Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

  After he had left, Tony Griffiths pulled me into a side room and looked at me with real anger on his face. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you’re gonna get your sticks and you’re gonna do exactly what I say. You are the fucking drummer in this band, not that fucking cockney wide boy out there. Remember that, La.’

  After these words, he went and whispered something in Bonehead’s ear. He then thanked the session drummer for his time and as he shuffled out I took my place behind the kit. Bonehead looked at me and laughed. ‘I’ve been slipping your missus one for the last twelve months, you know, Tony,’ he said. ‘She’s good, real good.’ The rage descended. but I quickly realised what Bonehead was doing. I started the song with the image of Bonehead writhing around with me missus planted in my mind. The anger transposed itself and I blasted the fuck out of the kit for the next four minutes. Everything else was irrelevant as I banged away and finally finished, to cheers from Bonehead and Liam. I’d fucking done it. Like, the first take.

  Tony Griffiths returned and gave me the thumbs up. He told me that he was going to deal with Noel and suggested that I go and grab a Benson. Upon Noel’s return, Tony asked him to listen to the latest recording. Noel listened and smiled as he realised it was beat perfect. Rather craftily, Tony didn’t tell Noel it was me. I was sitting outside, finishing my cigarette, when Noel joined me. He told me he had just listened to the last recording and commented that it was perfect. ‘Just how the drumming should be,’ he added, with a smile.

  I looked him square in the eye and agreed. He looked confused until I explained it was me on the recording. Then he began to look irritated.

  Also present that day was a new producer we had brought on board. Owen Morris had been a sound engineer at Spaceward in Cambridge since he was 16. He was given ‘Slide Away’ and asked to see if he could do anything with it. It was a fantastic opportunity for him, which he duly grasped. After a couple of weeks, he returned with his mix. We all sat and listened. Afterwards, we simply sat and looked at each other. Owen had found the ‘oomph’ that had been missing and had amplified it five times. He had also ramped up the drumming, which suited me fine. We finally had our producer for Definitely Maybe.

  We took Owen out on the drink as a way of celebration, which turned into a messy one. At one point, he was telling Noel that he sounded like Slash from Guns N’Roses and that he ought to cut it out. That pissed Noel off, but not as much as when he told him to turn me up. Owen’s brilliance with Definitely Maybe led to him being inundated with offers and his next and second job was to produce the critically acclaimed Urban Hymns for The Verve.

  We were later told we were to attend a very important Sony showcase in Amsterdam. It seemed that the global leaders of Sony Music were gathering to hear their new acquisition perform. The day itself, we marched on to the ferry already well on our way, due to the copious amounts of powder that we had shovelled up our noses. Once again, Noel wasn’t looking happy. He later tried to pass off this unhappiness as some kind of professional thing, but the rest of the band knew it was just him being sulky. Even Liam had noticed the change and was intent on getting hammered. With Liam it was as much out of embarrassment as frustration.

  This was the real thing. We were going to Amsterdam. In the transit van we all huddled down, trying to be inconspicuous as we parked in the belly of the vessel. It was never going to happen, and we were under constant scrutiny as soon as we embarked. After more drinks at the bar, and after banging some more down in the toilets, we were confronted by Noel. He was still sore from the previous time we’d ignored what he had asked us to do and warned each of us that if we fucked up he would rub our noses in it when we got to Amsterdam. You’d better believe we’d be rubbing our noses in it when we got to Amsterdam, I thought. I had got talking to a German lady who was sat in the bar. Her English was very good, so she fully understood the nonsense I was spilling out. Within a few minutes we were upstairs on the deck. A few minutes later, we were riding like teenagers, her tights ripped and torn due to the urgency of the situation.

  When we returned to the bar, it was in uproar. Liam had insulted a German guy who was looking for his wife and there had been a proper kick-off. I vanished sharpish as the crew gathered together to round up the culprits. After some chasing down, me, Guigs, Bonehead and Liam sat surrounded by ship crew. As well as being blamed for causing an affray, we were also being accused of stealing champagne and Jack Daniel’s as well as using forged money. There was still a definite attitude about us, which did not help the situation. After the Dutch police had arrived, and before McGuigan could point out anybody who might be Spartacus, I stepped forward and offered the explanation that the man that had instigated the riot was surely the German who had been mouthing it rather than us.

