‘I just want to say…’ he sobbed only for the crowd to go wild at the sound of his words. Thank fuck for that, I thought. The rest of the band pissed themselves.
The final aftershow was a wild one. I remember jumping up to dance and coming across Liam on the dance floor. As we passed each other, ‘Supersonic’ kicked in and we danced along to it together, singing loudly; as we quickly realised we were making right twats of ourselves, we headed to our seats. Our performance did not go unnoticed, though, as we had been spotted by the rest of the band. They pointed over at us and wet themselves. Everyone in the band took something different from Japan. It was our first taste of stardom and already strange people were jumping on board.
‘John Lennon is searing through my veins.’ said Liam, as we were sitting in the bar. I thought that he needed to stop reading them books now. Then I noticed one of our financial team enter the lobby. He came over and brought out a piece of paper that highlighted certain aspects of the contract we had signed way back in October the previous year. He said he wanted to confirm these aspects of the contract with us.
Although I was unsure what was going on, I knew that you didn’t fly to another continent ‘just to confirm’ something. It seemed there was more to this than met the eye. The band looked at each other as if to support ourselves.
‘I ain’t signing fuck all. If it’s no different than the first contract, our signatures on that should be good enough. So you can fuck right off back to Blighty,’ instructed Liam, before he even had time to detail the document. I could see no reason to sign as I simply didn’t think it was necessary.
Liam was extremely wary of the businessmen that surrounded the band at this time. After five years of our own sweat and toil, as soon as the first sniff of success wafted their way they had descended like vultures. Noel had the opposite view, though, and he stared at Liam, annoyed at our refusal to sign the document.
Later that evening, Guigs told me that, although he had looked at the document, he had already known what it had outlined. Wouldn’t tell me what that was, though. At least, not yet.
‘This is fate.’ Liam said to her.
This was the band’s communal chat-up line. Not the most original, I know, but it would send the right girl all silly. Sitting next to him was a quite stunning Japanese girl who had approached him earlier on. She was dressed immaculately and sat holding Liam’s hand. As far as Liam was concerned, he had met his own personal Yoko, only better looking. She was taller than the average Japanese girl and could only speak a handful of English words. They sat there for the rest of the evening simply staring at each other and exchanging the little language they could. Liam was fixated. There was no other way to describe it. Just the fact he was quiet told me that. There was something definitely alluring about her. She looked beautiful, but dangerous too. Liam later flew her over to England. He remarked afterwards that it had been a mistake, because he couldn’t understand her. Could have figured that one out in Japan, I suppose.
Me and Noel were left in the bar.
‘Can’t go to my room. There’s too many women in there. Never thought I’d have a complaint like that,’ he said, with a laugh. Security were already heading to his room to remove the groupies as Noel ordered a final round. It had been a fucking kicking tour and it was sad to see it end. Noel sat down.
‘Who was that with Liam?’ he enquired. I told him about Yoko and Noel chuckled.
‘You enjoyed it?’ he asked.
I smiled and said, ‘I’ll always enjoy it.’
We clinked beers and I finally felt that everything was going to be all right. I suppose that times like these made my struggle with Noel even more frustrating. The flashes of the old Noel were seldom, though; most of the time, the cocaine-charged Commander-in-Chief was around.
I would love to finish the Japan story here, where it should end. Instead, the following morning there was trouble brewing. Due to the shortage of drugs on the tour, the dynamic of the group had changed. Scandinavian tours were also particularly difficult for this reason. The shortage of one vice led to an overindulgence in another.
That evening, we made our way through the enormous Japanese hotel lobby towards a fleet of taxis that awaited us. Guigs stepped in front of me. He had been ignoring me for the last day or so, which was fine by me considering what had happened in the toilets. He turned to me with an angry look on his face.
‘Noel added a three-month notice period to the record contract you signed. If he wants to sack you, he can. That’s you fucked. See you later.’
