Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

  Somebody passed me a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. Our review was highlighted. I read it to myself and then aloud. ‘The guitar play between Noel Gallagher, rhythm guitarist Paul Arthurs and bassist Paul McGuigan was sterling. But the most vital person was drummer Tony McCarroll who was more energetic than anyone else in the band.’ I got told to fuck off by everyone present and laughed as they threw cushions and empty drink cartons. Noel had vanished with his big bag of white line and so the mood was more positive. It had been a good tour from a performance perspective, but that was beginning to become overshadowed by the rift between Noel and I.

  8 MARCH 1995. THE ACADEMY, NEW YORK

  I was at an aftershow party. John McEnroe was with me – and it seemed to me as if he had intentions on my new girl. This was a tough one.

  ‘Hey, Elle, have you ever thought of moving to New York? You should, you know.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Elle, giving me a second glance, so as to make me realise she was only playing.

  ‘I think you know why,’ a mischievous McEnroe replied, with a grin.

  I couldn’t give a fuck if it was JP McEnroe. Something had to be said.

  ‘What, am I not fucking stood here?’ I blazed. ‘Can you not see me? Show a bit of respect. How would you like it if I asked Tatum to move to Manchester, you cock?’ I’d not lost my temper, but I’d never been one to stand around while someone rips the piss. JP smiled back, his head lolling to one side. He slowly focused on me.

  ‘Wouldn’t give a shoot, Tony, I’ll give you her number. It’s a deal.’ McEnroe started asking those surrounding us if they had a pen. Fuck me. I wasn’t to know that he had just got divorced. Did he really think that I’d done a swap with him? Elle for Tatum.

  ‘You cannot be serious?’ said Elle, and she wasn’t even taken the piss. This was going horribly wrong. Once again my communication skills had proved impotent across the Atlantic. Mancunian sarcasm is very often misinterpreted – which the whole band had found out, to our cost. Finally, McEnroe came clean and explained he had been ‘hoaxing’ us and we all laughed it off for the joke that it was.

  He then decided to play a few of his own songs on air guitar. No, really. He added the lyrics, ‘It’s fifteen love to me, baby, and yes I’m being serious, It’s forty love and more, you know you’re gonna score…’ He finished with an imaginary Slash windmill. Jesus. A lifetime’s admiration shot to pieces in minutes.

  We were soon distracted from his performance by Bonehead shouting, ‘Lob on. Lob On. Lob On.’ I headed over, wondering why he was insulting someone with an eighties schoolyard term for a hard-on. It just didn’t sound right in New York in the nineties. I arrived to find a not-very-amused looking Simon Le Bon standing next to Bonehead, who had his arm firmly clamped round his shoulder. Le Bon couldn’t move an inch. Bonehead’s face was reddened by wine as he spluttered, ‘Look I’ve found Simon… Lob On. Ha, ha, ha, ha!’ He started to roar again. If I’d been Mr Simon Le Bon, I would have cuffed him.

  8 MARCH 1995. LATE SHOW WITH DAVID LETTERMAN, NEW YORK

  We played the Late Show to an estimated 50 million people. From Granada Red Nose Day to Letterman in the space of three short years. Not bad going, really. We had to cut the set short to fit around the advertising break – very American. After performing ‘Live Forever’, we jumped back in our limousines to head to the aftershow. It was all a whirl.

  After finishing the tour, we got the big iron bird back to Blighty.

  CHAPTER 8

  A FAREWELL TO ARMS

  I was back in Manchester on a flying visit. We had a gig in Southend to do and then we were off to Paris. After Paris came the Sheffield Arena, which we had sold out. Then we were to start recording the second album. Life was beautiful.

  I was in Manchester city centre with BigUn on a busy Saturday night; we were on our way to meet up with Liam and have a night out. As we passed the Hacienda, I heard a sudden outburst: ‘Hey, dickhead!’

  I looked around to see who was under attack. The words were actually being aimed at me. What the fuck? Then I realised who was offering up these pearls. It was Gilly, the drummer with the Inspiral Carpets, and I was in no mood for him.

