by Paolo Hewitt
Tracey smiled and tried to serve other customers. Liam kept going. ‘You’re very pretty, Tracey. That’s lovely hair you’ve got. But if I’m getting on your nerves, I’ll stop, I will.’
Guigsy came over to buy a drink.
‘How are you?’ he asked Liam.
‘How am I?’ Liam replied. ‘How am I? I’ll tell you how I am. You want to know how I am? Well, I’ll tell you how I am. Do you want me to?’
Guigsy, in a flat tone, said, ‘Yes Liam, I would like to know how you are.’
‘Okay. This is how I am. You want to know how I am, I will tell you how I am. You know the phrase, over the moon?’
Guigsy nodded.
‘You know that phrase, right? And you know that other phrase, out of the cuckoo’s nest?’
‘Which is what you are,’ Noel shouted from his seat.
‘Well, right between those two phrases is how I am,’ Liam said, ignoring his brother’s jibe.
Then he turned to Bonehead who was sitting by Noel. ‘Here, Bonehead, did you bring those CDs?’
Bonehead shook his head. ‘I forgot.’
‘You forgot,’ Liam said.
‘I forgot.’
Liam moved towards him. ‘I ask you to do me a favour which is to walk into HMV, buy some CDs and come back, which, when you think about it, is dead fucking simple, and you forgot.’
‘Well, why didn’t you get them?’ Bonehead challenged.
“Cos I’m the singer and every time I walk into HMV it’s...’ Liam mimed a photographer using a camera.
Immediately, Noel stood up and pretended to play the violin. ‘Ahhh,’ he said, ‘you poor little thing.’ Then Guigsy and Bonehead joined in.
‘All together now,’ Noel said and the three of them chanted, ‘Ahhh.’ Liam stood there half-smiling. ‘Fucking wankers,’ he muttered. Then he looked at Noel’s jacket, a smart three-button number with leather collars and cuffs.
‘At least I don’t look like a geography teacher with that fucking jacket on.’
‘Nor do I,’ Noel quickly replied, ‘seeing as my geography teacher was black and from Nigeria.’
Outside the window a cluster of fans peered through the bar window. Maggie came in. ‘Right, bus is ready.’
The band quickly finished up their drinks and made their way outside. Liam and Noel signed autographs for the kids. Then they got on and went to the back of the bus and sat down with the rest of the band.
There was a momentary silence. Noel looked over at Liam and laughed. ‘Come on,’ he urged his brother, ‘say something controversial.’
‘Nah,’ Liam replied, half-smiling. ‘Nah, I’ve got nothing to say.’
Noel raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve got nothing to say.’
‘Look, at the end of the day...’
‘Comes night,’ Noel shot back.
‘Depends where you live,’ Liam retorted just as quickly.
‘You know what he said to me the other day,’ Noel said, now addressing Bonehead. ‘He said, “The next single has got to be proper top”.’ Noel raised his arms as if in disbelief. ‘Like, all the other ones haven’t been.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ Liam interjected. ‘Get it right. What I said is that right now everyone thinks this band is the dog’s bollocks, which is right and everything but what I’m saying is that the next single should be proper top. It’s got to be even better. It’s right, isn’t it?’ he asked, turning to Bonehead for some back-up. But the guitarist was too busy grinning.
‘Anyway,’ Liam said, turning back to his brother, ‘what kind of audience do you want with a jacket like that? A fucking bunch of antique-car collectors?’
This was a thinly disguised jibe at Noel’s chocolate-brown Rolls-Royce, his Christmas present from Creation. Noel pulled a stupid face and said, ‘Might do.’
‘Ah, sack it,’ Liam said, and sauntered off to sit elsewhere.
Five minutes later the coach pulled up outside the Whitley Bay Ice Rink. Two minutes after that, Noel was on-stage playing his guitar. Guigsy, Bonehead and Whitey soon joined him. They played a new song, now entitled ‘Me and My Big Mouth’, then went into ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’, a raw version of The Beatles’ ‘Daytripper’, then another run through ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’.
Then Liam appeared and the band went into ‘Round Are Way’. But the pacing of the song was too hectic. A minute into it and Liam was shouting, ‘Slow down, slow down, it sounds like fucking Blur.’
