by Paolo Hewitt
The band’s early attitude towards audiences was basically, ‘You are lucky to be getting all these songs. And then you get up on-stage and hit the geezer who wrote them? Nah mate, that is wrong. So wrong.
‘So I fucking grabbed the guy and pushed him in the pit. Kicked the cunt right in the head.’ Liam stands up and mimes a vicious, silver-quick kick.
‘Bosh! Noel wanted to carry on. I said, “Nah, we’re off.” Noel said, “I’m fine, we’ll do him.” I said, “Nah, that’s it, we’re off.” So we left and then I thought, “Nah, I’m not having that.”
‘So I went back on-stage, stood by the mike and said, “Right, I’ll take you all on. Not fucking thirty of you at once but one after the other. And I’ll kick your fucking heads in. So who’s having it?”’
Liam’s voice dropped a register. ‘Not one of them came up. “Come on, who’s having it?” Not one.’
Bitterness, tinged with disappointment, crept into his mouth. ‘And they call themselves our fans.’
Liam sat down and shook his head. It jogged another memory.
Like that time at the video for ‘Some Might Say’, and all the shit he got for that. That was fucking murder.
They get back from New York and go to the hotel they’ve been booked in and it’s there that he first sees the video storyline.
‘And it’s poxy. It’s me in the passenger seat of a car singing. Then it cuts to me in a cafe eating beans and eggs. Shit, right? So I read it and I said, “Fuck off, I’m not doing it.”
‘This record, “Some Might Say”, it’s too important. To me, it’s like “Imagine”, this song.’ And Liam sings, ‘”Some might say they don’t believe in Heaven / Go and tell it to the man who lives in Hell.” The song is too important.’
So on the day of the shoot, Liam says fuck off and refuses to go to the set. Stays in his hotel room. It costs the band twenty grand. But fuck it. Liam says he’ll pay it. Guigsy and Bonehead talk to him. They don’t like the treatment either.
‘But it’s all right for you,’ Liam points out. ‘You only have to stand there and play guitar. I have to fucking sing it. So I walk and I tell them, this song will get to number one anyway. We don’t need a piss-poor video.’
According to Liam, for the next two weeks band and management blank him. Then the single goes straight in at number one. Marcus calls Liam the day it happens.
‘Congratulations,’ his manager says.
‘Told you so,’ Liam replies.
It’s incidents like these that make Liam sure of his spiritual affinity with John Lennon. They share the same rebel spirit.
Liam obeys it without question and, without doubt, it certainly accounts for some of Oasis’s success. But it’s also the spirit which constantly threatens to break Oasis.
Not that Liam wants to meet the remaining Beatles. Fuck that. If he ever met Paul McCartney, he’d say, ‘All right’, and that would be it. Respect, like, but not arsed, not really.
As for The Rolling Stones, after what they did to Brian Jones, kicking him out of the group when he was the group, and then doing an interview, a fucking interview on the day he died, shameful, fucking shameful.
Nah, Oasis would never get like that. It’s the most open band ever and the next album, that’ll be the one. That album will blow minds. Literally. No fucking around. Spend six months on the fucker and get everything right, every note.
And then? And then one day, an Oasis record is going to come out and at the bottom, where the songwriting credit is, it will say, Gallagher and Gallagher, because that’s Liam’s main ambition. That’s the mission. To write a song and have it released. So he’s going to learn guitar.
‘It might take four months, might take ten years, but one day I’m going to show them. I’m going to turn up and go, “Here you are, have that.”’
Liam mimes throwing something on the floor, says, ‘Ah, fuck it,’ and he leaves the room to see if the girls are still hanging around and, if not, to try and kip. For Liam, the night wasn’t yet over. It never would be.
George Michael, Keren Woodward and Sarah Dallin, ex-Wham frontman and Bananarama girls, stand in the Bournemouth International Centre watching Oasis. The 1980s view the 1990s.
One Oasis fan recognises George. The rest of the crowd are fixated on the band.
Oasis have just gone into ‘Champagne Supernova’, and then it happens.