  ‘We shouldn’t be held responsible,’ I finished. I had no defence for the other allegations, though. That was because there was no defence. It was us, guvnor. Fair cop. We were then handcuffed and frog-marched off the boat.

  I remember Noel in the port, standing the other side of a rusty chain fence, simply shaking his head in disbelief. One by one we passed him, our heads hung in mock shame. His disbelief soon turned to anger as we all fell about laughing. Yes, it was unprofessional but fuck this, we weren’t pretending to be a rock ’n’ roll band, we were fucking being one. Once again we made the pages of The Manchester Evening News. We also made the Ten O’Clock News on national television. My mum wasn’t as proud that time.

  March 1994. We had to be at Channel 4’s studios for three o’clock; we were to appear on The Word. Noel was smiling and genuinely excited. He had finally got over his disgust at our behaviour on the ferry.

  Noel’s girl Louise worked with Word presenter Terry Christian’s girl and Noel had mithered Terry sufficiently enough for him to organise a slot on the show for us. This was our first television appearance after the Alvin Stardust debacle and we were all happy-nervous again. Liam was itching to add some substance to his life, but Noel was adamant that we all stay clean until after the show.

  We all headed off for a show that at least this time was guaranteed to be broadcast. We hoped. Terry Christian was hosting. Although he was on The List, we all found him to be a genuine and likeable chap, just doing his thing. We slammed out ‘Supersonic’ as a psychedelic backdrop gyrated behind us on screens and scantily clad young ladies danced round my kit. It was an electric performance and Liam’s cocksureness came right out the bank of TV screens behind me. Although we hadn’t got Tony Griffiths on backing vocals, I knew he’d be watching us. We finished as Bonehead wrapped his arm round Hufty and licked the top of her head with his tongue. It was then time to hit the bar, where we had a gaggle of giggling girls waiting for us.

  When I think back now, we sort of went round it in an upside-down way. Most bands will meet and over the next five years will rehearse, sign a contract, appear in the media and then fall out. Oasis? Before we got a record deal we had been together for years. Before we released a record we had appeared on the national news, we had appeared in the national papers and had now performed live to nearly three million people. Everybody had heard of Oasis and Liam and Noel Gallagher. The machine had begun working overtime before we even started. How could we fail?

  CHAPTER 5

  BONEHEAD THE VIKING: UK TOUR

  PERSONNEL LIST

  BAND

  Liam Gallagher, vocals

  Noel Gallagher, guitar

  Paul Arthurs, guitar

  Paul McGuigan, bass guitar

  Tony McCarroll, drums

  CREW

  Margaret Mouzakitis, tour manager (joined 7 May)

  Jason Rhodes, production manager

  Mark Coyle, sound engineer

  Phil Smith, backline technician

  So we gave them what they wanted. Full out rock ’n’ roll lunatic behaviour. The chief culprit of this lunacy, though, was without doubt Bonehead. I guess at first I was a willing participant, but I soon learned to restrain myself. The money for smashed TVs and win
dows and cleaning and minibars would be deducted immediately from our pay. That very week. It was leading me to the point where I had no money to eat. Bonehead’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. Noel would be locked away readying his ‘we’re off our heads us’ quotes for following day’s paper and Liam would be busy with the local female talent. Meanwhile, Bonehead went on a one-man tirade across England with full endorsement from all those surrounding him.

  28 MARCH 1994. JUG OF ALE, MOSELEY, BIRMINGHAM

  We arrived at the gig and as Guigs headed for the toilet the rest of us tried to find the dressing room. It turned out that the toilet Guigs was urinating in was to double as our dressing room. We all crammed in and our faces were centimetres from each other; then we laughed and decided to use the back of the van instead. We had begun this tour with a band I mentioned earlier, called Whiteout. Unfortunately for them, though, the hype surrounding us was escalating madly and after our set the venues would empty. Now, if this was a night when Whiteout were headlining, that would leave them playing to an empty room. We decided, therefore, that it would be better if we headlined the tour.

