Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

My mum was right.

  I knew that Liam had been in touch with BigUn and we had arranged to meet next time he returned to Manchester. The only band member beside Liam who made a call was Bonehead. Considering how Noel and Guigs were, I suppose I didn’t really expect them to phone.

  The conversation with Bonehead took a familiar route. ‘I didn’t know, Tony. It’s a shock to me. If there’s anything I can do,’ he stammered.

  I thought back to Huts’s departure all those years ago. Bonehead just didn’t do confrontation. I couldn’t dislike him, as he was a good fella. And to be honest, there were occasions when he had tried to guide me about how to handle Noel.

  I wasn’t surprised to be the first. I would always argue my corner if the line had been crossed. As much as I admired this trait in others, though, it seemed that Noel did not. Not that I was bull headed or ignorant. I made several gestures towards peace-making, usually to be met with a sneer or a putdown, so you learn to accept that in life you will meet people you simply do not get on with. Sadly, I had been able to get on with the old Noel; I just couldn’t manage with the new one.

  ‘I’m just hangin’ on in there, Tony,’ Bonehead told me. ‘Don’t like the atmosphere myself.’ There was the sound of defeat in his voice. The headlong ferocity of the previous five years was beginning to show. He would never upset the applecart, though. Not his nature.

  ‘Well, put your helmet on, Bonehead, and strap it fuckin’ tight, my friend, because the flack will be heading for a new target.’

  I knew Bonehead would be all right. Noel had respect for him, even after he had threatened to wipe the cobbles outside The Boardwalk with him – maybe because he had threatened to do it. The only target left was his side lieutenant Guigs. And true enough, within eight weeks of my departure I read that Guigs had pulled out of the band due to nervous exhaustion. I bet he was exhausted. The constant fighting can be cruelly tiring. I knew.

  I was now officially an ex-member of Oasis. The papers initially reported that Liam and me had had a fight in Paris, with one writer going so far as to state that he had actually witnessed it. Never happened. Never would. I sat and waited, expecting them to contact me, as agreed. Nothing. Nada.

  I rang Noel, but he didn’t answer, and Liam had no phone. I spoke to BigUn, who Liam would ring frequently, to pass a message on to call me. (There was no point in talking to McGuigan, he was not a major player, and Bonehead was possibly on a binge.) On one occasion, BigUn told me that Noel was drinking in the Crown Pub in Heaton Moor and arranged to pick me up. We headed there, but there was no sign. A grumpy landlord told us he had left an hour previously.

  The following evening, BigUn was at my door. It was the second time that day. It seemed he had been there earlier with Liam. ‘He was genuinely upset, Tony. We called, but there was nobody here,’ BigUn told me.

  I suppose one of the most sorry things about the whole situation was the fact that our friendships had dissolved. The people I had grown up with and worked with had gone. I guess most bands have to accept that there comes a time to part – unless you’re in Status Quo, of course. The initial thrill of the creative force as you meet and begin to understand each other’s musical tastes and styles tends to wane over time. Personalities change, as do expectations and your perception of yourself.

  I felt I knew the reason I had been expelled from the band. My three arguments with Noel had led to us not seeing eye-to-eye for the previous three months. Noel has stated that he had other reasons for sacking me – such as low regard of my talents as a musician – but I had my own opinion.

  I waited for over a month and still had no contact from the band. The word was that I was not gonna receive a penny, that I had no legal standing.

  I approached the Musicians’ Union, who I was registered with, and explained my predicament. They put me in touch with a solicitor called Jens Hills. Ironically, he had previously represented Pete Best, so, as if in accordance with the masterplan itself, I headed off to London to meet him.

  Jens is a large man with a trusting broad face. His jeans, loose shirt and sandals were not what I expected, but as I was to learn, Jens wasn’t your stereotypical pin-striped brief. We met in the World’s End pub in Stratford, taking our place amongst the city types forcing lunch down their throats. I told Jens my story and my thoughts. I wasn’t angry any more. It was already sounding tedious to me. He sat and listened, occasionally making notes.

  Jens finally had a copy of my contract. The contract I had signed that day was a hastily arranged document that essentially left me up the proverbial river. He spoke to their legal team and told them of the negative publicity that would accompany my claim. Jens then proposed a fair deal that would stop such hassle for everybody. It was the bog-standard average music industry offer. I would be paid for my work on all the recordings I completed. I really wasn’t interested in going to court and the palaver that it would inevitably bring. I could pay for a house for my girl and I was happy.