He turned and started to walk away. This was the first time anyone had mentioned a change in the contract. If what Guigs was saying was true, that explained his behaviour in the toilets. I felt he was clearly siding with Noel. Nice one, Guigs. I teetered on the edge. With the unavailability of any herb and the influence of only alcohol, Guigs could turn unpredictable. But this was different. We had crossed a line. We were never to return.
‘Fuck off, Guigs. I’d rather go down fighting than giving out blowjobs like you. Get a fucking backbone, you soft cunt. Stand up to him. You didn’t even get to record on the album,’ I shouted after him. That was a low blow, but I was tired of it all. I wasn’t sure if this ‘three-month period’ statement was true. If it was, we were all in serious trouble. Noel’s masterplan was exactly that. Noel’s.
Noel had wiped all of Guigs’s recordings from Definitely Maybe and had re-recorded them himself. Guigs himself had told me that. This was down to Guigs’s style of playing, which worked live but could throw a recording. I had learnt to adapt to his playing over time. We all had our little areas we needed to work on, but it seemed to me that Guigs couldn’t take that next step.
I knew that I had to develop as a drummer and not everything I’d recorded was beat perfect. All musicians will point out flaws in their recorded material. That’s the nature of the beast.
As if to strengthen his relationship with Noel, he had now also started to berate me, as Noel did. Again, I wasn’t having any of it. Is this the same man that I had defended when Liam had tried to have him removed to make way for Noel? Was this the man I had defended like a brother and lent a helping hand to all those years ago?
Guigs did not take my reference to his absence on Definitely Maybe too well. ‘You stupid Mick cunt,’ he spat back viciously, even though his own blood was Irish.
‘Shut it, Mr Milli Vanilli,’ I shot back, laughing.
That remark sent him over the edge. His face went purple. McGuigan looked to his right. Through the 60ft-high lobby window, he saw the whole group watching from their taxis outside. Seeing this audience had spurred him on, and now he moved towards me – like an angry slug. He moved directly up to me and placed his sloping forehead against mine. It felt like I was getting amorous with Mr Potato Head.
That was the only time I had seen McGuigan actually front someone. And it was me! It was obvious he was trying to save face in front of the ever-growing crowd on the other side of the window. I was gutted that it had come to this. Aggravated by his history of manipulating conversations to his own advantage, I decided I had better do something. With everyone outside unable to hear, I decided that a game of charades was in order. Like a possessed Lionel Blair, I started to point at my chin and then hung it out right in front of McGuigan.
‘There you go, Paul,’ I said, still pointing to my chin. ‘If you want to be a hard man, hit me. But I promise you this, as soon as you do I will take you apart piece by piece.’
With that I turned my head away and smiled at the crowd outside. I was praying that Guigs didn’t slap me, as I was wide open. He didn’t, so I straightened up and shook my head. I said nothing, but I was proper fucked off. I would have flattened him there and then, and that was a strange and new feeling for me. Me and Guigs went back a long way. We had been through the mill, but I had always stood next to him. I had simply had enough now. It was bad enough being disrespected by Noel, but by Guigs? Someone who I had stood up for and looked after
for the last 10 years? It seemed to me that Guigs had rammed his head that far up Noel’s arse that Noel had to brush two sets of teeth in the morning. During that tour, the dynamic in the band really changed. I still had Liam and Bonehead onside, and would do right up until my departure. But Guigs seemed to have decided that he was gonna be the main cheerleader for Team Noel. For the next eight months, anything that Noel threw at me would be repeated by the echo chamber known as Guigs.
After this altercation, and having considered his remark about the contract, I decided to front Noel. I spoke to him later: ‘Guigs has just told me that I’m on three months’ notice. What the fuck is all that about?’ I said.
‘Have I told you that?’ he shot back, looking furious. I wasn’t sure if he was furious that Guigs had threatened me or furious that I had been told.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Well, don’t fuckin’ worry about it, then.’
