Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

  Eventually, we found King Tut’s, but we weren’t greeted at the door as expected. The promoter told us he already had three bands playing and the line-up was full. We told him we were Oasis from Manchester, as if that meant something.

  ‘Neva heed of ye, now feck off,’ came the reply, in thick Glaswegian.

  The wrong thing to say to a vanload of hooligans cum musicians who’ve spent their limited money getting there, and taken a day off to boot… BigUn starts the questioning. ‘Who owns the club, dickhead? Get him out here now. Tell him his club is getting fucking razed. Don’t be a smart cunt. Sort it out.’

  A verbal barrage, the arrows of mob rule. The door staff were shocked by the onslaught. So, as if doing us a favour, they let us in. There was a small crowd present and we made our way to the stage and set our gear up.

  We played our set to an ambiguous reception. Four songs. Liam was on form, though. His blue-and-white Adidas tracksuit top was zipped to the hilt and his stare was as intense as ever. Like a jungle cat weighing up its prey, he stared the audience down. Four songs, that was it. Polite clapping with the occasional overenthusiastic holler from our corner. Exit stage left. After a quick towel down, we headed straight to the bar. JD and coke, JD and coke, JD and coke. We were all intent on getting nailed as it was gonna be a long journey home. It went faster if you were smashed. We were standing on a raised section of the club, looking out over the dance floor, when a strange-looking guy with a flash of red hair stumbled up the steps towards us. He had obviously downed a few, although his eyes carried an alertness that suggested he was mixing the alcohol with bugle; he was older than us and was dressed like a pretentious twat. Standing in front of Noel, he started to talk. I could hear his thick Scottish accent, but not what he was saying. Noel tried to push our demo tape to him, but the ginger fella refused. Oh well, I thought, at least he’s trying.

  Noel sidled over after his chat and we hit him with questions. ‘Who the fuck is he? What did he say?

  Noel whispered, ‘McGee, Alan McGee, head of Creation Records. He’s just offered us a record deal.’ He imitated McGee’s Scottish accent as he said this. We all fell about laughing. Now, I would normally have taken this offer with a pinch of salt. We’d been offered all sorts previously that never came to fruition. But Noel’s excitement was infectious. ‘Right, he’s coming over. Act cool. Act fucking cool,’ Noel hissed through his teeth.

  As we all stood there trying to figure out how to look cool in the dark of the club, McGee ambled over. He introduced himself and then started warbling about how we were going to be the biggest band in the world, bigger than The Beatles. These statements would be repeated like a mantra for the next 10 years. For some inexplicable reason, we all genuinely felt that this was a monumental moment. The beginning of something special. Even if the guy was half smoked, coked and poked and didn’t want to accept our demo, we felt that something was right. With the help of The Real People, we had the songs. With the help of our upbringings, we had the attitude. But most importantly, we had the belief. Not a whimsical half-hearted belief, like so many other bands, but an almost certain one. Here we fucking go.

  And it was no longer just us. We now had Alan McGee on the team. With McGee came an attitude and a mentor figure for Noel. It was McGee who put one arm around Noel’s shoulder as the other painted the bright lights flashing Oasis in the air. McGee’s influence over Noel Gallagher should never be underestimated. In the next few weeks, Alan McGee would reveal himself to be as imposing and influential a figure as I had ever come across. He would appear in dressing rooms, recording studios, at gigs, at aftershow parties. He would normally be on a cocktail of alcohol and mind-altering substances. He would always create a scene and proclaim us as the saviours of the English music industry. But more importantly, he would stir the imagination of Noel Gallagher, at whose he feet he would lay the glory. This acclaim certainly matched Noel’s own ideas about himself and his ambitions, and so the new Noel was born. The introduction of a record contract and the financial allure was just all too intoxicating. The Noel of old had left us and a new one had arrived. I found out that I didn’t really like the new Noel and I know now that he didn’t much like me. In fact, he didn’t like many people.

