Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

  A month later, Jimmy was gone forever.

  I noticed the hastily designed poster advertising The Rain, who were playing the Milestone pub in Burnage one night in the summer of 1990. It had been covered in plastic to protect it from that evening’s downpour. What a fuckin’ miserable name, I thought. Who wanted reminding of rain in Manchester? Inside, the ‘new’ pub was full of chest-high tables and stools that you needed step ladders to climb onto. At the far end of the pub, slightly off the bar, stood Guigs, Bonehead and Huts. The band. Next to them was every drummer’s enemy: the drum machine. Chairs had been laid out cinema-style before the band and were filled by friends and regulars. Chris nervously shuffled from foot to foot. He was a good lad – somewhat excitable, but extremely enthusiastic and a good spirit. A definite Spartan.

  The show started, and I began watching Guigs intently. He had told me that Bonehead had given him a crash course in bass playing and to his credit he was there and he was actually playing along, in time to the rest of the band. I was impressed. A couple of covers and an unmemorable original composition and they were finished. I thought that Bonehead was a truly brilliant musician and I was also impressed by the fact he could play while completely smashed out of his face. I knew that I would add something different to the group’s sound, so afterwards I agreed to join the cause and rehearsals were arranged for the following week.

  The practices initially took place in Huts’s garage in Burnage. The set slowly evolved. As well as the standard cover, ‘Wild Thing’ by the Troggs, we also developed six or seven original compositions that were penned by Bonehead and Huts. As the weeks passed, we grew as a group. It was a good feeling.

  Somebody mentioned a hotel not far away and a receptionist who I’ll call Caroline – not her real name. It seemed they were both very happy to have the band in them. A rehearsal room was secured immediately. The hotel was an unusual place: a magnificent Victorian building sat back proudly on the leafy tree-lined road, but it ran on a skeleton staff. We rehearsed there for nearly a year, yet never saw more than a handful of guests. Not that we were complaining. A generous receptionist and a regularly unmanned bar led to free love and free alcohol. When we weren’t rehearsing in the basements we would be leapfrogging the bar upstairs. Musically, we tightened the set we already had, but there were no more creative moments. After a few months, and minus a drum machine, we felt ready to unveil a less programmable version of the band upon south Manchester. Our first couple of gigs were pretty impressive and the compliments were good. We also had the usual ‘never heard anything like you before’ line, though I guess that may not necessarily have been a compliment…

  Buoyed up, we decided that The Rain were going to make something of their efforts after all, and as a result we started gigging more. We also arranged for demos to be sent out to record companies and the local media, as all bands do. No fucking replies. It didn’t stop us, though, as we had the spirit and attitude that was running through the Roses and the Mondays, who were then at their height. Unfortunately, that same spirit and attitude had also mobilised a thousand other young bands, so competition was tough.

  We decided to approach Anthony H. Wilson, the founder of Factory Records and also a local television presenter. The problem was that Mr Wilson fell on The List. Let me explain about The List. Manchester is a unique city in the way it judges and treats its celebrities. If you are considered to be what is locally known ‘as up your own arse’, you are put on The List. If the locals might happen to discover a ‘weakness’, which could be something as minor as hair colour or shoe choice, they would also put you on The List. At best, the qualification criteria were random. This contempt and attitude was everywhere, so there was plenty to go round as well. It was contempt bred by familiarity on the streets of Manchester. Everybody had an opinion and rather than adulate ‘celebrities’ they would front them. There was no divide. The bricklayer or football hooligan. The insurance clerk or the student. Everyone had the ‘Roses’ attitude. Anyone on The List that you encountered would be in for a barrage of abuse. Some friendly. Some not. On The List in 1990, alongside Mr Wilson, you could also find the likes of Mick Hucknall, Peter Hook and Terry Christian. It didn’t take much to get on it, but it was damn fucking difficult to get off. When they received a volley of abuse, different List members reacted in different ways. Peter Hook turned mute but one look at his hairy face would tell you how angry he was. Terry Christian laughed. Mick Hucknall scurried away.

