Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

  Although the performance at the Whisky had been shambolic, to say the least, it wasn’t as if it had been the first time we’d fucked up.

  We were due to play the Casbah in San Diego that evening, but without our songwriter, backing vocalist and lead guitarist, we might find this difficult. We were told to hang loose around the hotel and not to get into any trouble. Marcus was still unhappy and it looked like the whole tour might be cancelled. Gigs in Arizona and Salt Lake City were pulled. We hung loose around the hotel.

  1 OCTOBER 1994–6 OCTOBER 1994. LOS ANGELES

  We were still in LA, with Liam conducting a few interviews. Asked why he felt the tour was not going as planned, he replied, ‘Americans want grungy people stabbing themselves in the head on stage. They get a bright bunch like us with deodorant on, they don’t get it.’

  Bright? Deodorant? We all fell about laughing. As usual, the mood lifted when Noel was absent. It was six long days lying round the pool mashed on a mixture of cocktails and drugs.

  When Noel did finally return, we all sat down for a clear-the-air meeting. It had been agreed that Bonehead should be our spokesperson and explain that the rest of us understood why he had been upset. When he started, though, Noel cut him short and said that he didn’t ever want the event to be discussed again. He then started up a tirade that he must have stored up inside him since walking off the stage at the Whisky. We all sat and listened, as we had said we would.

  He was back.

  Me and Noel were sitting in the bar later. I was arguing my case for the drumming fraternity, but Noel was having none it. One of the main problems was that Noel considered himself to be a better drummer than Ringo Starr.

  ‘Ringo is very underrated as a drummer,’ I told Noel. If you listen to The Beatles, you can hear how musical he was and how the songs would not have been the same without him. Little things count, like a certain skip in just the right place. You can hear his embellishments and great timing all through the music. There are plenty of people that can tear it up on a drum set, technically speaking, and yet still not contribute anything useful to a band’s music. There is more than one way to be good. Most good sticksmen, and I’ve known a few, would tell you that Ringo is a very good drummer and essential to The Beatles’ sound.

  Noel argued his case. ‘But nowhere near as good as Mitch Mitchell. He can fill gaps with drumrolls and more drumrolls’. Mitch Mitchell was the drummer with The Jimi Hendrix Experience

  I told him his argument fell down because, ‘It’s a little like saying Johnny Marr is not a great guitar player because he can’t play as fast as Jimi Hendrix, but Jimi could not play with the wonderful fire that only Johnny Marr seemed to have.’ He agreed, which left me shocked. I had made an opinion and it hadn’t been decimated in front of me. Maybe things were changing. Maybe, just maybe, Old Noel was making a return. This warm feeling of hope lasted about a day.

  7 OCTOBER 1994. THE CONGRESS HOUSE STUDIO, AUSTIN

  The name implied a purpose-built recording studio. The reality was a spooky old weathered wooden frame house that would have looked more at home in an episode of Scooby-Doo. A mishmash of recording kit had been accumulated there over the years, starting in the early forties by the looks of it.

  ‘How are the boys doing?’ An accent as deep as the Welsh valleys themselves suddenly boomed out. Owen Morris had been flown in to take control of the recording. Everyone was happy knowing the music was in his capable hands. I gave him a bear hug and was genuinely pleased to see him. A new face on tour, even if only for a few days.

  I arranged to go out with him. You were always guaranteed a heavy night out: although he looked unassuming, Owen could still out-drink us all. He was a genuinely good man, though, in an otherwise dirty business. We headed out and we soon had the fire burning in the belly. As usual, he was lively company, and had all the locals going.

  At one point, he pulled me to one side. ‘Noel keeps having a go at your drumming, but I keep tellin’ him he wants to be looking at the bass, not the drums. He doesn’t want to listen, though, if you know what I mean.’ I knew what he meant. Them was the breaks, I guess.

  Owen then told me that it was my drumming that gave the first album its kick. I respected him and that opinion meant a lot to me. Noel’s recent harassment had been directed at my drumming skills – he had decided to leave my hair, clothes, shoes, toothpaste, girlfriend and ‘Irishness’ alone for the moment. It seemed when he only focused on one subject he became even more hostile. Brilliant.

