by Paolo Hewitt
The bar was packed and the band’s presence didn’t go unnoticed. A couple of guys tried unsuccessfully to needle Liam. Meg’s friend Fran and Lisa M. argued at the bar. Drink after drink arrived. Everyone got seriously smashed. The football match ended in a 2-2 draw. Cantona scored a penalty. Robbie Fowler hit two goals. Peggy kept ordering more drinks. Her first day in London was going extremely well.
Meg, Noel, Alan White, Kass, Liam, Jess, Peggy and Lisa M. then took a short walk to Noel’s basement flat on Albert Street.
More drinking, more beer, more Jack Daniels and coke. Then Meg, Lisa and Peggy headed out for a sightseeing tour of London, leaving Liam and Jess to get into a discussion in the small kitchen. Liam had met Jess through Noel. She was a close friend of Meg’s and made her living working for Kate Moss. She and Liam weren’t arguing, but the alcohol had made their voices loud.
‘You see, you’re lucky,’ Jess announced.
‘How am I lucky?’ Liam automatically shot back. He always resisted any notion other than skill and hard work accounted for his success.
‘Because you knew what you wanted to do from day one.’
‘Yeah, I wanted to be a singer.’
‘And a lot of people don’t have that, you see.’
‘Don’t have what?’
‘The knowledge of what they want to do from an early age.’
‘Why not? Don’t you know what you want to be?’
Before Jess could reply, Noel was standing in the doorway. He looked furious.
‘Will you lot shut up before I kick you out. I can fucking hear you from the sitting-room.’
‘What, you kicking us out?’ Liam challenged.
‘Yeah, I fucking am. Get out of my flat.’
‘It’s not your flat. Half of it’s mine.’
‘No, it fucking ain’t. Now get out. The lot of you. I’m fucking serious. Get out.’
For a second, everyone tried to figure out through their drunken minds if Noel was winding them up. But Noel’s expression was deadly serious.
‘Right, if that’s the way you want it, dickhead,’ Liam said.
‘Yeah, it is,’ Noel said, turning on his heels and walking off down the thin corridor that led into his sitting-room.
‘Then fuck you,’ Liam shouted. ‘Come on, let’s split from this moaning twat.’
And he and Jess left, leaving Noel with Alan White and Kass who sat apprehensively on his sofa.
‘Right then.’
Noel looked around to make sure they were gone.
Then, with a triumphant tone, he said, ‘That’s them out of the way.’ And he removed a small wrap of cocaine from his pocket. Alan and Kass weren’t users. Never had been, never would be.
‘Fucking hell,’ Noel cried when he realised, ‘even more for me.’
An hour later, Noel and Meg arrived at Jeff Barrett’s Sunday Social club which had now moved to Farringdon from its original site, the Albany pub opposite Great Portland Street tube. The club was one of the best in London. Right from the start it had played music right across the board by utilising a wide range of DJs.
One week it might be a Northern Soul set, the next a hip-hop session. By adopting such a policy, the club had caught the spirit of the times. The only regular DJs were The Chemical Brothers who closed each session. By its second week, hundreds of people were clambering to get in.
After more imbibing, the party moved on to the Virgin Megastore at the end of Oxford Street. It was here that Noel, backed only by Alan White, had agreed to perform songs from Morning Glory which would go on sale at midnight. Noel would play acoustic guitar, Alan White some light percussion.
There were about 500 people present when they arrived, hundreds more locked outside.
Backstage, Liam insisted that he should introduce Noel and Alan to the crowd. That, they agreed on.
Still wearing his white mac, he stumbled up on-stage as Noel positioned himself on a stool with an acoustic guitar and Alan stood behind him with some congas. But instead of introducing the pair of them, Liam sprang a surprise.
‘Here, come on, I’ll sing a few.’
‘No,’ Noel said.
‘Why the fuck not?’
‘Because then we can’t do any of the new songs.’
‘Why the fuck not?’ Liam repeated. Both brothers were swigging on Becks beer bottles. But Liam’s eyes were starting to roll.
‘Because you won’t remember the words to the new songs.’
‘Yeah, I fucking will.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Name a song then.’