  The first man Alan McGee introduced us to was The Man Who Can. The Man Who Can was under instruction to turn us into the most reckless and wild rock ’n’ roll act in town. His name derived from the fact that he was the man who could provide everything we might need. The first ingredient he introduced to the mix was pure, undiluted cocaine. Not available on the streets of Manchester, but available to us on demand. He would cater for our every need and actively encourage us to party. He was an extremely likeable chap, which I suppose was a pre for his role. He got on with the whole band and could also be used as a barometer of popularity. He would divide his treats equally between the band and would always be on the lookout for you.

  ‘Do you want a taxi? What about her? Do you like her? Do you wanna key? Do you wanna drink?’ At aftershows he would circle around us on constant loop, just to ensure we were sufficiently provided with an endless supply of vice and debauchery. Any subsequent fallout from all this drink and drug consumption would be leaked immediately to the papers.

  We didn’t actually sign on the dotted line; we were simply told we had a record contract. We were going to be invested in and would get to record all the material from the Bootle sessions. I was absolutely fuckin’ ecstatic.

  We arrived at rehearsals to find Bonehead missing, as he was packing cardboard boxes at home, all set to move house. This was the first rehearsal Bonehead had missed in three years. Noel was not happy. At first we thought he was joking as he himself had missed most of the rehearsals for the last 12 months. It seemed he wasn’t.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ Noel told Bonehead over the phone. ‘Either get down here or I’m gonna sack you.’ His eyes then widened as Bonehead told him what he thought of him and also informed him he was on the way down to kick his fuckin’ head in. Noel laughed this off, but you could see the fear darting away behind his eyes. We made our way outside to await the impending arrival of Bonehead. We waited in silence – but for the occasional fart from the ever-flatulent Guigs.

  ‘You should stop eating at that takeaway,’ Noel joked as he shuffled nervously, trying to make light of things. But you could see the tension in him. Liam told him that he shouldn’t speak to people the way he did. Before Noel could reply, Bonehead rattled round the corner in his white Austin A40, which had been built in the fifties. His windows were down and he rolled towards us slowly. You could hear the intro of House of Pain’s ‘Jump Around’ screaming away. I was thinking that maybe Bonehead was gonna do a really slow drive-by, when the car pulled to a halt. He hopped out, his face red with rage.

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ he started. ‘You can’t fuckin’ sack me.’

  He then blasted Noel, who stood there wearing a sullen look. You could see that Noel was not really listening to him. He was just trying to figure out how to get away from a potential slapping. Bonehead was not a happy man and looked like he was about to start swinging.

  Liam then jumped in and defended Bonehead, which gave Noel a timely and dignified escape route. ‘Yeah, you fuckin’ support him,’ Noel hissed at Liam and turned on his heels. I suppose this was the first indication of how New Noel perceived himself. We were all shocked. Including Liam.

  The ‘masterplan’ was first mentioned in Noel’s flat; he had moved into India House in Manchester city centre with his girlfriend, Louise. Noel was extremely proud of his city-centre living, as it moved him away from Burnage. I would drive over after I’d finished work and we would hang around until it was time for rehearsal.

  BigUn was already there when I arrived. From the speed and content of the conversation between him and Noel, I guessed they had already started on the white line. Louise, as ever, was at work. She worked in the music media and had met Noel through the Inspiral Carpets. She was a
genuine and likeable girl who had time for everyone. I was thinking that there would be hell to pay if anyone else in the band turned up for rehearsals changed out of their minds but, hey, there you go. At that time, it was curtains if you missed a rehearsal – as had been proved in the Bonehead incident.

  ‘I have a masterplan,’ began Noel. When he said ‘I’, everyone present thought he probably meant Alan McGee. He then began to explain how we could guarantee certain success for ourselves. ‘It’s the media that sells records, not the band. We need to be more cocksure than the Roses, more fucking mental than the Mondays and at least make sure we’ve got better tunes than Cunt Balloon. And we’ve got Liam. It’s a simple game, get with it, boys.’