The band ignored him. They all followed Noel who was now slashing at his guitar.
‘It’s too fucking fast, I can’t...’ Exasperated, Liam pulled back from his microphone and the song finally collapsed.
‘I’m here to do my vocal,’ Liam lectured them, ‘so slow it down.’ Noel started strumming the opening chords but did so deliberately slowly, like a single being played at half-speed.
‘Faster,’ Liam said. Noel upped the pace a little bit.
‘Fucking faster,’ Liam said. By the time they were playing the song correctly, Liam was in a temper. Halfway through the song he sat down on-stage and stared glumly ahead. At the song’s conclusion, he stalked off-stage.
Noel didn’t seem to care. He went over and picked up his acoustic guitar, settled down on his stool. Everyone expected him to play a recognisable song. Instead, he started playing another new tune. The chords sounded like a distant cousin to ‘Wonderwall’, and the chorus was riveting.
‘Every sound I hear is •made by me-eee,’ he sang. Everyone present stopped what they were doing to listen. When he finished, Noel put down his guitar and said, ‘That’ll do.’
Behind the stage, Ocean Colour Scene, that night’s support act, were preparing to soundcheck. ‘Did you hear that new song?’ Steve Cradock the guitarist asked. ‘Amazing.’
As the Ocean Colour Scene boys soundchecked, Noel sat down for an interview with Richard Johnson from the Sunday Times. Then he joined Guigsy, Bonehead and Whitey in catering. Liam was absent, but as soon as he did walk in it was obvious that his temper had worsened.
He sat down and sullenly ordered some food from Mouse, who was doing the catering. When she delivered it in her normal ebullient manner, Liam said nothing. Instead, he stared at his plate, not bothering to pick up his knife and fork.
Behind him, Johnny Hopkins, Oasis’s press officer and Richard Johnson sat at another table. The journalist wanted to talk to Liam at some point. But Liam had already refused. One of the road crew at Liam’s table asked if anyone wanted any bread. Liam mumbled, ‘No.’ Everyone else said, ‘Yes.’
When the roadie came back he handed Liam a roll.
‘I said I didn’t fucking want any,’ Liam snapped and then returned to staring at his food. It was then that Melissa, Maggie’s assistant, walked in. Liam had asked her to iron his shirt for that night’s show. But she had been unable to locate the suitcase it was in.
‘Liam, where’s your suitcase?’ she blithely asked. Liam looked up in disbelief. ‘What, you haven’t ironed my shirt yet?’
The venom in his voice and eyes caught Melissa unawares.
‘No, I...’ she stammered.
‘It’s in my suitcase which is downstairs where I fucking told you it was. You know what a fucking suitcase looks like d’ya? It’s the blue thing with handles and a fucking top and a bit of rope at the end of it, all right?’
Melissa’s face turned red. Shamed, she walked out.
‘Fucking twat,’ Liam snarled.
Bonehead turned to him. ‘You don’t have to talk to her like that, y’know.’
‘What’s it to you?’ Liam demanded.
‘I’m saying, you don’t have to.’
‘Five fucking times I’ve asked her to iron my shirt, five fucking times. So don’t tell me anything.’
‘I’m not,’ Bonehead shouted back at him. Their faces were now inches apart. ‘I’m saying, don’t...’
Liam violently pushed his chair back and stood up. Now he was towering over Bonehead. ‘No,’ he scre
amed, ‘no,’ his finger wagging in Bonehead’s face. ‘You don’t put your fucking nose in my fucking business, ain’t your business, all right? It’s none of your fucking business.’
‘Hey,’ Noel shouted at his raging brother.
But Liam ignored him. He kicked the chair back and walked out of the room, shouting back at Bonehead, ‘I’ll see you any fucking time.’
Bonehead turned to Noel. ‘He’s off his tits,’ he said.
‘He’s a dickhead,’ Noel calmly replied.
Hopkins now came over to Noel and crouched down next to him. ‘Is your brother all right?’ he asked.
‘He’s getting too big for his boots,’ Noel said, still eating.
Bonehead stared at the doors that Liam had just walked through. There wasn’t anger in his face at being challenged or put down in public. It looked more like genuine worry. Everyone was used to Liam’s tantrums but this felt a bit more serious.