  30 MARCH 1994. FLEECE & FIRKIN, BRISTOL

  It was a cold night and I was glad I was a drummer. Five minutes into the set and the blood was coursing around my veins as I pounded away. I was soon warmed up. It was another good shift and the fans seemed to be getting more hysterical by the day. Afterwards, Mani from The Stone Roses arrived in the dressing room, which led to a mammoth drinking session. This was continued back at the hotel, where Noel suggested we adopt Mani as the new Oasis bass player. Guigs didn’t see the funny side of that suggestion. I’d always found Mani to be a proper chap, a good guy. His musical knowledge was immense, as was his ability to party. Both those talents saw him held in high esteem by the whole band. He also provided a lot of banter, due to his being a United fan. If drummers had their traits, then so did bass players. Their trait came in the shape of borrowing £20 every time they met you in the boozer, which they never give you back. It seemed BigUn had the same problem with Peter Hook. Only joking, Mani!

  11 APRIL 1994. ‘SUPERSONIC’ RELEASED. REACHED NO. 31 ON THE SINGLES CHART

  Our first recording was unleashed on the British public. I know it sounds easy to declare after the event that we were sure we’d make it, but that is how it was. We knew we were good. We knew we were better than good. The first-ever aural offering from the band was my hi-hat and bass drum. The same beat that had been a simple soundcheck jam in a room full of lunacy in Liverpool was soon joined by a ferocious rhythm and Liam’s pleading vocal.

  It still gives me tingles when I hear it now. The B-side, ‘Take me Away’, was a homage to Johnny Bramwell, Noel’s earliest influence, and is as beautiful a record as Noel has ever written to this day.

  13 APRIL 1994. THE LOMAX, LIVERPOOL

  ‘Supersonic’ had just been released, had been received well by the music press and was selling well. We were ecstatic. We made our way back to Liverpool, where we had recorded the song less than 12 months earlier. We were playing The Lomax, which had been recommended to us by The Real People. As ever in Scouse, the crowd were appreciative and we responded by playing a blinder. Each gig was seeing a more and more confident Liam, which in turn made the rest of the band more confident. We were met backstage by the Realies and another Liverpudlian genius, Pete Wylie. Once again it was gin and tonic and Stella until The Man who Can arrived with the goodtime. There was an air of exuberance in the dressing room until the group chatter suddenly died. I looked over to the door to see if I could spot the cause of the silence. Standing there, looking like a bunch of comedy villains, were The Farm. We’d always ripped The Farm among ourselves, but recently Noel had taken to doing it in the press. As a truce, they had brought a signed photograph along with them to hand to us. Noel made his way over and Peter Hooton, the lead singer, handed over the photograph and offered his hand in peace. Noel ignored the hand, looked at the photo, then immediately dropped it in a bin. The Farm looked for a moment as if they were going to boot off but instead left without saying another word. It was a bit harsh I thought, and I guess The Farm must have thought the same, for as we attempted to leave later we found that someone had let down all the tyres of both our transit vans.

  We stayed back at the Realies’ studio in Bootle. It was a good place to go back to. Good memories. The building itself was a mishmash of rooms. One was a dedicated party area. Then we had the kitchen. Well, sort of a kitchen. There was even a room full of beds for those late-night recording sessions. I worked my way through these rooms, by now well under the influence. There was a small recreational room at the end of one of the corridors, with a tattered old pool table and a battered television. I guess it was there to provide recreation. Not for me, though. Instead, I was more interested in the chubby blonde girl playing with her hair in the corner. I looked her up and down. She was your typical Scouser. Overmade and underdressed. She was also extremely heavy set. If she fell down the stairs you’d think you’d just heard EastEnders finishing. Sorry if I sound a touch stereotypical, but that’s how it was.

  ‘Ja wanna watch a zee vee zee wid me?’ she asked. This translated into English as ‘Do you want to watch a DVD with me?’

  ‘Not really, kid. Any chance of a fuck?’ I replied.

  I’d always believed in the direct approach. I couldn’t be mithered with a conversation if one obviously wasn’t required. We shuffled off to the overnight room. She was definitely more playdough than Playboy, but as I said I was well gone by this stage. As we settled down and I began my exploratory mission, I suddenly became aware of a doughnut magically floating in the air to the side of me. Upon further investigation, I realised this was no conjuror’s trick, for the doughnut was attached to the penis of The Real People’s drummer, who had stealthily entered the room. Like a zoo keeper enticing an elephant with a bun, he was intent on luring her away. My sexual cravings came a sorry second to hers for sugar, so I made a sharp exit and later told Noel about it. He was good to speak to for advice, as he had been on the road for a couple of years. I asked him about the groupie thing. He laughed and told me not to worry too much about it, as I wouldn’t have to.