  Tony Wilson, though, would always turn and offer something equally as vicious back. His raincoat would flap wildly behind him as he would turn to leave, arm left hanging in the air, his middle finger giving some out. Tony was one person who, over time, eventually got himself off The List and instead demanded respect in those who had previously berated him on the streets of Manchester. And he certainly got it. I fell into that crowd. Anthony H. Wilson had a more radical view of the music industry than any of those around him. Just to have the notion that you could have a contract of trust with a band and then actually put it into practice was astounding. But that was Wilson all over. Astounding. The group of corporate types who, at one point, were interested in buying Factory must have stood with their mouths open wide as Mr Wilson explained that his record company had not a single binding contract with any of its artists. This was after he had invited the corporates round to buy the failing record company. Not surprisingly, they didn’t.

  Anyway, we drove round to his house in Didsbury, hoping he didn’t recognise any of us from the street abuse. I reckon he did. Guigs knocked on the door. Tony Wilson himself opened it. The boot was most definitely on the other foot, as he brushed us away with advice to send the demo tape to the office. Can’t say we weren’t trying, but we just needed that break. So we cracked on with the gigs.

  ‘JD and coke, please.’ This had become my drink of choice. It still is. It sounded more rock ’n’ roll than half a bitter. I had just finished setting up my kit on stage at the Times Square pub in Didsbury, Manchester, and was watching as the boozer filled. It was a strange mixture of old regulars, the new annual influx of students, and the usual crowd of family and friends who now followed us. Manchester was that year’s most requested university, breaking the stranglehold of Oxford and Cambridge for the first time. We had all cheered the news. It meant more women in the city. There was an element of Me Man You Student about the locals’ approach to courting at that time.

  Suddenly, the door opened and young Liam swaggered in. As usual, heads turned at the sight and sound of him. He walked in front of BigUn, talking very loudly over his shoulder to his large friend behind. Typical Liam. Always wanted the spotlight. BigUn laughed loudly at what Liam was saying. He might have been nicknamed BigUn, but he was no lumbering Lenny. This man was as sharp as they come, and let’s just say self-confidence was never an issue. He was a Levenshulme lad of the West Point variety who was always capable of creating trouble in situations where no one else possibly could. As a relationship, Liam and BigUn were a strange combination, but one that would provide endless laughter and adventure.

  I was standing at the bar when Liam spotted me. ‘Have a fucking good one tonight, Tony,’ he shouted, over Northside’s ‘Shall We Take a Trip’. I smiled back and asked him if he wanted a drink. He shook his head and said he couldn’t buy me one back. Broke. I bought him and BigUn one anyway and they both marched off to find a suitable seat.

  Guigs was already on stage and was looking nervous. Back then, he had taken to smoking a field’s worth of weed before each performance, which helped his nerves. This wasn’t always good news to the drummer, who relied heavily on the bass to keep time himself. Bonehead had already downed a small vineyard and Chris was having an ‘artistic’ moment. ‘I’ve changed some of the lines in “Wild Thing”, so just go with me,’ he shouted to us over the music, once we were into our set. His lyrical rewrite? ‘Wild Thing, I think I love you. Let’s go and smoke some draw.’

  I shook my head in disbelief as we finished
that song and moved onto our topical tribute to the Strangeways Riots. ‘We’re Having a Rave on the Roof’ was in full swing as I became distracted by Liam and BigUn at the side of the stage, arguing with two large, red-faced men who had accused them of stealing their pints. After a few heated words, and I’m sure physical threats, the accusers made off, leaving Liam and BigUn to smile and raise their stolen pints in my direction. Some fucking babies, I thought.

  After more rehearsals in the garage, we played The Boardwalk twice, but although we sold it out I couldn’t help noticing it was mainly family and friends, and friends of friends. The support was welcomed, but we weren’t exactly setting the world alight. We had been together for over a year by this stage and our initial enthusiasm was beginning to wear thin. We got on well as a group of people and had become tight-knit as a band, but Guigs wasn’t happy.