  At first I thought that the reason for his outburst might be because, at one time, he’d wanted to be in Oasis and had even asked Liam some months earlier if he could replace me. At the time, Liam had told him to fuck off and then waltzed back to the bus where I was sitting. ‘That fuckin’ clown Gilly has just asked if he can drum for us. Told him staright, T. Told him to get on his bicycle and head for the hills of Oldham.’ That was Liam. For all his faults, he was an honest kid who understood how the Mancunian social standing system worked. You mind your own and they mind you.

  Gilly’s apparent anger turned to sorrow as the real reason for his beef became apparent. ‘You tried to nick me tom-tom, you twat,’ he sobbed. Gilly was referring to the time that Liam had decided he would take one of Gilly’s tom-toms and flog it. It had been lying around The Boardwalk, and Liam had thought it was simply asking to be pawned. I had told him that no one bought second-hand tom-toms, as they were adapted and personal to a specific kit. I added that if he knew of any North American Indians, though, they might want to buy a tom-tom from him…

  He told me to fuck off and cracked on with his madcap idea. Liam, unfortunately, had chosen to sell the tom-tom to Johnny Roadhouse Music. The owner of the shop was a good man who even had time for the (often-overlooked) drummers of this world; with a name like John Roadhouse, I guess he just had to open a music shop. Liam and I had entered the store and offered them to the guy behind the counter. After one look at the drum, he had asked Liam why he was selling Gilly’s drums.

  Liam replied, ‘We’re not. We’re just getting an idea of how much one was worth.’

  ‘Why, then, did you use the words “Do you want to buy this?”’ came the quick reply. That question left Liam short of an answer, so we were on our toes back to replace the tom-tom. That was the long and short of it.

  Gilly still didn’t seem to realise that he could never be in Oasis. He had never been forgiven for making Noel sand down his drumsticks before each Inspiral Carpets show. To Noel, this request had served no purpose musically and he believed it was only done to irritate him. He swore that one day he would return the favour and was actually excited when he heard of Gilly’s plea to join the band. The look of satisfaction that spread across his face when telling Gilly to fuck off was one I would see again in the very near future, though I did not know it at the time.

  Maybe it was Gilly who kicked off Noel’s dislike of drummers. Well, fuckin’ nice one, Gilly.

  17 APRIL 1995. CLIFFS PAVILION, SOUTHEND

  Apparently, we were recording a DVD that night. Nobody had told me. Fortunately, it was an absolutely storming gig and a very exuberant crowd lapped it up. The resulting DVD captured perfectly just how tight we had become as a unit. I was loving it.

  20 APRIL 1995. LE BATACLAN, PARIS

  Noel was really not happy. It seemed that an argument between Elle and me the previous evening had kept him awake during the night. He was already in poisonous mode and I had been keeping my head down so far. On cobra alert. This argument had raised my head.

  ‘You kept me awake last night. I don’t like you or your bird. Don’t make me sack you.’ The constant digs had gone way over the line now and I’d had enough. Noel had threatened to sack everyone at some stage over the previous three years. I was probably in treble figures so, as you’d expect, the threat had lost its potency. But this time there was real intent in his voice. I had genuinely tried to sort our differences out, but the more I did the worse it seemed to get.

  I soundchecked in darkness. Twenty yards in front of me sat a stool and a microphone. It was Noel’s solo set layout, lit by a single spotlight. I banged away in the black until he arrived and filled the stool. Everything was sorted with my kit, so I made to leave. As I passed, he gave me one of his ‘Don’t even talk to me’ looks and I thought, Fuc
k that. I moved in front of him before he could start his soundcheck.

  He looked at me and said ‘What the fuck do you want?’ The look that came with the question was one of absolute dismissal. I moved within an inch of his face. I had finally lost it.

  ‘If you ever talk to me like that again, Noel, I’ll snap you in fucking two and throw you away. Do you understand?’ I delivered this message in a flat and steady voice. I meant every word I said and Noel could see that I meant it. I stared at him without breaking eye contact. Silence. He looked back at me with his hooded cobra eyes cold. He then finally looked down at his fingertips and started to pick away. In the ensuing silence, I kicked the fire door open and strode out onto a cool Parisian boulevard.