Someone lobs a whole pint of beer over Liam. The alcohol drenches his blue paisley shirt, and everyone in the building feels the same question light up in their head: what is he going to do? How’s he going to react? Consider it. There are two main options: one, walk off; two, dive into the crowd and sort the bastard out.
Liam does neither. He starts to walk round in circles. Round and round and round, circling, like a vulture. The band keep playing, one eye on him. Round and round and round. The tension of the moment seeps right through the whole audience who are riveted. Round and round. And then Liam makes his move.
He goes up to the mike and he starts singing as if nothing has happened. The crowd loudly cheer him. It is the best moment of the gig.
In the hotel bar, a fan wants to read Bonehead his stars.
‘What sign are you?’ she asks.
‘Saggy hairy arse,’ he replies.
Behind him the ex-Wham star sits with Keren and Sarah. Liam comes in and sits with them. He’s already met Keren and Sarah in Japan. It was at a party in the hotel when they crashed the swimming pool, and had managers and waiters screaming at them to stop.
After drinks have been ordered, greetings made, Liam says to George, ‘Here, have you ever wondered how letters can make words on their own, like?’
‘What do you mean?’ George says.
‘Well, U.R.A....’
Noel enters and nods to George. He’s already spoken with him at the gig. Not because he is a fan of the man’s music but because anyone he perceives to be trying in the field of songwriting he believes is worth at least a chat.
Noel respects most people in his field. He figures if they go through half of what he does, they are worth acknowledging.
It was only with the songwriters whose music had actually inspired Noel that he wanted more than just a quick drink and a chat from. Those people – the Marrs, the Wellers – he wanted to figure out. Then he might start getting some answers about himself.
Having acknowledged George, Noel makes his way to the bar. The room is packed and noisy. Some fans have sneaked in and soon Noel is talking to a few of them. They look at him with total admiration.
George Michael now leaves and soon after two girls suddenly throw up in front of everyone. They had each just swallowed an Ecstasy pill. After finishing their convulsions, they then bend down and extract the pills that lie in their mess. Then they swallow them again.
‘That should do it,’ one of them cheerfully says.
‘Oasis fans,’ the barman mutters in disgust.
A few minutes later Digsy approaches Noel. ‘Hey Noel, do you want a drink, la?’
Noel smiles. He’s heard this one before. ‘Yeah, I’ll have a pint of lager, Digsy.’ Then he turns to the fan he has been talking to. ‘And now he says, “Great, I’ll have one too.”’
‘No,’ Digsy protests, ‘no wind up, la. I’ll get the bevvies in. Sorted, mate.’
‘What with?’ Noel asks. ‘You’re always skint.’
‘Don’t you worry about that.’
Digsy goes to the bar and returns with a handful of drinks. He sets a pint in front of Noel.
‘There you go. See...’ Then he sits down and whispers conspiratorially. ‘I’ve just nicked George Michael’s roomkey. I’m getting the drinks on it.’
‘But George Michael isn’t staying here, Digsy,’ Noel says. ‘He’s just gone home.’
‘Well, whose key is this, then?’
It’s then that one of the burly road crew on the table opposite loudly questions, ‘Here, has anyone seen my roomkey?’
‘Oh fuck,’ says Digsy.
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Noel Gallagher wakes up on his coach bed, yawns and pulls back the curtain. It is two in the afternoon and he is five minutes away from the week’s final gig, the Leisure Centre, Gloucester.
In the back of the coach the talk is of a report in one of the music papers that claims receipts from one of the Earls Court shows will go to the Terence Higgins Trust to atone for Noel’s publicly-stated wish that Damon and Alex from Blur catch AIDS and die.
In truth, contact had been made between Oasis and the Trust with a view to the band making a donation, but only if it was kept secret. Now the story has been leaked. It would be a surprise if the deal took place.
‘Don’t give a fuck,’ Bonehead states. ‘No one is having my money.’
As Noel sits there rubbing his eyes, the rain hammering on the roof now stopped, Liam walks past Noel to get his stuff from the back of the coach.
‘My voice is fucked,’ he says.
‘What do you want me to do about it?’ Noel retorts.
‘You’ re just jealous because it’s better than yours.’