  ‘Huts isn’t doing enough to be a lead singer,’ he said. Now, I liked Huts. He was a Spartan and you knew where you stood with him. I wondered just what Huts’s review of Guigs’s bass-playing might be. But to be fair, Guigs did have a point. Something just wasn’t right. I wasn’t sure if it was Huts or not, but something wasn’t working. It was decided that after an exhausting six gigs, we should take a breather. Spend some time apart. You know, clear our heads. It was obvious that Guigs had ideas about replacing Huts that didn’t sit well with me. I’d never been any good at skullduggery. I had always believed in being upfront and honest. I tried to plead a case for the singer.

  ‘We should speak with him, at least. He’s one of us.’ Bonehead had wedged himself firmly on the fence, which would become his resident position, while Guigs said we should go away and think about it. So we decided to take a few weeks out and see what time would bring. I couldn’t help thinking, though, that maybe I had only delayed the inevitable.

  My suspicions proved correct. Time would bring a fascinating revelation for me, and a slap in the face for Huts.

  ‘We’ve got someone who wants to join as the lead singer.’ An excited Bonehead was on the phone.

  ‘Oh yeah? Who?’ I replied.

  Out of the handset came: ‘Liam. Liam Gallagher.’

  It seemed that BigUn had been mentoring Liam and had advised him he had the makings of a great frontman. As BigUn was aware that Huts was living on borrowed time, he had put Liam in touch with Bonehead. I had a silent chuckle to myself. I thought about Liam as the face of the band. He definitely looked the part. But what about the aggravation? He was a right handful. Fuck it. If we were gonna be a rock ’n’ roll band, that was exactly what we needed. Although Liam had started to style himself on Ian Brown, with his haircut and swagger, he could never be accused of not being his own man. I’d last seen Liam at a Roses concert and the aggressive, cheeky yet lovable boy had transformed into an aggressive, cheeky yet lovable young man. If you needed front to get by in the music business, Liam had enough to cover the country. Something tells me we’re into something good.

  ‘Has anyone told Huts?’ I asked.

  ‘Guigs is gonna do it,’ replied Bonehead. I thought to myself that that conversation wouldn’t happen in a hurry. In the end, I took the time to let Huts know exactly what was going on, because no one else did. Understandably, he was very unhappy and couldn’t see where it had gone wrong.

  ‘It hadn’t,’ I told him and expected the whole band thing to come to a halt there and then. I thought it was the end, yet funnily enough it was only the beginning.

  We’d arranged for Liam to come and audition at my place on Ryton Avenue in Gorton, on a summer’s day in 1991. The audition panel would consist of myself, Bonehead and Gemma, my one-year-old daughter. We were sitting eagerly in my front room, waiting. Liam normally entered a room like a storm. He’d be blowing insults and compliments, throwing out opinions and judgements. It was just humour and a little insecurity, though, nothing dangerous. As I already knew him, I had given both Bonehead and Guigs a rundown; they had both seemed impressed. Bonehead walked through the door, his eyes red and still slightly askew from the previous night’s exertions. Then a rather nervous-looking kid appeared – Liam – but shit, he looked the part. Pair of brown cords ripped at the knee with a denim shirt loosely flowing. Desert boots and smart haircut. Liam had a talent for wearing clothes from Debenhams and still actually looking cool. I waited for the verbal onslaught. But it seemed the belligerent attitude had been left behind in Burnage. He stood rather sheepishly at the living-room door. Then, all of a sudden, he jerked forwards into the room as BigUn put his hand in the small of his back and pushed firmly.

  ‘Let’s get this fuckin’ show on the road,’ BigUn said, with a smile in his voice. He stood there, rubbing his hands together, as Liam threw a playful punch at him. I had warmed to BigUn. There was a spark about him. Never one to settle for his allocated lot, he was always on the lookout for an opportunity or opening. And he had a big heart.

