Author of "The Birth And Impact Of Britpop: Mis-Shapes, Scenesters And Insatiable Ones"
The return of Oasis is nearly here.
Excitement about the new tour, the relentless swirl of rumours, and the obvious thawing in the relationship between Liam and Noel has even given their harshest critics (by which I mean me) a reason to reflect.
Sorry, what was that?
There isn’t any new music?
Oh.
But Pulp and Blur both managed it, didn’t they? Released new music, did interviews, did the whole bit?
Oh well.
And there haven’t been any big joint interviews or media appearances with Liam and Noel? Why not?
“The music will do the talking.”
Right.
You heard they’ve barely been in the same room since the tour was announced, just to avoid any possible conflict that might derail the cash cow? I suppose it’s possible.
Anyway, the one thing we do know is that these gigs are going to be a glorious celebration of the very best of humanity: families gathered together to sing the songs, peace and love, a few drinks to shake your inhibitions off…
Or — they might make the scenes at Wembley for the Euros final look like an episode of Trumpton. A load of geezers gacked off their faces, hurling pint pots of piss at each other while bellowing “Don’t Look Back in Anger.”
Who can tell.
So, to mark this glorious moment in British culture, I decided to revisit the band’s 1997 album, Be Here Now.
Enjoy.
D’You Know What I Mean
This is one of the tracks I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for. I included it in a Britpop listicle I wrote a few years ago, where it was the closing track—a spot of honor. But where do I stand now? Well, at over seven minutes, it feels a bit bloated, like it’s trying to prove something it doesn’t need to. It has all the makings of a classic rock anthem, but the layers feel like they've been added by a bot after a few too many “Wouldn’t it be great if…” prompts.
Lyrically, we’re back in familiar territory with Oasis—juvenile as ever. The “Don’t Look Back in Anger” reference is almost a running theme, with the urging to not look back… again. Then there's the cryptic “wall of our mind’s eye,” which feels like it’s trying to top the vagueness of “Wonderwall” but ends up being even more confusing. Also, in a classic Oasis move, we get a shout-out to the b-side of “Cigarettes and Alcohol” with a cheeky “listen up.” It’s almost like a game of Oasis bingo.
That said, there’s one redeeming feature: Liam’s vocal. He’s got the kind of energy that still makes the song worth revisiting, and that “All my people right here, right now” moment somehow still lands. But the rest? It’s a bit much.
My Big Mouth
The most common criticism of Oasis is that they’re ripping off The Beatles, but that doesn’t really hold up, because more often than not they’re actually just ripping off themselves. The line “walking slowly down the hall of fame” is a lazy call back to Champagne Supernova, which would be fine if it added something new or interesting... but it doesn’t. It’s not a nod or a wink to the audience — it’s a sign that, just three albums in, they’re already running out of things to say, and ways to say them.
Musically, this one is a mess. Liam’s voice is buried under a mountain of guitars and God knows what else. It’s sonic overload that spins you into confusion. At times, it sounds like they just threw everything they had at the wall and waited to see what, if anything, would stick. It all feels very familiar — like a bit of cultural recycling from their own catalogue.
Magic Pie
It isn’t possible to take a song called Magic Pie seriously. It’s a dumb title for an even dumber song. As you listen, it’s impossible not to wonder if Noel is secretly a foot fetishist. There’s an endless stream of chatter about walking and shoes in My Big Mouth, and now, five minutes later, we’re being forced to hear him sing about someone else’s shoes.
There are nods to The Stone Roses here with lines like “Then they want to be adored” and “My star will shine.” It’s a half-baked attempt at paying homage, but it only serves to remind you how far short this falls from the bands they’re borrowing from. Noel is right about one thing though — he is like a child with nothing to lose. This basically reads like something a twelve-year-old might knock out when asked by their English teacher to write a rock ’n’ roll song.
Stand By Me
“Sing me something new.”
Seriously.
The irony of Oasis telling anyone else to sing something new is not lost on me — if only they’d taken their own advice. By this point, it’s painfully clear that times really are hard when songs have got no meaning.
Many questions are raised here, like: what exactly is behind the door in Noel’s house that we won’t believe? Some loose change? An old sock? A magical portal to a world where we might find a better
record than this? Or maybe it’s something more mundane — like another door. Or more mundane still: a dusty copy of Morning Glory.
“I’m tired of talking on my phone,” Noel tells us. Well, mate, just hang up. And don’t get me started on “A heart can’t ever be a home for anyone.” That’s not deep or profound — it’s basic biology. And physics. A heart isn’t anywhere near big enough for someone to live in, and even if it was — or if the person moving in was tiny — they’d still interfere with the primary function of, you know, pumping blood.
This is lumpen plod-rock that’s an insult to actual lumps. And rocks. There’s no spark, no bite, no swagger — just bloated, mid-tempo trudge and sludge, propped up by Liam’s voice doing its best to carry dead weight.
I Hope I Think I Know
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” (George Santayana, Philosopher)
“The further back you can look, the farther forward you are likely to see.” (Winston Churchill, Prime Minister)
“In the end the past means nothing.” (N. Gallagher, Manc)
There you have it, folks — the philosopher king of the Stone Island tribe has spoken.
The song is built on exactly the same sort of shrug. It’s the musical equivalent of someone on X telling you that when you’re depressed you should just “listen to your favourite music on the drive home.” Brilliant. Thanks, mate. Sorted me right out.