By contrast, Noel was currently in a consistently good mood. The new songs he had in his head were well up to scratch. His band was the biggest in the land and getting even bigger. He was publicly respected for his craft and the gigs were a pleasure to play.
Certainly, that night’s was no exception. The minute they walked on the crowd were on their side. The band always responded to such full-on encouragement. They never broke a smile but they put everything they had into it.
Liam waited by the side of the stage to make his entrance. He was too vibed up now to be scowling. He motioned to one of the roadies and jerked his head at Noel as he hammered out the screeching notes to ‘Swamp Song’.
‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Liam said.
‘Fucking great,’ came the reply.
‘Yeah, but not as good as this,’ Liam boasted and then he swaggered on-stage to thunderous applause. When the band reached, ‘Cigarettes And Alcohol’, Liam approached Noel from behind and then placed his back against him as Noel played. He knew it would get to his brother. He knew he would be gritting his teeth. But, as ever, Noel showed no emotion. Liam walked away from him laughing.
In ‘Live Forever’ someone threw a coin on-stage. Liam noticed it first. He stared at the coin lying on the stage and then he fixed his stare into the part of the audience it seemed to have come from.
‘Do we look like we need money?’ he asked with a perfect sneer.
The best moment occurred in Noel’s acoustic set when he hit the familiar opening chords to ‘Wonderwall’. As he went to sing the opening line, the crowd beat him to it. But they didn’t stop there. They sang the whole song back to him. Noel didn’t sing a word. He just leant back away from the microphone and played his guitar as over 10,000 people sang his song, absolutely word perfect. Their voices filled the huge arena. It was the first time that it had ever happened. But it wouldn’t be the last.
Back in the dressing-room it was as if the gig had never happened. The mood was downbeat, constrained. Somewhere between Ocean Colour Scene’s set, which Noel had watched with great enthusiasm from the side of the stage, and his own gig, he had been struck by a vicious stomach upset.
He lay on the sofa now waiting for the pain to subside. He could hardly bare to move. Meg was with him now. She had travelled up early that morning with Emma Greengrass, Oasis’s marketing manager, to join him for the weekend and the huge show on Sunday in Edinburgh’s Ingliston Exhibition Centre.
Guigsy, Bonehead and Whitey sat exhausted on chairs and Liam sat scowling but motionless on a sofa. It was disconcerting to see Liam so subdued. Normally, he would be the one pacing the room, waiting for the party to start. Now he sat there, his long legs stretched out, his head tilted back and his eyes staring at the ceiling.
Johnny Hopkins and Emma sat talking softly away to the lefthand corner and Terry the security guard stood by the door. There was a soft knock and Terry let Marcus Russell in.
The Oasis manager looked happy. It had been a great show. Well above average. He looked over at Liam and nodded. The singer tilted his head slightly towards his manager.
‘Do not,’ the singer warned, ‘ask me how I am. Just do not ask.’
‘Okay,’ Marcus cheerfully said. ‘How are you?’
‘Shit,’ Liam said.
Marcus looked genuinely puzzled. It had been an outstanding show. What was the fucking problem? Noel groaned from the other side of the room. Marcus looked over.
‘Noel,’ he said with concern, ‘can I get you anything? We can send out for something?’ It was the hundredth time Noel had been asked that question in ten minutes.
‘Nooo-o, all I need is a night off the booze and a good night’s sleep,’ he said irritably. Then he closed his eyes. Marcus looked back at Liam.
‘People say,’ Liam cryptically announced, raising a beer can to his lips, ‘you’ve made your bed, now lie in it.’
‘You haven’t made your bed,’ Marcus replied. ‘You can do what you like.’
‘No, I can’t,’ Liam retorted. ‘My bed is already made.’
‘You can make it how you want it,’ Marcus pointed out. He reached over and grabbed the chair so he could face his unhappy singer.
‘No,’ Liam said, shaking his head sadly. ‘I have to change the sheets.’
‘You did what you had to do tonight,’ Marcus said, ‘you came on and entertained a lot of people.’
‘Look,’ Liam snapped back at him, raising himself forward, ‘this Oasis shit, I don’t fucking care about it. All I know is that when I walk on-stage I’m happy and when I walk off I’m not. So what’s the point?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘I can’t help you there.’
