6 days ago
The terrifying charisma of Liam Gallagher
You'd have thought Wembley Stadium was a sportswear convention, so ubiquitous were the three stripes down people's arms from all the Adidas merch: veni, vidi, adi. Pints drunk: 250,000 a night, apparently. All along the Metropolitan line pubs noted an Oasis dividend. At a corner shop, I was sold an official Oasis Clipper lighter. It's surprising Heinz hasn't yet offered an Oasis soup; you get a roll with it.
Plainly, an awful lot of people have missed Oasis. And an awful lot of people – Noel and Liam Gallagher included – saw the chance to make an awful lot of money from their reformation. I don't think any of them – neither fans nor entrepreneurs – will have been disappointed. At Wembley, the atmosphere was remarkable. Not least because it wasn't the beery, coked-up event one might have feared. The main spectacle on view was an unusual one: a sea of loved-up men.
Wherever two men or more stood alongside each other, arms were draped around one another, faces raised to the sky to holler one more chorus. On stage, backed by video screens that for once were being terrifically deployed, the two Gallaghers, plus their four accomplices, were hailed as though they had come to return the world to happier times.
You don't need to be a genius to work out why Oasis work in stadiums. Their songs are huge, simple, and not meant for dancing to. Dancing is something one does as an individual, and Oasis songs are meant for the collective: it's why their tempi are so sluggish – they are a surprisingly slow band. Their songs are meant for the vast bounce of a crowd pogoing in unison, or waving phone cameras to. The majority of the set was made up of ballads that are around 80 beats per minute on record or mid-paced chuggers that clock in at around 110: the exact amount of time between beats needed to spring up, land, and spring up again.
It also helps that Noel Gallagher's lyrics are designed to be hollered. They are mostly nonsense, of course, but the occasional diamond shines out, hitting all the harder for being surrounded by doggerel: 'Is it worth the aggravation/ To find yourself a job when there's nothing worth working for?' He has a gift for words that sound profound when sung, but mean nothing – he could have had a thriving career making up imaginary proverbs.
The night was brought to life by Liam, who remains a star of terrifying charisma. Even stock-still, bucket hat pulled down, cagoule pulled up, he was extraordinary. Age has done nothing to dim his apparent rage, and it's the anger that he throws into his singing that makes the band compelling and gives the songs meaning.
But that anger reflects something else. When Oasis broke through in the early 1990s, I was only a few years out of school, where I had been badly bullied. The Gallagher brothers were bullies: it was there in the cruelty they casually meted out in interviews to rivals, peers, anyone who had crossed their sights, even each other. And they were funny with it, as bullies often are. Even now, deep into middle age, the two of them – but Liam especially – sometimes sound as though they're itching to stomp on someone.
When I'd been a kid, independent music had been my escape from people such as the Gallaghers, who were plentiful at my Slough state school. And when Oasis became the biggest band not just in independent music but in Britain, it felt as though the school bullies had taken over indie. At the time of their success, I truly resented them – and I resented all those bands who previously wouldn't have said boo to a goose but suddenly, in their wake, affected a charmless swagger.
It's an uncomfortable truth that an edge of tension, the slight threat of something, makes rock exciting. But it does. At 56, I'm old enough not to care any longer that they're bullies. And to the vast number of young people who turned up, it's irrelevant. Oasis aren't an indie band. They're the Rolling Stones for my kids' generation: famous old men who sing very famous songs. They're not even a band any longer; they're holy relics.