‘I’ll bet you fifty quid that if I name a song you won’t be able to sing it in front of this lot.’ The crowd cheered, enjoying the banter tremendously.
‘Okay, go on then, go on. Any tune. I’ll sing it. Bet ya.’ Both brothers dipped into their pockets and pulled out £50 notes. ‘Right, “Rockin’ Chair”.’
This was one of two excellent songs that formed the B-side of ‘Roll With It’, the other being ‘It’s Better People’. When Noel first wrote ‘Rockin’ Chair’ the whole band performed it. But somehow it didn’t sound right. Noel then switched the instrumentation to acoustic guitars and now the song breathed properly.
‘Okay,’ Liam agreed. ‘”Rockin’ Chair” it is.’
Noel played the opening chords, a knowing grin spreading across his face as he stared at Liam.
Liam turned to the mike and started singing. ‘I’m older than I wish to be / This town holds... nah, nah na...’
His voice trailed away and Noel stopped playing.
‘Thank you very much,’ Noel said and reached over and whipped the money out of Liam’s hands. The crowd loudly cheered, called out for more.
‘Here are, here are,’ Liam said. ‘Here’s a song I remember.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘You know this one. Sing along.’ Then, conducting the crowd with his hands, he sang, ‘Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya. Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya.’
The crowd started singing back with great gusto, and Liam turned to his brother as if to say ‘See’.
Noel played ‘Wonderwall’, ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’, and ‘Cast No Shadow’. It was over. The time now was midnight. They had been drinking for twelve hours.
At ten-thirty the following morning, Noel arrived at the offices of Ignition, his manager’s office in London’s West End. It was from here that all Oasis’s plans were made and executed.
Waiting for him was Marcus Russell and Alan White. Russell had agreed to drive them both to Heathrow. There they would catch a plane to Manchester and meet the tour coach. Then it was on to Blackpool for the first show of the tour.
Noel had something of a hangover. ‘What time’s the flight?’ he sourly asked.
‘One-thirty,’ Marcus absently replied, sitting at his desk and studying some documents.
‘Then why the fuck are we here so early? I could have stayed in bed.’
‘Because you have to be there at least an hour before the flight,’ Marcus patiently replied. ‘I know I’m your manager and that I can do many things, but changing the way airlines and airports have operated for years and years isn’t one of them.’ ‘Why not?’ Noel cheekily replied. ‘You get 20%. You should work harder. Make them transport us quicker instead of all this fucking around in airports.’
‘I wish I could,’ Marcus replied, standing up and pulling on his coat.
‘Actually,’ Noel said to no one in particular, ‘I used to think about time travel when I was six years old.’
‘Where the fuck is Liam?’ Marcus asked Chris, one of his assistants.
‘We’re going to be late.’
‘State he was in last night there’s no way he’s going to be here,’ Noel pointed out.
‘Well, we’ll have to go soon.’
‘There’s no answer from the hotel room,’ Chris said.
‘Well, what shall we do?’ Marcus asked, looking at Noel.
‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ Noel replied. ‘We don’t need a singer
anyway. I’ll sing them all. Have done before.’
‘Okay,’ Marcus said, glancing at his watch again, ‘if he shows up then put him in a taxi to the airport straightaway. If not, I’ll deal with it when I get back.’
‘Marcus, don’t worry about it,’ Noel put in. ‘He’ll be at the gig tonight.’ He said it with an absolute certainty in his voice.
Marcus, Alan and Noel drove to Heathrow. Marcus sorted out their tickets, then said goodbye. He was due to join the tour in Stoke the next night.
The plane journey was uneventful. Noel slept for most of it, Alan read the papers. It only took an hour. At the airport, Noel and Alan waited by the baggage carousel for their stuff to come through. Noel had checked in his guitar, but it refused to show. Eventually, he went over to an information desk to find that it had been put on the next flight from London. The company agreed to transport it to Blackpool as soon as it arrived.
Noel and Alan ambled outside where Maggie, the tour manager, Bonehead, and Scott Mcleod, the temporary bassist for Guigsy, were patiently waiting for them.
‘How do,’ nodded Bonehead.