  While we were in Austin, Noel told us he had a new song and, sitting down with his guitar, he played us ‘Half the World Away’. I laughed. I had suggested adapting the drum shuffle from Burt Bacharach’s ‘This Guy’s in Love With You’. Instead, Noel seemed to have adapted the whole song and renamed it ‘Half the World Away’. I pointed this out to him, and suggested that the original drum pattern be used.

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to play it,’ he replied, coldly.

  It was a simple as pattern as they come, so I played it in front of him and everyone else. I had been practising since we spoke about it. Owen sang along, smiling. Noel pulled the sticks from my hands and told me to stop. It was time for a break.

  The break lasted an hour and by the time I had returned Noel had recorded the drum track himself. Jesus. He had only to ask rather than going through the charade. There lay the problem, though. He had to ask and he doesn’t like asking. Doesn’t really like giving, either. As I left, I got a thumbs-up and a knowing wink from Owen. The big Welshman is Spartan all over.

  We released our fourth single from the album. It was the song that Bonehead had at first refused to play. ‘Cigarettes & Alcohol’ was a great song, our biggest hit yet at No.7 on the UK charts and an anthem for the nineties. But it didn’t half cause us some problems. Look at NME:

  Take a look at Oasis on the cover of ‘Cigarettes & Alcohol’. There they are, slumped round a four-poster in an immaculately untidy hotel room. They’ve got the beer, the champagne, the girls, They’ve even got a pitiful hanger-on to sit at the front, cockiness incarnate, arms aloft in triumph. It’s a vile image, arrogance turned fetid and corrupted, and the best illustration yet why Oasis’ laddishness is, ultimately, so useless. The witless and emotionally impotent hide in gangs. They sublimate character and feeling to banalities and clichés borne of boy’sown dreams. They never dare reveal their true selves in case their friends laugh at them. Pathetic.

  Oasis are by no means alone in British pop of course. The utterly obnoxious Cult of the Lad had taken a nasty grip in 1994, thanks to the likes of Primal Scream, Shed Seven, These Animal Men, the worst bits of wannabe lads Blur and practically every poxy nouveau mod bunch of chancers loitering, clannishly, in the darkest corners of Camden. Certain magazines even shape themselves around this post PC world of ‘football and tits’ where no real man’s allowed to show a humane gentle, likeable side… Not us, mate.

  Oasis are the worst culprits by a mile, though. Scared they’ll be ridiculed for exposing actual emotions, what do they fill their allegedly classic songs with? Lyrics about their friend’s passion for Lasagne. Cheers. I’m moved. Some of the best songs have had simple lyrics but ‘I’m feeling supersonic/give me gin and tonic’? COME ON!

  God forbid that there should ever be hard and fast rules about what rock bands should and shouldn’t do. But, for the most part, I want one of two things: bands who sing imaginatively, emotively and truthfully, who are brave enough to look foolish and vulnerable in the eyes of their audience and – this is the really tough bit – in the eyes of their mates; or bands who are freaky, challenging, just out there. I want Suede, and REM, more people like Kurt Cobain – the sort lads sneer at as ‘whining losers’.

  I don’t want any more bands that look like the snarling thugs that have to use their fists to make a point, who’d try to beat anyone who’s just a bit feminine, or different, or – perish the thought – weak. And, no, I don’t want any more bands like Oasis, clubbing together to cover
up the inadequacies that, if they had any sense, they’d flaunt.

  Maybe Huggy Bear’s war on boy rock wasn’t such a bad idea after all…

  John Mulvey

  14 OCTOBER 1994. THE UPTOWN BAR, MINNEAPOLIS

  Finally, we restarted the tour. We arrived in Minneapolis and crossed the Mississippi River. I told Noel about the famous quote from Mark Twain: ‘I would like to live in Manchester, England. The transition between Manchester and death would be unnoticeable.’ I laughed after telling him.

  Noel looked at me like I was mad.

  ‘Mark Twain didn’t fuckin’ say that, you knob. Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn.’ I fought my corner, but Noel told Guigs and they took the piss in unison until we reached the hotel, another Holiday Inn. That night we were booked to perform at The Uptown Bar in Minneapolis. The large green neon letters spelled ‘Uptown’ high into the night sky. After an uneventful gig, we boarded our silver bus and headed down another godforsaken route towards another godforsaken city.

