James Berry weighs up the massively anticipated Oasis Finsbury rock revival. A load of old indie cobblers? Service Berry …
10/07/2002
Stumble through the gates into Oasisworld and all seems familiar and well, yet another day in the land of fickle brotherly love. The Jam playing from loudspeakers, chunky sunburnt lads sparked out on their backs by 3pm and precarious cardboard trays of lager being ferried with varied success as far as the eye can see. Then there are the sporadic hollers of “Ooooooaaarrrraaaysis” irrespective of the occasion, Union Jacks draped over shoulders and that look of gleeful expectation in every pair of eyes that aren’t shut tight already. There was a phrase for it back in the day, mad about it or something. Thing is, there is NOTHING to suggest we’ve not been thrown back to ’96, aside from the actual size of the gigs. Later we even get Cornershop doing The Hit of the day and the Charlies slamming ‘One To Another’ into the package. Even after barely 5 minutes on site you can just feel that there is no way they could possibly fail tonight, not in this parallel universe. Absolutely no chance.
We didn’t arrive early enough to catch aggressive Scouse morons The Coral or Noel’s own ugly ducklings, Proud Mary, but there are some things we just won’t put ourselves through, not for you, not for anyone. We did get there in time for Cornershop. In retrospect we should have been in the pub round the corner. There’s a point up to which a blatant lack of interest can work in your favour – disguised as a cool nonchalance, an unabashed attitude, whatever. In a smaller place with a few visuals and a loved-up audience you might tend to not even notice it much. Today alas there are none of these. They look as bored as we feel, so at least the feeling’s mutual. What we’d have given for Friday’s support, Soundtrack of Our Lives, to be here now.
It’s difficult to gauge the reaction of an Oasis crowd. Hard to tell whether it’s a roar of approval, the extended build up to a beer-fuelled homage to their heroes or just recognition that there’s something there in front of them. But a roar there is for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and given the Gallagher seal of approval they’ve already received and that they’re playing their dark hearts out of blood right now, we only expect the former (give or take a few anticipated “O-a-sis” chants) to be true. Crud had the good fortune to see the ‘MC at their secret-ish Camden Underworld show two nights previously, and while you’ll never translate that kind of condensed rock n roll headfuck into the open air, seeing them on big screens for the first time goes some way to conveying each member’s focussed intensity. The almost dirty feel to Robert Turner’s repetitive spasms, Nick Jago’s blissful pounding contentment and Peter Hayes sedate, cool-as-fuck, snake-like approach to the microphone, every time. Our calls of “better than Oasis” may not have been particularly respected by the partisan throng, but when they ferociously bluster their way through ‘Whatever Happened To My Rock N Roll’ they prove themselves worthy of all the high-praise and more.
Now we’ve never seen a man quite so happy – sensible crop, arms out for the summer, caught the sun a bit, grin from here to Highbury, shaking his head wildly from side to side. Only this isn’t one of the gathered masses heading for early burnout, this is Charlatans’ drummer Jon Brookes. However he got into his own wonderland he’s dragging the rest of them there with him, joy completely pervading the stage and everyone on it. Where the sense of occasion overwhelmed them slightly at Glastonbury, exactly a week ago, they’re taking this one for their own. Tim Burgess is beaming and striking it up with the audience like we’ve never seen before. They may have skirted earnestly around the fringes of popularity for their entire career, like the indie ghost of past, present and no doubt future, but they’ve got a set tonight that jabs the naysayers in the ribs till they crack. From ‘Can’t Get Out Of Bed’ and ‘Love Is the Key’, to ‘Weirdo’, ‘How High’, ‘Just Looking’ and of course ‘The Only One I Know’ to ending on a spirited high with the endless driving jam of ‘Sproston Green’ there are no lows. “It’s pretty hard opening up for Oasis,” he drawls as they drift into the lush ‘A Man Needs To Be Told’ (dedicated to Liam, natch), “but somebody’s got to do it”. And nobody does it better, believe us.
There’s only one thing stopping them becoming the real headliners tonight, and that’s a pair of the most contrary (ergo wickedly entertaining) fuckers to ever have had the cheek to take on rock ‘n’ roll. The rise and fall (and fall and rise) in Oasis’ fortunes is well documented of course and doesn’t need going into again. But the important thing is they can and do still rise, probably just through habit. It’s almost like they’re trying their damndest to lose fans and money and respect and credibility, but they just can’t help turning things around. And give them an occasion, which by this point this most certainly is, and they will undoubtedly rise up and twat it square in the face. Hard. As expected. Approximately 1.3 seconds into the intro tape of ‘Fuckin’ In the Bushes’ and Finsbury Park’s 40,000 inebriated inhabitants are a frenzy of jumping, yelping, hurling, shouting, kissing, hugging, clapping and flailing. By the time opener, rusty ‘…Glory’ classic ‘Hello’, has flown past wearing steel toecaps most of them are on the way to losing their voices and reaching meltdown. You can not argue with an atmosphere like that.
Or maybe you could if they’d had the decency to do another Wembley 2000. But here are some facts. They have never ever been a leaner machine, the sparks fly where before they were doused by incapability and charisma bypasses in certain obvious quarters. They have never looked better, not by a long mile, Bell and Archer having survived the trial by fire and show-tour are enjoying being part of the band it now looks like they always should have been part of. Liam’s voice has never sounded quite so monumental, like he could knock the tops clean off the high-rises overlooking the park, heaving the guts out of songs and tying them in double knots. And he even seems sober – erm, hang on a minute, that bit’s not right? Well, perhaps not, but he’s together at least, strong and appearing all the more iconic for it. And it’ll take more than a dry patch to get rid of his incomprehensible babble in, around and during most songs. Most importantly they are a band now, where before they never really were.
The album’s been out 5 days, the first Nu-Oasis record. Crud still hasn’t heard it, Finsbury Park on this evidence clearly has. And not just the once either. We think our memory must be faltering as every last word from the likes of ‘Better Man’ and the ever so slightly dreary ‘Little By Little’ is sung back at ‘em with storm force. But even more shocking is the sheet-lightening consistency of the whole set. As the intro to ‘The Hindu Times’ fires up it sounds as cast-iron classic as anything that surrounds it, with Noel’s cry of “get off ya face!” sounding almost revolutionary in this setting. And if that’s the case then ‘Columbia’ is the revolution and ‘Live Forever’ the anthem. A grittier and more interesting set than the last couple of tours the likes of ‘Morning Glory’ and the underrated ‘D’you Know What I Mean’ get a look in and we don’t catch the slightest glimpse of anything remotely acoustic. The new stuff, especially the airy Beatles-y ‘Born On A Different Cloud’ and the grubby ‘Force of Nature’ does practically slip in unnoticed – if it wasn’t for the fact they’re welcomed like newborn heroes – such is the level of their Oasis rating.
We know there’s a bigger picture here, that things might seem different when the hangover’s long gone and the album plays in the cold light of day. And old wounds may heal over, or at least not seem important anymore, not when you’re being distracted anyway, but they’ll never go away completely. But right here, right now, tonight, you can’t help but believe all their rhetoric, embrace the songs you’d buried away with your memories without realising how precious they are. And to finish with their full-on cover of ‘My Generation’, celebrating all around them, marking Liam out as the kind of singer he was always held up as but you never quite believed and exploding with colour, attitude and belief is just incredible. Tonight in London they are mostly incredible. And Knebworth was too big anyway. And for now that will be all.
James Berry for Crud Magazine© 2002