Don’t fuckin’ worry? Noel seemed to be displaying some signs of a good man gone bad. He would not tell me I was going to be sacked even if I was. And he certainly wouldn’t tell me if he’d changed the contract. I felt I had tried everything to smooth over this situation, but to no avail. Noel had become a different man.
CHAPTER 7
MAKE SURE YOU HOOVER BEFORE YOU REACH VANCOUVER
US TOUR
PERSONNEL LIST
BAND
Liam Gallagher, vocals
Noel Gallagher, guitar
Paul Arthurs, guitar
Paul McGuigan, bass guitar
Tony McCarroll, drums
CREW
Margaret Mouzakitis, tour manager
Jason Rhodes, production manager
Mark Coyle, sound engineer
Phil Smith, backline technician
Melissa Linsalato, merchandise/promotion
Doug Sheffler, bus driver
20 SEPTEMBER 1994. SEATTLE
We were in the air again. United Airlines Flight 828, from Tokyo to Seattle. We’d just left Japan and the greatest week ever behind us as we took the Oasis bandwagon on its first major overseas tour. To paraphrase the great Neil Diamond, ‘We’re going to America.’
We arrived at Seattle Sea-Tac Airport, eager to see what craziness awaited here. Japan had seriously blown our minds. The whole group exited the arrival lounge… to be greeted by fuck all. Not a solitary fan. Just your normal array of middle-aged drivers holding up card boards with names on them. No Japanese-style adulation. We made our way outside, to be greeted by a bright yellow minibus with ‘West Coast Bellevue Motel’ blazed across the bonnet. We hopped on and were soon delivered to a motel. The skies and our hearts darkened in unison. Japan had been such an intense ride that this was a severe comedown.
We booked in and hit the bar. Guigs was in a good mood, as he had an opportunity to finally find himself some weed and was itching to go.
‘Let’s go into town. C’mon, drink up,’ he rushed me. I’d thought he seemed intent on making up for the scene in the hotel lobby. I noticed, though, he waited until no one else was around before he tried to right the situation. Then I realised he was not trying to make up at all. It was just that no one else would go with him on a search for drugs.
We were soon in a taxi heading for the city centre. Five months earlier, Kurt Cobain had decided to end it all in Seattle. As I looked out the window, I could understand why. And I thought Manchester was gloomy and depressing.
When we arrived in the city centre, we started Operation Narcotic. The taxi driver was the first person to be fronted. He had no local drug knowledge whatsoever and looked relieved when we jumped out into the hustle and bustle of the city. Our Mancunian front could easily be misunderstood.
After two hours of fruitlessly questioning the unsuspecting Seattle public, we decided that enough was enough and headed back to the hotel. I could see the disappointment in Guigs’s face as he realised he wasn’t going to score. When we returned, we headed our separate ways. I was off to the bar with Jason Rhodes, our guitar tech. After an hour or so with Mr Jack Daniel’s, we were feeling suitably relaxed. We’d started a conversation with an unassuming guest who was sitting in the corner of the bar, reading a newspaper. He asked our business, so I told him. He was excited by the musician part and recalled the old days, when he would follow Neil Young around the country. He then asked if I had any pot. I laughed and explained our dire situation. With that he made a phone call and told me he was going to put me in touch with someone. He then gave me a phone number on a crumpled piece of paper. I rang and placed an order for delivery.
‘Go heavy on the topping,’ I joked. The dealer remained silent, which made me feel like a right twat. I mooched down to Guigs’s room and told him the news. As agreed, the weed was hand delivered by a huge black man, resplendent in cheap gold. All was good in the world again.
21 SEPTEMBER 1994. SEATTLE
The following day, Noel asked who I had got the weed off. Noel didn’t smoke the herb and wanted to locate some bugle instead. I gave him the story and the phone number and he wandered to the other side of the hotel lobby to make his call. Fifty dollars each was the buy-in and with delivery service not available Noel himself was going to fetch it.
