while those who were quieter faced constant scrutiny and dismissal. In a world where overt confidence was treated as the only valid currency, I felt marginalized and constantly braced for confrontation. Suddenly, under 24/7 social scrutiny in a world where bullhorn confidence is king, I felt dismissed. Whipping a wet towel at pale bodies in the eight-boy dormitory; or the homesick ghost, keeping your guard up, endlessly braced for your toilet cubicle to be kicked open or your washbag chucked off the fire escape, you were either the swaggering rugby alpha. Racing with opinions, stories, jokes, my mind had always been loud.
Music had previously offered little refuge, as the rock icons of the era—figures like Mick Jagger, Elton John, and Freddie Mercury—were defined by showboating and extroverted spectacle. They seemed to signal that the world of music was not meant for a bookish introvert. This changed when I discovered the Stone Roses’ self-titled 1989 debut album. While his guitar work was explosive and complex, the band’s guitarist, John Squire, presented a different kind of persona. On the CD inlay, he appeared inscrutable, hiding behind a thick fringe, eschewing the typical rock-star posturing while handling his instrument with genuine artistry. Dressed in Manchester streetwear and inscrutable beneath a bird’s-nest fringe (until the mid-90s, I genuinely wasn’t sure if Squire had eyes), slinging a Gretsch Coun, but there he was on the CD inlay: pipecleaner-skinny. The conversation had raced on without me, but by the time I adequately considered a thought. Every rock star I had ever seen – Elton John, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger – was a showboating peacock, all hips, handclaps and absurd glasses, seeming to whisper in my ear: “This isn’t for you, bookworm. On his paint-splashed, lemon-drizzled sleeve art, i must have seen John Squire’s genius before I heard it. Iridescent guitar solos, I assumed Squire must be an extrovert axe hero: foot on the monitor, diamante codpiece, the works, hearing his cascading. It wasn’t easy to find out more, years before YouTube. But when I dug up back issues of NME, I went from fan to disciple.
As I delved into his background, I found an enigmatic figure who was softly spoken yet possessed a sharp, laser-like intensity. A former model-maker for The Wind in the Willows and a product of 70s punk, Squire defied the expectations of what a musician should be. When asked about the nature of his band, he offered a pithy response that balanced grand ambition with dry, British wit: “Love and hate. War and peace. Morecambe and Wise …”
Through Squire, I began to appreciate that quietness was not synonymous with weakness; it could be the foundation for charisma, sharp intellect, and a life dedicated to the arts. His influence led me to explore diverse interests, including Jackson Pollock’s painting techniques, the history of the Paris riots, and social issues, all hinted at in his creative work. This discovery provided a lifeline, connecting me with a community of like-minded individuals and inspiring me to take up the guitar myself. Through Squire, I discovered painting (Jackson Pollock’s “drip and splash” influence was all over his sleeves and guitars), modern history (the Paris riots of May 68 referenced on Bye Bye Badman), fashion and even religi. For the first time, I realised that “quiet” could also mean charismatic, insolent, snarky, simmering with latent attitude and temperamentally suited for a life in the arts, in those formative weeks.
Decades later, in an attention-seeking economy driven by influencers, Squire’s commitment to living on his own terms remains striking. When I eventually interviewed him for Guitarist Magazine at his Cheshire farmhouse, he was thoughtful, witty, and profoundly engaging—even signing a guitar I had customized in the style of his own work. He never pushed me to be someone else; rather, he helped me stop fighting my nature, proving that silence is not the same as dullness. Flogging every last grain of themselves to the attention economy – and the Roses guitarist seems a few degrees cooler for existing on his own terms, le, fast-forward 35 years – to a time when influencers squeal and preen.
Reflecting on my experience in the early 90s, when quietness was routinely treated as a liability, the lesson remains clear. John Squire demonstrated that one could command a massive, resonant sound while maintaining a sense of mystery and restraint, ultimately finding strength in the beauty of understatement.