‘Not at the moment it ain’t. You should stop fucking around and be a professional.’
Liam picks up his bag and starts walking back down the aisle to the exit door.
‘You know all about that, do you?’ he shouts back.
‘Yeah, I do,’ Noel replies. ‘You know your problem?’
Liam stops, looks back at his brother.
‘Yeah, come on then. What’s my problem?’ he demands.
‘You should stop walking round going, Look at me, Look at me, I want all the attention. That’s what you should do.’
Liam says, ‘Ah, sack it,’ and walks off. Even he is too knackered to argue. Noel jumps on to the coach floor, collects his bag and wearily walks up the coach aisle.
Like the others, the week has caught up with him.
Too many late nights, not enough sleep.
Worse than that, Meg is due to arrive tonight and to be honest Noel just isn’t in the mood. Not because he doesn’t want to see her but because this is what touring does. It puts you in a bubble and demands a state of mind which is very hard for people outside to penetrate, no matter how close to you they are.
Noel just wants to play the gig and then go home and rest. The next stop is America. They fly there on Monday. It’s an important visit. There are signs that the band is gaining ground there. Everything has to be right.
At the soundcheck in Gloucester, Alan McGee stands watching at the back of the hall with his girlfriend. Liam ignores the group and kicks a ball around as they play, and then they all go for something to eat.
At the table, Alan White orders beans on toast. When it arrives, he smothers the food in brown sauce.
‘You can’t do that,’ Liam cries. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘You fucking watch me, mate,’ Alan retorts.
At first, the band weren’t sure about Alan, so obviously London, so obviously their idea of a cockney. But he was from the same class, the same side of the street and now there was just friendship and respect. Not only for his drumming skills, which had brought an obvious new dimension to Noel’s songs, but because he was someone who stood his ground.
‘We were in Japan,’ Liam had said in Bournemouth, ‘And I couldn’t sleep. So I was banging on everyone’s door, going come on you cunts, let’s go out.
‘I’m banging on Whitey’s door and he opens it and he goes, “I don’t know about you but I’ve got a fucking gig to play tomorrow night for which I’m being paid and if I don’t get any kip I ain’t going to be able to play it, so will you kindly fuck right off.”’
Liam loved that kind of shit. In your face. The fuck-off attitude. The attitude the band was built on.
The most amusing thing about tonight’s gig, as far as Noel is concerned, is that the ex-Jam bassist, Bruce Foxton, who hasn’t enjoyed a convivial relationship with the group’s leader Paul Weller since the band split, was on the guest-list. Apparently, Bruce had also let it be known that he was up for taking Guigsy’s place in the band.
‘Can you imagine that?’ Noel said, smiling. ‘My mate Paul Weller comes to see us. Oh Paul, do you know our new bass player...’
The gig was fine. The crowd went mad. The band played well. Afterwards, they didn’t stick around for too long. They were too tired. The coach made the short journey back to the hotel, and not long after, Noel and Meg got into an argument.
Meg had arrived with Fran, Fran’s sister Charlotte, plus Amanda from Creation, the girl on the sleeve of ‘Wonderwall’. Meg was in good spirits, happy to be seeing Noel, happy to be with her friends.
Others had also made the journey from London, such as Jess and Noel’s mate, Sean Rowley, whose picture was now all over the country. Sean, better known as Travis, is one of the two guys on the Morning Glory album cover.
Meg was up for a party. She was with Noel, she was with close friends. She was in a good mood so she drank a lot and Noel started getting increasingly annoyed. Finally, he turned on her and told her that he hated it when she got pissed.
‘Why?’
‘Because you always repeat yourself. You say the same thing about five times.’
‘Well, how long are you going to be pissed off with me for?’ Meg demanded, her piercing blue eyes narrowing as she awaited his answer.
‘Until I get off tour,’ Noel snapped. That was in two weeks time. Meg just stared at him. Soon after, he went to bed. Liam followed. For everyone on the tour it was that kind of night, where the body finally says enough is enough, I don’t care what you put into me, I’m closing down.
Meg let Noel go and then stayed up all night in the bar, catching the crew bus home. Later that day, the band travelled back to London.
