Ahead of the Live ’25 Tour, Definitely Maybe offers a unique take on Oasis’s story. The euphoric highs, spectacular implosions, chaos, excesses and sibling rivalry. How the Gallagher brothers captured the zeitgeist of the 1990s by embodying the hopes and frustrations of a disillusioned generation.
In a rollercoaster ride from their humble beginnings in Manchester through Britpop jousts with Blur and legendary shows at Knebworth, Andy Bollen unveils how their relentless drive, swagger, Irish blood and English heart left an indelible mark on pop history. Read on for an exclusive extract from the book!
On 31 July 1994, Oasis headed for Hamilton, ten miles southeast of Glasgow, to play T in the Park. It’s now part of rock folklore, holding its own as one of the band’s best shows. It was. I was there. What isn’t too well documented is how close Oasis came to missing the show. It has to be one of the most un-rock ’n’ roll no-shows in history. Were they in jail after a drug bust? No. Did they drive a Rolls-Royce into a swimming pool? No. Did their private jet nosedive into a lake? No. None of these. The answer is that close to Carlisle, their van ceased to function: it became a dead van. The driver had filled it with the wrong fuel and it couldn’t even be driven out of the forecourt. Thankfully, a friend of the band named Simon, also known as The Cat with the Hat, who I would later see introduce them at T in the Park, had brought loads of recreational pharmaceuticals to keep the band’s spirits up.
They eventually made it to Hamilton and played a blinder of a set. Many words have been written about the band’s T in the Park show in 1994 and I’m here to tell you, every single word is true. They had proved us all wrong by releasing two impressive singles, had a high-profile much talked about appearance on The Word under their belt, but it was the show at Hamilton that was fantastic, exceptional, stunning, glorious and outstanding.
They were full of confidence having returned from a brief visit to the USA. Noel modestly announced to those of us present in the Hamilton audience that they had played their best show to date at Wetlands in New York. Incidentally, on their return to London before heading to Scotland, they were booked into the infamous white-stucco Columbia hotel. There, they threw beer bottles out of the window and managed to hit a Mercedes belonging to the hotel manager, and thus Oasis entered the annals of rock ’n’ roll miscreants, along with The Fall and The Mission, by being banned from the said establishment. No mean feat.
Since I last saw them, they’d signed to Creation, released ‘Supersonic’ and ‘Shakermaker,’ built up a substantial reputation in the music press and the hype around being the next saviours of rock ’n’ roll was palpable as the release of Definitely Maybe beckoned. I still felt the music press’s confidence was a bit misguided, especially the comparisons with The Beatles and the Sex Pistols and the band’s aspirations to be mentioned in the same breath as the Stones and The Who. For me, Oasis were still possible candidates to take over from The Stone Roses and were, frankly, lucky to be viewed at that level; but then I saw them at Hamilton.
The tent was packed not only due to the excitement over the band but also because of a timely rain shower that saw hundreds run for cover. I had been there for a while. I was waiting close to the front, in the middle, there to see if Oasis had improved. I was watching, as if they were auditioning just for me. I was there to judge, to check their credentials. I saw the peculiar chap mentioned earlier, Simon, introduce them along the lines of being the greatest band in the world, while the band strolled onstage behind him and had to kick him off. This wasn’t the same band I saw last May, was it? It couldn’t be.
Oasis had the same mannerisms from the gig at King Tut’s, physically they were the same shape and assumed the same positions on stage, but this version of the band had moved on from being over-rehearsed and nervous. They were relaxed, confident and happy.
I was impressed. The most noticeable development was their on-stage nonchalance. They had lost the anxiety. That may have been down to what Simon, that Cat with the Hat, had been doling out like sweets at a children’s birthday party. Guigsy, Noel and Bonehead were stationary, but Liam was delighted to be there and uncharacteristically engaging with the crowd. From the opening chord, the band were supremely confident and had the T in the Park crowd – who were already always willing to be first to claim the band since they were ‘found’ and offered a deal (but not signed, please stop saying that) in Scotland by a Scotsman – eating out of the palms of their hands.
It’s noticeable how many times the band played in Scotland over this period. They played at the Plaza in Glasgow on 2 December 1993 and returned eight days later, this time to the Cathouse supporting The Verve. In February, they played their show at the Sony Music Conference at Gleneagles in Perthshire to a room full of music executives. On 5, 6 and 7 April, they played three Scottish shows in Dundee, Edinburgh and Glasgow. At Dundee’s Lucifer’s Mill, Noel told the Dundee Courier’s Roddy Isles: ‘We’re the only working band in Manchester at the moment. We’re not interested in recreating past glories, we’re about now. Our record’s the best thing that’s been done in three years.’ Seventy-four gig-goers showed up to see the band, paying £3 a ticket plus a 25p booking fee. They played Edinburgh’s La Belle Angele (sadly destroyed in the Cowgate fire of 2002), then in Glasgow they played a show at the Tramway as part of Glasgow Sound City. On 12 and 13 June, they returned for two dates at Glasgow Cathouse. So between December and July, the T in the Park gig was their ninth Scottish show. They were playing other cities and building it up elsewhere too, but there was a keen Scottish focus.
Definitely Maybe: The Birth, Death and Resurrection of Oasis by Andy Bollen is available now.