  15 OCTOBER 1994. THE METRO, CHICAGO

  We arrived in Chicago to stay at Days Inn on West Diversey. In some cities we had day rooms only, due to the fact we would travel overnight. This was one of them. And I was fucking ecstatic. Sleeping while in motion didn’t seem to be as refreshing as sleeping in a normal bed, it seemed.

  I retired to my day room with Guigs still rattling on about Mark Twain. ‘Give it a rest, Guigs, and go and read a book about Mark Twain,’ I told him. ‘You may even learn something that way.’

  I’d stopped reacting to Guigs’s pokes and insults since the incident in the hotel foyer in Japan. I was disappointed that he had jumped on Noel’s bandwagon, but hardly surprised. One of the reasons for the friction between me and Noel was the fact that I would sometimes disagree with his views or actions and would say so. That was how I was raised: defend yourself and express your views, whatever the circumstances. Guigs, on the other hand, was a follower not a leader.

  That evening, we played the Metro on Clarke Street. Afterwards, we were sat at yet another meet-and-greet. A suit from the record company stood at the head of the table. His round face was positively glowing with a mixture of red wine and enjoyment. His dinner suit and those around him clashed with the street wear that the band was wearing. On occasions such as these, we agreed to a forced compromise: we didn’t wear trainers. It was desert boots all round.

  ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to have our English friends here with us this evening. A potential superband that we will endeavour to support and drive throughout the American continent. I’m sure when you have a moment in their time later you will find, like me, they are a truly determined and dedicated group and it’s a pleasure to have them as my friends.’

  Who the fuck was this clown? I looked at Noel and started laughing. Noel frowned back at me – which left him with no eyeballs, owing to his eyebrows. My laugh wasn’t loud enough to be overheard, but still Noel hissed. ‘Shut it, dickhead.’

  This fucked me right off. The balloon in the suit at the top of the table claiming to be our mate was typical of the back-slapping, corporate bullshit that we had slagged off earlier. ‘What, so he’s your best fuckin’ mate, is he?’ I fired back, angrily.

  ‘Well as it happens, yeah, I have met him and he’s fucking sound. Now shut the fuck up.’ The argument was starting to get the attention of the room, so I shut up as Noel sat glowering at me. Here we go again, I thought.

  The MD continued. ‘And now it gives me the greatest pleasure to introduce you to the musical genius that is Norton Gallagher.’ I nearly choked on my drink as I tried to contain my laughter. I looked at Noel, who was staring at me with enough hatred to melt a holy candle. Liam was sitting next to Noel and his face lit up with laughter. The suit cum stand-up comedian carried on with his shtick. ‘With his trusty sidekick and younger brother, Leland.’ The amusement had vanished from Liam’s face. The man’s gotta be fucking joking, I thought. Even Guigs started to laugh. Noel had now gone crimson and I guessed it was me who was gonna get it again. But fuck it. It was worth it.

  That evening, we trundled very slowly along Route 94, connecting Chicago to Detroit. The mood was sour.

  16 OCTOBER 1994. ST ANDREW’S HALL, DETROIT

  Our coach pulled into Detroit, home of Motown and the highest crime rate in the States. The skies had opened and the constant patter rattled the bus like a tin can. We stared out the window and the resemblance to Manchester was plain for all to see. Crime, music, sport and industry all play a major part in the histories of both cities. Detroit also seemed to possess that dark shade of greyness that hung over Manchester most days. That evening we were to play St Andrew’s Hall and first thing, I needed to see if I could get my clothes cleaned at the hotel.

  ‘Is there a laundrette around here?’ I asked at reception, receiving only the vaguest of directions. After leaving the commercial sector, I soon found myself in a more neglected part of the city. I spotted a faded sign that read ‘Spin City Laundrette’. The Laundromat had originally been painted white, but had yellowed with age. The front was heavily fortified in a makeshift kind of way – corrugated panelling and strengthened mesh. I opened the door and immediately wished that I hadn’t. Inside, all heads turned and looked at the young white Englishman standing in the doorway. I decided to make my way to the nearest machine, hoping I would be ignored. Not so. Within seconds, I had a dangerous-looking black man sat next to me. He caught my eye and then pulled a blade out of his pocket and began to clean it against his trousers. What looked like old bloodstains were ingrained up and down the blade.

