Between the ages of about 13 and 15, I loved Oasis. I knew their b-sides. I knew their birthdays. I entered a Daily Mirror competition and, inexplicably, won a lock of Liam Gallagher’s hair. I’d see adverts at the back of NME for VHS tapes put together by people who had recorded all their TV appearances and edited them together terribly – I’d buy them and I’d watch them obsessively. I guarded them with a ‘DO NOT TAPE OVER’ on the label, in marker pen. An ink that knew that my love would endure through all of time.
Or so I thought.
Time passed and my infatuation waned. I’d heard Wonderwall way too many times. Songs felt lyrically random, meandering, repetitive. Fans became caricaturistic: all simian strolls in parker jackets. Friends thought Oasis were shit and I lost the enthusiasm to defend them. I got older, they got older. Other bands came and went. Responsibilities. Life.
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Between the ages of about 13 and 15, I loved Oasis. I knew their b-sides. I knew their birthdays. I entered a Daily Mirror competition and, inexplicably, won a lock of Liam Gallagher’s hair. I’d see adverts at the back of NME for VHS tapes put together by people who had recorded all their TV appearances and edited them together terribly – I’d buy them and I’d watch them obsessively. I guarded them with a ‘DO NOT TAPE OVER’ on the label, in marker pen. An ink that knew that my love would endure through all of time.
Or so I thought.
Time passed and my infatuation waned. I’d heard Wonderwall way too many times. Songs felt lyrically random, meandering, repetitive. Fans became caricaturistic: all simian strolls in parker jackets. Friends thought Oasis were shit and I lost the enthusiasm to defend them. I got older, they got older. Other bands came and went. Responsibilities. Life.
I’d filed my first love away in the nineties nostalgia compartment of my brain. The band that was once my everything became the band I only ever brought up in ‘first gig’ icebreakers.
And so, I’d filed my first love away in the nineties nostalgia compartment of my brain. The band that was once my everything became the band I only ever brought up in ‘first gig’ icebreakers.
In June this year, I was offered a free ticket to see Liam Gallagher playing Oasis’ debut album Definitely Maybe, in full. When it was released – 30 years ago – this album was peak obsession for young me. Even so, this was a gig I hadn’t tried to get tickets for, nor did I know was happening. But the ticket was free and so was my diary that night.
Before Liam takes the stage, it’s hard for me to remember how much the band used to mean to me. Years of scepticism had dulled the passion I once had – a passion that held me so completely and wholly. Time had made it difficult to properly recollect the hype and get the intensity of that feeling back.
But.
The unmistakable creak of the guitar. A fraction of a second of noise, the tension of 20,000 people exploding, and I’m back.
Liam’s sneering delivery was now filtered with sepia. The things I once loved – the unapologetic arrogance, charming optimism – returning with a new poignance. Lyrics often berated for their simplicity, were unexpectedly moving through the lens of nostalgia.
I’m at the back of the Nynex arena in 1995 with Claire, Tamara and Sophie. Our first gig. Second tier, very nearly the back row, with one lens of my NHS glasses in my pocket as the screw had come out. New Gazelles. Clinging to each other. Knowing this was all that would ever matter.
My usual 14-year-old self-conscious, anxiety-ridden shyness making way for flailing hands, knowing nods and belting every song out word-for-word.
On that June evening this year, Liam’s sneering delivery was now filtered with sepia. The things I once loved – the unapologetic arrogance, charming optimism – returning with a new poignance. Lyrics often berated for their simplicity, were unexpectedly moving through the lens of nostalgia:
“It's funny as your dreams change as you're growing old
You don't wanna be a spaceman you just want the gold
All the dream stealers are lying in wait
But if you wanna be a spaceman it's still not too late.”
A potent reminder of the limitless optimism of youth – to be spacemen, to do whatever we want, to live forever. A belief that anything was possible. And in that moment, the opportunity to imagine it could still be.
My usual 43-year-old self-conscious, anxiety-ridden shyness making way for flailing hands, knowing nods and belting every song out word-for-word.
The slightly browning upturned corners of a forgotten photograph being lovingly restored.
There’s an unspoken acknowledgement in our friendship group that we would get tickets somehow. We would reunite with our first love and remember – if only for 90 minutes – what life was like before life got in the way. Back when anything was possible.
“Have you heard the rumours?”
“Oh god, are we going to have to go through all the bloody stress of trying to book tickets and then all the stress of actually going if we manage to get some?”
“Are we doing it?”
“We're going to have to, aren't we?”
As I write this, it’s just been announced: tickets for the Oasis reunion tour go on sale in days.
It’s the leading news story on BBC Breakfast. Ticket-buying groups are already forming on WhatsApp.
It’s been 15 years since I last saw them.
Going to a gig at our age is tinged with group logistics, planning, childcare, worrying about crowds and the twattishness of crowds, portaloos, bar queues. But despite the worries, piss-threat and impending dread, there’s an unspoken acknowledgement in our friendship group that we would get tickets somehow. We would reunite with our first love and remember – if only for 90 minutes – what life was like before life got in the way. Back when anything was possible.
Oasis were our band. They were friendship, identity, freedom, hope, optimism and we must go see them again.
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Published tomorrow!