  Later that evening, we met to perform. Noel wouldn’t acknowledge me. It was gonna be a rough ride. Better hold on tight. We played our set to a hot and swaying French crowd. They really appreciated the music, screaming, ‘Encore! Encore!’ through their noses, as only the French could.

  Set completed, we headed off stage as usual. Oasis. We didn’t do encores. As I arrived backstage, I found Noel lighting a Benson. ‘We’re doing an encore,’ he told me. Bit fuckin’ odd, I thought. It was a good night, but not worthy of an encore. We all had a quick cigarette and then Noel nodded me on. He had that look about him.

  ‘“Supersonic”,’ he said. Armed with sticks in one hand, the other hand held upright, fist clenched, I reentered the stage. I was happy that Noel had chosen this track; he knew it was my favourite song to drum on. The crowd erupted, as surprised at me at the events. I started the intro and looked to the side stage. Noel stood tapping his foot to the beat. Three minutes is a long time in drumming. But that was the time I had before the band would eventually join me. It was my moment in the sun and would normally be a memory to cherish event. For me, it was to prove bittersweet. I hit every beat perfectly in those three minutes, but by the time the band joined in I realised that Noel was saying goodbye.

  He led the rest of the band on stage, staring directly at me. He took a long last pull of his cigarette and then flicked it over towards me. I watched as the cigarette landed and its glowing embers scattered and died by my bass drum. His confidence stemmed from the fact that he knew he had the power to eject me from the band. From there on in, it seemed to me as if he had become a completely different person.

  I had finally snapped after 17 months of insults and nastiness. That had been the tipping point.

  22 APRIL 1995. SHEFFIELD ARENA, SHEFFIELD

  I walked onto our tour bus and made for the lounge area. As I arrived, I found Noel sitting there with Guigs and Marcus. They were huddled round the table and looked up, shocked at my sudden arrival. The atmosphere was strange, to say the least. Their muffled hellos and sheepish looks gave a conspiratorial feel to it all. I took my seat upstairs and warmed myself for the biggest gig we had performed to date.

  As I walked into the Arena later, its sheer size hit me; it was fuckin’ huge. We soundchecked and were then informed that we had sold out the place. We were now a stadium band.

  All the mothers were ferried across the Snake Pass from Manchester to Sheffield. No small feat in a stretch limousine. As we came out onto the stage there was a surge as the huge crowd burst forwards. It was a hero’s welcome for us, and we lapped it up.

  It was a fantastic night, though Noel ignored me all evening. I was still worried that the ‘Supersonic’ encore in Paris had been a message. I was hoping I’d got it wrong.

  17 APRIL 1994. THE WHITE ROOM, LONDON

  I was in the studios of The White Room with Noel, Paul Weller and ace drummer Steve White (for more of whom, see Appendix 1, ‘The Perfect Beat’). Weller introduced me to Steve and we immediately clicked. As Noel was deep in conversation with Weller, about deep meaningful things such as shoes and haircuts, me and Steve discussed the virtues of all things percussive. It was a real honour for me to meet him and I told him so. He laughed modestly. After an hour of banter about drums – although we also covered Charlton Athletic and John Bonham, and the peculiar differences between the north and south of the country – it was time to go. Steve told me that he thought Definitely Maybe was a sterling piece of work. He also told me that I was a good man and that if I needed anything in the future I was to ring him; he even gave me his number. In hindsight, I suppose he knew that his brother was being lined up to replace me. I did end up ringing him, though, and we remain friends to this day. A definite Spartan.

  The shoot during the day didn’t go as planned. The microphone that sat over my cymbal kept falling from its perch and halting the filming. Noel started to berate me as if I worked for Channel 4’s sound department. I told him to ram it.

  24 APRIL 1995. ‘SOME MIGHT SAY’ IS RELEASED. REACHED NO.1 IN THE SINGLES CHART

  Our first No.1 single. We were virtually assured of it on the day of release, from pre-sales. I was still out in the cold with Noel and was wondering how he could say that the drumming was shite on a No.1 record?