  It seemed that both McGee and Noel sometimes had a low estimation of the average music-buying fan. Noel often called them ‘sheeple’. I laughed and told him that good music was surely the most important factor. Noel shook his head and replied, ‘All we’ve got to do is give them something they can relate to. If we keep telling everyone we’re the best band in the world, sooner or later they’re gonna believe it.’

  ‘What’s the rest of the masterplan?’ I ask, half teasing.

  Noel went red and shifted on his feet. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he muttered. It seemed as if he had suddenly become defensive about what he had told us.

  We made our way to The Boardwalk for rehearsals, but it seemed that Noel’s mind was somewhere else. After a poor evening, when we drank and smoked more than we played, we decided that we should pack up and go for a drink in the boozer. We headed off to Dukes in Castlefield, where we scraped enough together for a session. When we’d spent the lot, we headed back to Noel’s flat to finish the chemicals that had been started earlier.

  After we finally stumbled through the door, Noel began to tell us how Alan McGee knew he was special. How Alan McGee had plans for him. How Alan McGee had told him that, without him, the band was nothing. I looked at BigUn, with my eyebrows raised. I suspected that Noel was divulging more information than he should due to the evening’s drinking and coke consumption. BigUn smiled back and shook his head. He then urged Noel to continue. Noel told us how McGee was going to get him a Rolls-Royce and had talked about how mega stars (such as he would become) sometimes even got knighthoods.

  It seemed that Noel and Alan McGee were now thick as thieves but I noticed that Noel had started talking about just him and not the band as a whole. I asked him, ‘What the fuck would a working-class lad from Manchester do with a knighthood?’

  Noel told me that I would never understand. He was probably right. Everything we stood for had been based on revolution and being against the establishment. We sang about drugs and fighting. All our lives. We were the underclass. We came from the north of Thatcherite Britain. From the city. We left the city centre in the early hours and through the familiar rain jibbed the train back to Levenshulme.

  The transformation of Noel from a fairly level-headed friend and bandmate into a possible nominee for the Queen’s New Year honours list had been a rapid one.

  We were asked to read up on all things Beatle and to this end books were purchased and records continually played. Liam took the piss by telling Noel only to refer to him as John, as in John Lennon. He also talked in a Scouse accent for three days solid, which Noel didn’t find very funny. The Beatle sound that McGee had jumped on was a direct result of The Real People’s melodic Scouse influence.

  The following evening at rehearsals, we laughed at Noel’s fragile state and referred to the chat about the masterplan. I poked fun at his desire to get himself knighted and declared my admiration for LS Lowry, a local artist who had turned down more honours than any man in the history of this country. Liam asked what I was talking about, so I began to recall the previous night’s conversation.

  Liam listened and then we started to sing ‘Matchstalk Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs’, maintaining the LS Lowry connection. Everyone roared with laughter.

  After the success of the first two Oasis albums, Alan McGee partly fulfilled his prophecy by buying Noel a chocolate-coloured Rolls Royce, as promised.

  If I was ever to refer to the masterplan again in the future, ‘Shut the fuck up’ would become the standard response from Noel. I guessed we were right in thinking that he had never meant to give so much away.

  By nine that evening, we’d polished up ‘Cigarettes & Alcohol’ and it was now a great fuckin’ song to play on. We’d laughed our arses off when we’d first started rehearsing it in Bootle. Bonehead had shouted, ‘Whoah, whoah, we can’t play that!’

  Noel stood in the corner, looking indignant. ‘What the fuck do you mean, we can’t play that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s T.Rex, for fuck’s sake. Everyone’s gonna rip the fucking piss.’ Noel stared Bonehead down and then started the riff again, only louder. He did not take any notice.

  After rehearsal Noel said that he wanted us to stay out of Levenshulme. No drinking there and no socialising. The band and the entourage were from Levenshulme, so this would cause murders. But Noel knew that. I thought that I shouldn’t have poked fun at the masterplan, and we definitely shouldn’t have sung the Lowry song.