Noel and Alan went to their homes and the other three booked into a Kensington hotel. On Monday they would re-group and fly to America.
On Sunday, it was revealed that over 350,000 copies of (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? had passed over the counter.
Three
Father and eleven-year-old son sit in their small sitting-room watching TV. Son sits on the sofa, dad in his usual chair.
The gas fire is burning and there are photos of the family on the wall. These suggest a family harmony but that is thoroughly misleading. Father is not liked. His anger and domineering ways are too much to bear.
Father and son sit in silence. But Thomas Gallagher is smoking a cigarette and the way he draws on his cigarette is starting to bug the life out of his son, Noel.
Every time Thomas takes a drag on his non-filtered cigarette he spits out a small residue of tobacco. Phut, phut, phut. The noise is so aggravating.
‘Here Dad, what you doing?’
‘I’m spitting out the tobacco.’
‘Why don’t you smoke bifters with a filter?’ Noel asks. ‘That way you won’t get so much tobacco in your mouth.’
There is a momentary silence.
‘And how would you know that, then? What do you know about cigarettes?’ Thomas slyly asks. His voice is quiet but menacing. ‘Come on, Noel. Tell me. How do you know about filters if you’re not smoking them yourself.’
Shit, Noel thinks to himself, furiously trying to figure out how to escape the trap he has set himself.
‘No,’ Noel replies as calm as he can. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘So how do you know about the filters?’ his dad demands. ‘I don’t.’ Noel keeps his gaze on the TV. He won’t look at his father. But he can feel his face turning red. Then his father erupts.
‘You’ve been smoking, haven’t you!’ Thomas shouts at him. ‘I know you have.’ The blood has gone to Thomas’s brain now, the anger spilling out, fierce and uncontainable. ‘What did I tell you about smoking? Ah! What did I tell you?’
The commotion is such that it attracts Peggy from the kitchen.
‘For God’s sake,’ she says, entering the room, ‘what’s the noise about?’
‘This one,’ Thomas screams, ‘smoking cigarettes, he
is.’
‘I don’t smoke, do I Mam? Tell him.’
‘Noel doesn’t smoke,’ Peggy says firmly. ‘I know that for a fact.’
‘Ah, that’s it, cover up for him. Let him get away with it. You always do.’
‘But, I don’t smoke, Dad.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ The father reaches over and roughly grabs Noel’s hands. He turns them over, looking for nicotine stains on his son’s fingers. Luckily, there are none.
‘You see,’ Peggy says. Noel glowers at his father.
‘That proves nothing,’ Thomas shouts at him. His eyes are full of fury. ‘You smoke them with the gloves on, don’t you?’ Thomas suddenly announces. ‘Say it, go on. I smoke them with the gloves on.’ Thomas’s face is bright red, the veins starting to bulge.
‘I don’t smoke,’ Noel says defiantly. Father and son lock eyes for twenty seconds. Father breaks the terrifying silence.
‘If I catch you at it, when I do, God help you.’
He turns to Peggy. ‘I’m going out.’
‘But where are you going at this time?’
‘I’m going out.’ He stares at his wife, defying her to make a move. Peggy says nothing.
And with that he pushes past her, leaves the house. When the door slams Noel looks at his distraught mum and then he quietly pushes past her and goes up to his room.
It hadn’t always been like this. After their marriage, Peggy and Thomas moved into a small council house at 2 Sandycroft Street in the Longsight area of Manchester. Peggy was now seven months’ pregnant.
The house had four rooms. There were two bedrooms upstairs, steep stairs took you down to a small sitting-room and kitchen, and outside was the toilet and a coal cellar. The street at the front was cobbled.
In the sitting-room was a sofa, a chair, a radiogram and a TV.
Everything had been acquired on hire-purchase, the system by which you paid for your goods on a weekly basis. In the 1960s consumer boom, HP was the only way the working-class could gain access to such luxuries.
In the kitchen there were Formica chairs and tables, an oven and a sink. There was no fridge and Peggy did all the washing by hand. By the time they had moved into these surroundings, Peggy knew only too well her husband’s temper and violence.