Musically, this is more of the same: BIG guitars, MID-tempo strut, something that sounds just enough like the other songs to make you think it is one of the other songs — if you’re not paying attention. And by this point in proceedings, you’re definitely NOT paying attention. You don’t need to know what track you’re on; you just know it sounds a bit like D’You Know What I Mean — but not as good.
The Girl in the Dirty Shirt
More life advice from Noel Gallagher, unqualified therapist to the masses: “Why d’you need a reason to feel happy?”Well, maybe because her life is a mess, she can’t get out of bed, everything feels hopeless, and she can’t remember what happiness looks like — but sure, Noel, I’ll just “get my shit together.” Revolutionary stuff.
He doubles down too: “To me it doesn’t matter if your hopes and dreams are shattered.” What a gent. Imagine pouring your heart out to Noel Gallagher and getting that in reply — “Cheer up, love, your shirt’s dirty and your dreams are dead, but why worry?” Cheers, mate.
Also — why is her shirt dirty? Has she not heard of Daz? Did no one tell her Oasis made enough money off Morning Glory to buy her a box of washing powder? Small kindness, lads.
The whole thing drifts by in a haze of soft guitars and Liam trying to sell us lines that nobody wants to buy. (Insert your own drugs reference here, lads.)
Fade In-Out
Oh good — it’s one of those Oasis songs where someone’s shaking a maraca and we get to hear Noel count them in. There’s more than one of these, right? It’s like they heard Revolver once and decided that’s the trick that makes you sound profound.
Speaking of The Beatles, we get the subtle genius of “Get on the helter skelter.” About as subtle as a brick to the back of your bucket hat–adorned napper. And if that’s not enough, there’s a nod to Manfred Mann’s Earth Band too — “Blinded by the light.” The only thing I’m blinded by is confusion: what does “sitting upside a high chair” mean? Who is the “devil’s refugee”? Is this a Rolling Stones blues jam? No — it’s seven minutes (yes, seven) of gibberish and guitar effects.
They think they’ve made some swaggering blues stomper here, but the reality is closer to a pub band bashing away at the same riff until last orders. Someone should have faded it out about six minutes earlier.
Don’t Go Away
Day — away — say — play — away — stay.
This is Noel Gallagher’s rhyme book in action. People think I don’t get Oasis, or that I’m just being contrary — and maybe I am, a bit — but come on. Any song that rhymes day with away with say with play with stay (and away again) deserves every bit of snide I can throw at it.
It’s meant to be tender, heartfelt, fragile — instead it’s lumpen, leaden, plodding. To call it “lumpen” would be unfair to actual lumps. There’s no real build, no surprise, no lift — just the same soggy chord progression rolling on until you’ve either drifted off or skipped ahead to see if there’s anything left worth salvaging.
Spoiler: there isn’t.
Be Here Now
From magic pies to magic carpet rides. Magic? Or tragic? Whoah — look at me getting the hang of writing an Oasis lyric.
There’s an episode of South Park about the origins of Mormonism — the short version is Joseph Smith claims he saw God and Jesus, they gave him a book written by some ancient American Jews, he translated it, and then the original was conveniently taken back by God. In the show, the story is told with these jaunty little musical bits, each ending with a catchy “dum dum dum.” By the end, you realise what they’re actually singing is “Dumb dumb dumb.” It’s funnier when you see it, trust me.
Anyway, Be Here Now — the song — is like that. A rare burst of cheeriness wedged in the middle of this album’s swamp, but under the surface? It’s pure dumb dumb dumb.
All Around the World
How long is this?
What?
You’re joking.
Nine fucking minutes.
No wonder Jesus wept.
Have you seen the video for this? The Beatles had a yellow submarine — Oasis have a yellow spaceship. I know, it’s meant to be a homage, a gentle piss-take of themselves. Fine. It’s still annoying. Not as annoying as the white suits everyone in the band’s wearing, or the endless “na na naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” that eats up about fifteen minutes of this song’s nine-minute run time.
Couldn’t they have cut all that and made a neat three-minute ode to their musical heroes? The answer is yes, yes they could. Why didn’t they? The answer is cocaine. Cocaine and an overinflated suite of egos — all of them stuffed inside Noel’s head.
“It’s gonna be OK,” Liam keeps telling us — over and over and over. But it’s not going to be OK, is it? How can anything be OK when things like this exist?
It’s Getting Better (Man!!)
It’s not.
It’s really not getting better, man.
It’s not getting worse — not really — but there’s no way to see this as “things getting better.”
Seven minutes. About 130 words. Some nonsense about building sandcastles in your hand. The usual clatter of guitars, the usual chug of drums, the usual lack of anything unusual.
Dorian Lynskey recently wrote a piece for The Guardian wondering what British culture would look like without Oasis. He didn’t actually answer his own question, so let’s help him out: it would be better, man!!
The real problem with Oasis is that they never tried to be the best at anything — they just wanted to be the biggest. Goal achieved, job done. But there isn’t a single thing worth remembering from this album. You could probably scrape together a decent “best of” from their entire catalogue — maybe
fourteen tracks, plenty of them b-sides — but if the goal is just to be “big,” you can’t really lay claim to any lasting cultural impact. Not a positive one, anyway.
And apart from a musical reprise of All Around the World (which, at two minutes with some swooping strings, is the best moment on the album) — that’s it. It’s over.
I’m going for a lie down.
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He actually thinks he’s funny doesn’t he?