  A successful audition was guaranteed from the start, I suppose. The way I figured it, we hadn’t got anyone else. Bonehead hadn’t brought a rhythm guitar, so picked up a battered, out-of-tune bass I had lying in the back room. My drum kit was at the rehearsal room, so I made do with a set of bongos. Me and Bonehead started to bang out some old tune that was unrecognisable to us, never mind Liam. In turn, Liam hummed a tune that was also completely unrecognisable to us. During all this, BigUn danced from foot to foot, displaying all the rhythm of a rusty robot. It had to go down as one of the most unprepared, unprofessional and useless auditions ever. But then again, we finished with one Liam Gallagher as our frontman. So maybe it was the best.

  After a few rehearsals, in which Liam introduced some songs that he had been working on, we started to get a feel. It was strange at first with Huts not being up front, but we all recognised the fact that Liam had something about him. It might have been menacing and slightly evil, but it was still ‘something’.

  We had all now decided that we were going to ‘knock fuck out of anything in our way’. This mission statement wasn’t exactly hung on the rehearsal room wall, but we all understood and suddenly the confidence started to show in our performances. We were still rehearsing at the hotel, although we had been warned that we would have to be gone soon. It seemed the money pit had been sold and was soon to be demolished. When the time came for this move, we temporarily took up residency in The Grove in Longsight. This was a snooker hall turned Irish club, the same kind our parents had visited a generation before, though the frilled shirts had now been replaced by cowboy-style equivalents. Paul Gallagher had ‘sorted out’ our tenancy with the owner. We were never quite sure of the terms; we just gave the cash straight to Paul. This was where we would finally gel and begin to feel like a real act. Rehearsals had once again turned into an alcoholic free-for-all, with the bar being raided regularly. BigUn would be on lights and the PA desk and our rhythm section really started to come together; gradually, we began to create our own distinctive sound. Unfortunately, although we really enjoyed our time there, the discovery of our alcohol theft led to us being told to move on. From The Grove we headed to The Greenhouse Rooms in Stockport. This was a purpose-built rehearsal studio and had its own backline (gear, amps etc.). We were developing original material now; ‘Life in Vain’, ‘Reminisce’, ‘She Always Came Up Smiling’ and ‘Take Me’ were the stand-out tracks. Lyrically, these songs were a collaboration between Liam and Bonehead. Guigs’s bass playing was still basic, but he was steadily improving and the rhythm section of the band had developed quite a unique sound. And then there was the way Liam delivered the songs. The rest of us almost seemed to fade into the background; all our audiences seemed to be transfixed by our lead singer. Even at rehearsals. His nasal delivery and fighting stare would leave people enthralled and threatened, both impressed and nervous.

  From the start, I didn’t think Liam was happy with the name The Rain. I guessed as much when he said, in one long breath: ‘It’s a dogshit name. Any ideas, anyone? No? Right, we’ll call ourselves Oasis.’ The whole dynamic of t
he group had changed with him joining. Why not the name? It later transpired that BigUn had spotted the name on an Inspiral Carpets poster hanging on Liam’s bedroom wall the previous evening. It sounded good to me.

  And so Oasis the band was born. We rehearsed and rehearsed for the next eight months or so, during which time we all got to know Bonehead better. Most of his friends we already knew through BigUn and this was when the Entourage was formed, a group of mates and acquaintances who would provide us with back up and support.

  The band would always maintain a positive spirit and quickly developed an ‘us against the world’ kind of attitude. We knew that we had a distinct sound as a rhythm section and everyone in the band thought that Liam had the charisma and natural personality to take it somewhere. Everyone except Liam, that is. He wanted to invite his brother Noel to join the group. Liam had already played a demo of Noel in a band called Fantasy Chicken and the Amateurs to us. In truth, it was not very impressive, but he did know a lot of people in the industry so we put him on a back burner.

  CHAPTER 3

  A DEFINITE MAYBE

  Our first public outing as Oasis was in The Boardwalk, on Manchester’s Little Peter Street, in late summer 1991; along with other clubs such as The Hacienda and The International, The Boardwalk provided an important live venue for many local bands. It was a warm evening and we were expecting a large turnout. Sweet Jesus and The Catchmen were also on the bill. We were also expecting Noel. Liam had invited him down and seemed genuinely excited that his big (little) brother was coming to see us. ‘Lets’ fuckin’ make it a good one, let’s show him,’ he urged the rest of us.