‘Be careful,’ I warned him, as no matter how confident you were any transaction involving cash and drugs could quite easily get dangerous.
‘Listen I’ve been there, done it, got the sweatshirt, cap and key ring. No need to fuckin’ worry about me,’ replied Noel.
‘We’re coming with you,’ said Liam, and looked at me for support.
‘Yeah, I know what the guy looks like,’ I added.
Noel considered this and then reluctantly said, ‘Right you fuckin’ pair of clowns, come on, then.’ I didn’t think Noel was happy about the arrangement. We jumped in a taxi and headed once more for the centre of Seattle.
When we arrived, Noel pushed past me and Liam and headed out the taxi to conclude the deal; we had given him every last cent of our ‘per day’ money for the drugs. We watched as he made his way towards the bus stop. It had a large waiting room, the inside of which was hidden by thick plastic glass that had criss-cross wire mesh running through it. As Noelly Montana approached, a very large black man stepped into his path. It was the same man who had delivered to us the previous day.
‘You with the kid from yesterday?’ he asked Noel.
‘Yes,’ said Noel.
From behind you could see that Noel’s leg was shaking slightly. He had suddenly become very nervous. I imagine it was even more apparent from the front. The dealer immediately took control of the situation and took the money from Noel. Didn’t give Noel the drugs, though. Basic drug purchasing mistake, I thought. I didn’t like where this was going. The dealer pointed inside the bus shelter and then slid off with a wink and a smile. Noel darted into the shelter and a few moments later returned with a bag. It might turn out OK after all, I thought to myself. He jumped in the back of the taxi and behind the cover of the passenger seat he dipped two fingers in the white powder and placed it on his tongue to test for quality. He quickly dipped again for another sample and then turned to us and said, ‘I think it’s flour. Self-raising flour.’
Like we gave a fuck what type of flour it was. All that we gave a fuck about was the fact it was not cocaine. We looked at Noel, expecting some kind of apology for his fuck-up. As usual, it was not forthcoming. Although he would readily ridicule anyone else’s misdemeanours, I seldom heard him apologise for his own.
23 SEPTEMBER 1994. SEATTLE
We were up early and itching to go. Japan had been barnstorming, performance wise, and it had been nearly a week since we had performed. Suitably recharged, we headed for Moe’s tavern on 10th Street in Seattle. It was a good gig, but somehow the heights of the Japanese trip seemed to have raised our expectations and even the first night of the tour had an air of drudgery about it. Afterwards, we travelled down through Castle Rock and into Portland, Oregon. Although the herb corner was content, those of our pa
rty fuelled by a more galvanising stimulant were suffering, due to the ‘flour incident’ in Seattle. They took to their beds early. Slept away their cravings.
24 SEPTEMBER 1994. PORTLAND
As we arrived in the early morning, we decided to take a walk around Portland. We walked the city, happy to be free from the confines of the bus and lazily strolled down Lovejoy Street as the sun bounced off the Willamette River towards Mount St Helens, which rose to the east of the city. It was a beautiful place and a beautiful day. The mood was light hearted. It was twelve noon when we arrived at the Satyricon, where we were playing that evening.
We introduced ourselves, to be offered a free round on the house. I was just beginning to get used to that American hospitality thing, and I liked it. Guess I don’t have to spell out what happened next. We had a right old day playing cards and just being us again. The rest of the bar had warmed to us; songs were sung, jokes were told and there was not an insult in sight. A welcome break for us all. Particularly me. By 6pm, Noel was as ratted as the rest of us. We were ordered back to the bus to refresh ourselves. On our return, we played a blistering set, mainly to the patrons we had been drinking with during the day, and then we were back on the coach. We were given a crate of Bud and a few bottles of Jack on the way out as a gift; we had a whole night and over 600 miles in which to demolish them.
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