  NME applauded us:

  OK so it’s no ‘Whatever’ but what is? Anybody would have difficulty following a record like that, but don’t let the recent brilliance of Oasis blind you to the charms of their new stuff. ‘Some Might Say’ is still one of the finest examples of pop music you’ll hear this year. What’s strangest about this song is that on the first couple of hearings you convince yourself there’s no hook, nothing go on at all. Then, a few hours later, you find yourself humming a tune that you genuinely can’t remember hearing before. It’s certainly a deceptive little fucker. Noel Gallagher is back on the barmy lyrics again (‘She can do the dishes / She’s got little fishes on the brain’), and it’s nice to hear Big Bro joining Little Liam on the neat call and response coda. Noel makes his presence felt strongly on the rest of the EP and gets to do his John Sebastian solo acoustic thing on ‘Talk Tonight’, as previewed at live shows late last year, while ‘Acquiesce’ is a song which could be read as a peace plan for the brothers Gallagher. ‘We need each other / We believe in one another.’ Meanwhile Liam sounds more like Lennon than ever before. We close with ‘Headshrinker’ a slight steal from The Faces’ ‘Stay With Me’ and possibly the fastest song you’ll hear by Oasis.

  Terry Staunton

  27 APRIL 1995. TOP OF THE POPS, ELSTREE, LONDON

  ‘We’ve got a No.1 single. Add that to a No.1 album, a Brit Award, all-round critical acclaim and I suppose you could say we are doing all right,’ said Noel.

  We were sitting in the brightly lit dressing room before we were due to record. Noel was looking directly at me as he made this statement. I wondered why he was being so friendly and positive. Liam was surprisingly quiet and subdued, as were the rest of the band. We smashed out our first No.1 single for the cameras and then Liam and me returned to Manchester.

  Liam sat in the back seat of the car. I looked directly over my right shoulder at him as he stared silently out the window. BigUn maintained a steady speed.

  Suddenly, Liam said, ‘Tony.’

  ‘What?’ I replied.

  He stared at me, his eyes alight, and made to open his mouth. He paused, though, and the light quickly died. ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter,’ he mumbled and returned to focus on the English countryside flashing by. Something was definitely not right. I had a horrible feeling in my stomach.

  On 30 April 1995, the phone rang in my mother’s hallway. It was an old phone, one of the first mass-produced British Telecom models. Lipstick red, with the circular dial like a big shiny button on front. The whirr and click as the call connected to the local exchange. I answered.

  ‘Hiya, Tony, it’s Marcus,’ in a soft Welsh accent.

  ‘Hiya, Marcus,’ I said, as dread started to fill me.

  He continued. ‘Look, it’s not easy, this, but there is no other way to say it… You’re out of the band.’ They were the words I had been waiting for. I suppose I managed to contain my immediate reaction. Marcus went on, ‘You know I tried to stop this. I tried to help. I’m sor
ry.’

  Not as fuckin’ sorry as me. It would have been easy to have blown off at Marcus, but he was merely the messenger. And he had tried to help. I suppose I never really expected it to come from Noel anyway. I thanked Marcus for his time and understanding and asked what would happen next. ‘We’ll meet to discuss how the future should work out for all of us,’ he told me.

  ‘OK. No worries. Take care. Bye. Bye.’ I replied. There you go. It was that simple. Nice and clean, like we had agreed to meet for a pint and a sandwich. It had finally ended.

  Returning to my room, I closed the door behind me. I stood and looked out of the window at the tarmac road outside. I read my name in the tarmac, still visible on the pavement. I remembered chasing that Boys’ Brigade drummer all those years earlier and I smiled. My bags were still on the bed, unopened from the last tour. Rows of drumsticks lay scattered across the bed. Gold discs were stacked back to back in the far corner. I sat, head between my legs in another corner of the room. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Are you OK, Tony?’ It was my mum. Slowly, she pushed the door open and cautiously entered the room. She sat on the bed and listened as I told her the whole story, the fights, the insults, Noel.

  After a considered silence, she spoke and told me something I would never forget.

  ‘I love you, Tony, for what you are and what you do. I was as proud of you that day in the nursery as I am of you in Oasis. In a while, you’ll see that none of what has happened will really matter anyway.’