  He was silent for a while. Just sat there. And then: ‘You scared, boy?’

  Not until you just fucking asked me, I thought. Now, I needed to make sure I got the balance right with this answer. I wasn’t going to say yes, for that would surely end in him taking control, so I had to say no but not in a way that would challenge or antagonise him.

  ‘No. Should I be? I asked, innocently, with a childlike voice and widened eyes.

  The man chuckled and put his knife on the bench next to me.

  ‘Yes you should be, boy. This here’s a bad part of town.’

  America. You can’t even clean your gruds without it becoming life-threatening. I pulled out my cigarettes and offered him one. He took it and after taking a deep pull gave me a wide smile. Seemed like I would survive to live another day.

  We played St Andrew’s Hall that evening. Halfway through the performance, Noel laid down his guitar and simply walked off the stage. Worried, we looked at each other.

  ‘He’s just gone for a piss,’ Liam said, laughing, when he saw our concern.

  Upstairs after the Detroit show, in what passed for the hospitality room, rumours were rife of a special delivery by a dodgy-looking Mexican. He arrived with the words ‘Creeestal! Creeestal!’

  ‘Get him out now,’ ordered Noel, and for once we all agreed.

  Afterwards, we were approached by a suit and Liam decided it was time to be telling them straight. Corporate time was over. The pristine-looking man was wearing a large smile, which displayed his American white teeth.

  ‘Wassup?’ he said, grinning at Liam.

  ‘Fuck all’s up with me. What the fuck’s up with you, dickhead?’ came the growled reply.

  The grin disappeared quickly. We finished the evening and, with all due respect to Detroit, I was happy to be moving on.

  17 OCTOBER 1994. CLEVELAND HEIGHTS

  We were on Route 75, heading out of Detroit and on our way to Cleveland Heights, Ohio. A day off was planned, and so we arrived fresh at the Holiday Inn, Lakeside. Liam was unhappy with Noel. Again. We were trying to placate him, as any offensive strike at Noel would surely mean the tour was over.

  ‘It’s not fucking on,’ he shouted. He was angry about the lack of finances. We had lost a lot of our tour money through bad drug deals and Noel’s escape away. Noel, on the other hand, was having his shirts reeled behind him on a rack while enjoying all the local luxuries.
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  18 OCTOBER 1994. THE GROG SHOP, CLEVELAND HEIGHTS

  We spent the early part of the day wandering around Cleveland Heights looking for places of interest. There weren’t any. We headed back to the hotel and tried to stay out of any bars. Everybody had promised to be responsible and adult. The Temperance Movement would not have their grip on us for long, though. After a very long day, we made our way to The Grog Shop. Bonehead thought the name of the gaff was the business and was talking about opening his own pub in Levenshulme and calling it such.

  After another stunning display, we packed up and headed for Toronto. It was three in the morning when the bus pulled into a brightly lit service station, desolate at that hour. Margaret appeared at the front of the bus with Noel by her side. She was holding a vacuum cleaner, which had us all intrigued. She then explained just how detailed a search the Canadian authorities would undertake when we reached the border, explaining that if they found a grain of cocaine or a seed of weed they would not only refuse us entry but would also alert the American authorities, who would probably have us deported. Or put in jail.

  ‘Where we might get raped,’ Noel added. No one laughed. Tumbleweed time.

  As if to break the silence he had created, Noel asked us to watch him as he vacuumed – like we needed a lesson in hoovering. We all told him to fuck off, but were drowned out by the noise of the Hoover as Noel switched it on and swept it backwards and forwards. The scene was made even more surreal by the fact that Noel had taken to wearing a smoking jacket and cravat on the tour bus. Prepping for that knighthood, I suppose. It was all too much. But funny.

  Liam shouted, ‘I’m a professional, me,’ referring back to his valeting days, and jumped up to take control. The inevitable argument ensued.