  29 APRIL 1994. THE ADELPHI CLUB, HULL

  We headed to the fisherman’s Vegas, Kingston upon Hull, and the Adelphi Club. The new executive tour bus had arrived, looking very similar to the standard transit van we had been touring in for the previous two years. ‘Hit the big time have we?’ muttered Bonehead as we threw ourselves into the van. Our disappointment was soon overcome, though, by the excitement of a new tour.

  30 APRIL 1994. COVENTRY UNIVERSITY, COVENTRY

  Liam was not happy. He had just spotted the rack of shirts that a roadie was pushing towards the hotel for Noel. There must have been 15 designer numbers hanging there, all of them pressed and ironed. The rest of us had the clothes we were stood in and a spare pair of gruds. Fortunately, we still had the three boxes of trainers in the van. After gigs, we would open the back and have a quick car boot sale, which would raise enough cash to keep us going. Noel would still demand his cut, though.

  1 MAY 1994. LEVENSHULME, MANCHESTER

  We’d got a couple of days off. I’d sometimes taken to staying at BigUn’s on Kettering Road when I was back in Levenshulme. Liam had been lodging there as well, but you had to be careful. It was always an adventure around BigUn. When we returned that morning, we found a new house guest. Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins, the emotional Irish snooker player, had found his way into my bedroom. In the kitchen, BigUn stood over a frying pan of bacon and told me that Alex would only be here a night or two and then I could have my bed back. It seemed that the snooker star had fallen on hard times and BigUn was playing Samaritan. Liam was laughing, as he has his bed secured. Suddenly, the Hurricane appeared at the door to the kitchen, looking extremely unkempt. It seemed he had slept in his clothes and already there was a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. His eyes were glassy and the cigarette moved up and down as h
e mumbled that he was hungry. We were introduced and then I watched as he wolfed down the breakfast that BigUn had knocked up for us. Liam and Mr Higgins got on famously and it was not long before we shelved our plans to rest for the day and decided to head down to The Church pub instead. In no time at all, the Hurricane was hustling at the pool table. He took small bets and was as entertaining and charming a fellow as I had ever met. In the space of an hour’s drinking, though, he was betting against the meanest and most vicious hard men that the pub could offer. Enormous sums of cash, which we knew he didn’t have. He had also taken to ridiculing any fan that might approach him. It seemed that whisky had the same effect on Mr Higgins as water had on a gremlin. Things went downhill fast. At one point, he sat down, bladdered, on a chair offered up to him by a middle-aged female snooker fan. He promptly told her she was a right fatty and that the standing up would do her good. Charming. There was a general unrest in the boozer about his behaviour, so before he got strung up we moved him to a quieter hostelry and continued our session there.

  We headed home and as we were playing a gig the next day, Alex kindly let me sleep in my own bed. The sleep was not uninterrupted, though. During the early hours, I awoke in a panic. My senses had given off an alarm. The acrid smell of smoke had filtered into the room. I bolted upright to find BigUn stood at my bedroom door in nothing but a pair of underpants, shouting, ‘Fire! Fire!’ I wasn’t sure what scared me most, the prospect of a fire or the sight of BigUn in his undies. He moved off to wake the rest of the inhabitants and we burst down the stairs to escape. When we reached the bottom, we opened the door to the downstairs room. The smoke was billowing from the cooker. The state of severe shock I was in notched up a level when BigUn whipped off his undies. He covered his mouth and nose with them and then crawled naked across the floor to the cooker and turned the gas off. The smoke began to subside. To speed the process, I opened the front door and as the vacuum cleared the smoke two things were revealed. Firstly, there was an unconscious Alex Higgins lying on the sofa. Whether unconscious through the beer or the smoke, we did not know. Secondly, we discovered the source of the smoke cloud: a Fray Bentos pie sat, still encased in its metal packaging, in the middle of the frying pan. It was blackened and still emitting heat. We managed to rouse Alex by means of cold water and shouting loudly. When he finally became aware of his surroundings, a smoke-damaged room and a naked BigUn, it seemed the only thing he wanted to do was eat his pie.