  Alan McGee planted the seed, but couldn’t be around to watch it grow. For starters, he got himself caught up in the Los Angeles earthquake, which shook his equilibrium in more ways than one. His energy had driven the band on no end. His work had left us with different Noel, though, and with this there would be casualties aplenty. The first indication of how things now were came quickly enough. Creation had fronted us £1,000 for equipment. Nice one. I was told that Noel had his eyes on a new guitar. When Noel asked me if I needed anything I simply replied, ‘Skins.’ Twenty quid’s worth. That was it. He continued to ask each of the group what they wanted. Liam wanted a microphone, Bonehead needed his amp fixed. Guigs didn’t ask, but it was suggested that he needed a new pair of shoes. I thought they looked good. When Noel turned up at rehearsal that evening, he was clutching a new £800 guitar. He looked ecstatic. I asked if he had managed to pick up my skins. He laughed and told me, ‘I’ve arranged for a gold-plated drum key to be made instead for you. It’s in the post.’

  Liam had his microphone and Bonehead had a working amp. Guigs even had a new pair of fuckin’ shoes. It was a silly argument, but it was one I had to have. I told him to stop being a prick and it was not long before things got out of hand. We ended up outside The Boardwalk. I was straight into Noel’s face. ‘What the fuck is your problem? Gold-plated drum key? You offered to buy me something and it’s not the fact that I can’t have it, Noel, it’s your attitude.’

  I suppose I was the first to react to New Noel, which in itself was inevitable. Bonehead had stepped back from confrontation since his argument with Noel and had diplomatically placed himself back on the fence, while Guigs seemed to be siding with Noel. You can’t count Liam, who had been clashing with Noel on a daily basis for the previous 20 years. New Noel or Old made no difference to Liam. The rest of the band stood with their mouths wide open at the situation. It was one of only two times me and Noel had a serious confrontation. This one was not as fatal as the next.. I told him that right is right, and Liam suddenly voiced his agreement. ‘It’s my money and I can do want I want with it, dickhead,’ Noel shouted back at Liam, the attention deflected. He continued, now with a more composed look on his face. ‘Alan McGee says I’m in charge.’

  If this was Noel’s way of backing off, it wasn’t working for me. I would not have him try to get the better of me. I stood and looked at him. The record company had only just waved a cheque book under his nose and he’d already hit the rock ’n’ roll cliché trail. I wondered what was happening to him. He had been such a good lad. But I would not back down. Right is right, even if everyone is against it; and wrong is wrong, even if everyone is for it. After Jimmy the Butt’s departure, this had become even more important to me.

  ‘In charge?’ I reminded him of Liam, Bonehead, myself and even Guigs. I reminded him of Tony and Chr
is Griffiths. I reminded him of BigUn. ‘It’s not just about you, Noel. Why do you have to be such a fuckin’ miserable twat?’

  For a moment, he seemed to crack. There was a look in his eye and he opened his mouth. Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. He simply turned away and left. He cut a forlorn figure in the Manchester drizzle, guitar case in hand. As he faded from view, the rest of the band stood and looked at each other with raised eyebrows. As the great Mr Dylan once said, the times they were a changing.

  They were changing at home as well. The rehearsals and time spent away from home had finally taken its toll. Paula had simply had enough. I could understand her frustrations at my absence but never believed it would result in us splitting. But it did.

  Noel rang me a few days later. ‘Look, I’m not ringing with my tail between my legs but can we just get back to rehearsing tomorrow and getting this right? I know how important you are.’

  Things were beginning to move fast now. It seemed that Noel had handed our demo to Ian Marr. Ian was a likeable chap who turned up regularly around Manchester gigs and was an actor. To be honest, though, the only thing I’d ever seen him in was Tesco’s. Ian’s brother was Johnny Marr from The Smiths. After Johnny had listened to the demo he had sent back word he was impressed enough to organise a meeting with Noel. During this meeting, he had recommended a manager by the name of Marcus Russell. Noel was relaying the events in an excited manner. He told of his drinking session and a trip the next day in Johnny’s car to visit a retro guitar shop in Yorkshire. I looked at him in admiration. When Noel had a sniff of an opportunity, he would be on a full-blown Mancunian charm offensive. You had to give him credit for front.