‘Lost my guitar,’ Noel stated. ‘They’d better find it the cunts. How’s it going, Maggie?’
‘Yeah, good,’ she said, smiling sweetly.
They walked to the coach, a couple of people recognising them as they did so.
Bonehead was in good spirits.’ Ah,’ he said to Alan White, as they approached the coach, ‘breathe in that air, that good Northern air. Eh. Fill your lungs up.’
‘Why? Is it good for me?’
“Course it is, son. Go on, Whitey. Get some of that Northern air in your lungs, get rid of all that cockney shit you have to breathe.’ Bonehead took a great gulp of air. ‘Do you the world of good.’
Whitey mimicked Bonehead.
‘Mmmm,’ he said, ‘I can smell the black pudding.’
The coach was long, with beds in the middle and a back lounge with a video, TV and stereo. Everyone headed straight there. Once settled, Bonehead asked Noel, ‘Are you going to do your acoustic set tonight?’
‘Too right I am. I didn’t get a fucking chance yesterday because of dickhead.’
‘Why, what happened?’
Noel related the preceding night’s story of the fifty-quid bet, Bonehead smirking all the way through it.
‘God,’ said Noel, concluding the story and stretching his body, ‘I’m really looking forward to having a bath. It’s one of the best things about touring.’
‘You haven’t got one at home?’ Bonehead asked.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the bathroom is too fucking small. I’ve only got a poxy shower. I like a bath. You can sit in there for ages doing absolutely nothing.’
‘You should do what Jason did,’ Bonehead said, lighting up a cigarette and offering the packet round.
‘Why, what’s he done?’
‘He bought this huge cast-iron bath and him and his mate couldn’t get it up the stairs. So he said, “Fuck it,” and plumbed it in in his sitting-room. He’s got his bath in the sitting-room, he has. He’s got a tray put across it and he sits there, eating his dinner, watching TV and having a bath. His wife went mad. Can you imagine it? She’s sitting there having a bath and his mates come round. Don’t worry lads, it’s only the missus. He’s off his tits.’
All the time, Scott sat silently at the back. As the coach pulled up outside the hotel, situated along the Blackpool sea front, the growing nerves inside him, reminded him that he had about four hours to go before his live debut as bass player with the biggest band in the country.
Outside the Empress Ballroom, there were a few fans waiting, and inside Liam still hadn’t arrived.
As soon as Noel walked into the venue, the first thing he did was to run on-stage, plug in his guitar and start playing. Bonehead, Whitey and Scott followed.
After the soundcheck was finished, the four of them went for a meal downstairs. Now that they had money behind them and the gigs were getting bigger and bigger, Oasis could afford to take a catering company on the road. They used the firm, Cat And Mouse, whose staff was mainly women.
As they finished their meal, Liam walked in. He had driven up with Les, a Mancunian who works for a promoter and also acts as part-time driver for the band.
‘Fucking hell,’ Liam said, walking in, ‘you should see Les’s motor. Big fuck-off Rolls-Royce. Just drove up in it. Fucking ace. What’s for dinner?’
‘You got a Rolls then?’ Noel asked. ‘We’re paying you too much fucking money, mate.’
Les sheepishly grinned. ‘I got it cheap,’ he offered.
At seven the doors opened and a stream of kids came running in, straight to the front of the stage. That’s where they would stay until the band came on. By seven-thirty the place was packed. Outside the touts were offering tickets for £50.
The first group on was Smaller, who the crowd received politely. ‘Buy me single,’ Digsy said to the crowd, ‘I’ve got a wife and three kids to feed.’
Records filled the spaces between Smaller and Oasis. Noel was the first on-stage, followed by Bonehead, Whitey and Scott. The crowd reacted like supporters who have just seen the winner scored in the last minute of the game. It was a sound that Oasis were going to hear for the indefinite future, the sound of people ecstatic just to see them, to be there.
They launched into ‘Swamp Song’, and halfway through Liam made his entrance, swaggering in time to the tambourine he banged against his leg. Again, a crowd eruption.
For the rest of the gig, indeed for the rest of their tour, the crowd would jump up and down, up and down, up and down, a relentless, seething mass of people fuelled by joy, alcohol, drugs and the pleasure of pure abandonment in Oasis’s music.