‘I know you can’t,’ Liam wearily answered.
He now looked over at Noel who had turned on to one side of his body and was facing them but with his eyes closed. He looked pale, weak.
‘Hey Noel,’ Liam shouted, ‘Noel, how are you feeling?’
‘I feel sick,’ Noel replied. There was no energy in his voice.
‘I bet you don’t feel as bad as me,’ Liam said.
The door opened and Kevin the security guy walked in.
‘The good news,’ he announced, ‘is that the after-show party is over there.’ He pointed through the crack in the curtains where you could see a bar situated on the other side of the hall. It was quickly filling up with people. ‘The bad news is that it’s a pay bar.’
Bonehead now looked up. ‘A fucking pay bar?’
‘Let’s have a fucking carry-out,’ Liam shouted in a mock cockney accent.
‘Stuff your pockets,’ Bonehead shouted. ‘Bring a crate, two bottles in each pocket.’
‘Fuck it, I’m going over there,’ Whitey said. ‘Anyone else?’
Liam stood up but then quickly sat down again. He was still troubled.
‘Nah, fuck it,’ he said.
‘Come on then Bonehead,’ Whitey said, ‘let’s get a faaking lager dahn our necks.’
‘I’ll be over soon,’ Bonehead replied, drying his neck with a towel.
Whitey left and Kevin motioned to Terry to accompany him. Liam looked back at Marcus, shaking his head.
‘I’m not happy,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Marcus softly asked.
‘Ah, loads of things,’ Liam dismissively said.
‘Well, if you don’t tell me what,’ Marcus reasoned, ‘I can’t help you.’
‘Okay,’ Liam said, leaning forward. ‘Here’s one for you. The coach we had in Europe was shit. Why couldn’t we have a double like the one we have now, with two floors and everything.’
‘Because ferries won’t take them to Europe.’
‘So why did the road crew have one?’
Marcus was stumped. He couldn’t answer that one. The crew coach had been hired in Europe, the band’s in the UK.
‘Did you complain at the time?’ he asked.
‘There shouldn’t be a complaint to begin with,’ Liam pointed out.
‘Fair enough,’ Marcus conceded. ‘I’ll give you that one.’
‘An
d tonight,’ Liam continued, ‘I couldn’t get my shirt ironed.’ His long arms stretched outwards. ‘Now you might think I’m being some big fucking pop star about it...’
‘What happened?’
‘I couldn’t get my shirt ironed, a simple thing like that. And I’m sick,’ he added for no reason, ‘of staying in hotel rooms. All I’ve fucking got, as the lead singer in this group, is my room with my ma. That’s it. I can’t stay there. Everybody else has a fucking place to go to. They’ve got a room where they can go and close a door, chill, play a record, do what the fuck they like. I ain’t got that. All I’ve got is a poxy fucking hotel room.’
‘I know what you’re saying,’ interjected Bonehead, ‘but when I was driving the van to gigs, no one spoke like that, did they? It was just get off our tits and fucking have it.’
‘But that ain’t now, is it?’ Liam pointed out. ‘It’s a lot different now. You can go home and that’s it. Sorted. Close the door, chill out. I can’t. Everyone knows where I fucking live and it does my fucking head in. Now if you think I’m being a big pop star or acting like a big pop star because I can’t get my shirt ironed then say it and I’ll leave the group. ‘Cos I’ve got a life and when I’ve got enough for a house, that’s it. You’ll never see me again.’
Liam looked straight at Marcus, and Marcus decided to play his bluff.
‘Personally, I think you’re acting like a pop star,’ he coolly said. ‘Right.’ Liam stood up and reached inside his pockets. ‘This is what the big pop star has got on him. This is how much the big pop star is worth.’
Liam pulled out a handful of coins and a crumpled £5 note and threw the money down on the floor. ‘That,’ he calmly announced, ‘is what I’m worth and you won’t ever fucking see me again.’
Then he picked up his jacket, kicked a chair over and left the room. As he did so, Marcus shouted after him, ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘You fucking won’t,’ came the reply.
Kevin the security guard came over, knelt down and picked up Liam’s money.
‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ Marcus said.