The set list was the one that Oasis would stick to for nearly a year. The first half was upbeat and anthemic: ‘Swamp Song’, ‘Acquiesce’, ‘Supersonic’, ‘Hello’, ‘Some Might Say’, ‘Roll With It’, ‘Shakermaker’, ‘Round Are Way’, ‘Cigarettes And Alcohol’ and ‘Champagne Supernova’.
Five hit singles, five coruscating B-sides and album tracks.
Then the band exited the stage leaving Noel sitting on the stool that Jason, his roadie, had placed on-stage. He picked up •his acoustic guitar and launched into ‘Wonderwall’, ‘Talk Tonight’ and ‘Cast No Shadow’.
This was the day of Morning Glory’s proper release and already most of the crowd knew the songs. They had obviously taken the day off to learn their lines, do some real homework.
With the conclusion of ‘Cast No Shadow’, the rest of the band walked back on except for Liam. Noel had now decided to follow his solo set by singing another song but this time on electric guitar.
Thus ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’ rang out before Liam returned for ‘Live Forever’, and then their finale, the Oasis rendition of John Lennon’s ‘I Am The Walrus’.
There was no encore. There rarely was. The crowd moved out, bubbling still with excitement. Backstage Alex Higgins, the ex-world champion snooker player, was talking to Bonehead in the dressing-room. He was telling him that they should cover the Troggs’ ‘I Can’t Control Myself’.
‘You’d do it well, you boys,’ he said in his thick Irish brogue. ‘Reg Presley’s a great guy,’ as if that was another compelling reason, ‘he’s really into crop circles.’
‘Yeah, Noel likes a drop of that as well,’ Bonehead replied. Liam came over and shook Higgins’s hand. ‘What you up to, like?’ he asked. ‘What you been doing?’
‘Still playing. Next game is on the 15th.’
‘Who against?’
‘Exhibition game. Come and see us.’
‘If I’m around I will,’ Liam replied. ‘I’d do anything for you.’ Higgins beamed.
He had once lived in Burnage, and Noel could remember singing Christmas carols outside his house which he had had fitted with triangle-shaped windows.
‘No doubt he told you,’ Noel said, ‘”yes, I remember
Noel singing. I said then, he’d be a great star. I could see it then, really I could.”’
Noel was now talking to Johnny Hopkins, his press officer.
‘Why didn’t you play “Morning Glory”?’ Hopkins asked.
‘Liam can’t get the notes, they’re too high,’ Noel laconically replied. Then he was out of the dressing-room and into the production office.
Noel Gallagher loves to control his own space, who enters and who doesn’t. After show dressing-rooms are an anathema to him. Too many friends, too many people.
He far prefers to wind down in places such as the production office. There he’ll talk to tour manager Maggie or Marcus or maybe the baleful-looking Trigger, the then road manager, or roadies such as Jason or Jacko.
The band, once they’ve cooled down, differ. They often meet people. It’s mainly for Liam. He’s the one who loves to entertain, to talk, flirt, have a laugh. Silence is deadly for him. So is not being at the centre of things. He can’t stand it when his mind is going ten to a dozen, his ears are ringing and there’s no one to vibe off. Silence becomes his enemy then. He wants life and noise around him. Noel just wants his space.
Back at the hotel, the bar was full and drinks ordered, but there was little for the hotel to complain about. No fights, no trashing of tables or chairs, no insulting other guests.
At one point, Alex Higgins approached Noel.
‘When I get out of it, Noel,’ he asked, ‘can you get me a room?’
A friend of Noel’s butted in and asked Alex whether he was still playing.
‘Yes, I am. On the 15th. In King’s Cross.’
‘Whereabouts in King’s Cross?’
Higgins looked at him incredulously.
‘In the fucking snooker hall. Where else?’
Noel fell about laughing. Over to the right of him, some guy nudged him and started showing off his facial scars. ‘This one was from 1981, razor fight I had. This one was at football...’
Noel nodded in all the right places. Then he announced he was going to get a drink. He wasn’t seen for the rest of the night.
The next morning on the coach, Noel explained his disappearance.