  Smaller were playing the Roadhouse. This was Digsy’s band, which meant that The Real People’s entourage would be in tow. I had arranged to meet Liam there.

  Liam was with Robbie Williams. I had been told it was a low-key affair, as Liam was under doctor’s instruction to lay off all goodtime as his throat was playing up.

  Due to the volatile Mancunian weather, we ran from the taxi and into The Roadhouse. A few minutes later, a hooded figure entered The Roadhouse, dripping. He stood in the doorway, looking like a lollipop man in the rain. The whole room turned and to stare. The steam rose off him, looking like stage smoke in the dimly lit club. As he dropped his hood, the lollipop man slowly revealed himself to be… Robbie Williams! The crowd all pointed and clapped as he posed. I was surprised there wasn’t a spotlight trained on him as he waved and smiled and shouted, ‘Who’s buying?’

  ‘He’s really fuckin’ low key, isn’t he?’ I said to Liam.

  Liam laughed. ‘He’s like that wherever we go.’

  We slipped in unobtrusively after Robbie’s grand entrance and found a quiet corner. The place was hammered, though, and even the quiet corner wasn’t quiet. Liam seemed genuinely sorry about what had happened and, to be honest, it played as I had expected it would. He looked well and had the glint back in his eye. He admitted that after our argument in Paris, Noel had told him he was going to get rid of me and he had shouted ‘Whatever’ at Noel, thinking it would blow over. He read of my exit in the paper over breakfast. My departure had left a massive void in Noel’s life, which he had to fill. So, unhindered by Liam, he launched an attack of the same magnitude that he had fired upon me. Liam felt that my departure had signalled the end, in a way. Not just for me, but for the band as he knew it. The bond that had once been between us had been slowly eroded away.

  I told him that I played the drums on Definitely Maybe, which was as smart an achievement as any, considering the circumstances. He told me he liked my outlook. He was then back again as Liam Gallagher International Rock Star, and that manic grin spread across his face. ‘They want the showman. They get the showman,’ he said, with a giggle.

  I stared at the man who had first introduced himself to me as a young boy, over 10 years before, in that park. Time and money had affected both his appearance and confidence, but the glint in his eye remained as youthful and infectious as ever. Although you might not think it, Liam had always struggled with the celebrity part of his life. He had made a decision, though, that now he would milk it for what it was worth. ‘But if they want young northern upstart, then they can have that instead.’ He leaned back in his chair and threw out two pink stiff ones, his face lit with laughter.

  Liam asked me what my plans were. I told him that I couldn’t seem to get the travelling bug from my bones. All that touring had become routine and I was itching to go somewhere new. I thought of maybe travelling through South-East Asia and then down into Australia.

  The next morning, I decided that it was the States for me. The newspapers and televisions were frothin
g over with the Blur versus Oasis saga and it seemed the whole country was intrigued. I decided that staying in Manchester could leave me getting dangerously close to being inaugurated onto The List and I would soon be hanging round with Peter Hook for some solidarity. Noel was in the papers doing a hatchet job on me. ‘Shite drummer. Shite hair. Shite trainers.’ That kind of thing. I decided that a spell away would be refreshing and rewarding. I was quite enjoying not being in a band. No timetable to adhere to, no meet-and-greets, no daily assault from Laurel and Hardy. At the same time, though, I was kind of missing it as well, if truth be told.

  It has always antagonised me that my musicianship was brought into question by Noel. I will not sit here and pretend to be the most intricate or competent drummer in the world. I have never claimed to be and I never will. But drumming had been my love. It was my passion. It became my livelihood. It was never, There’s the clever kid, or, There’s the kid who’s great at gymnastics. It was always, There’s Tony, He’s a drummer. And I loved it.

  I watched the greats in action and they inspired me. I strived to improve myself. And then it was ended. And as if it wasn’t bad enough that I’d been sacked, Noel was also telling anyone who would listen how shite I was at doing the thing that I cared about so much. As I said, I understood my limitations and areas in which I needed to improve, but I also know that as a band, overall, we would not be compared to, say, Crosby, Stills and Nash in terms of musicianship. It was a cheap and easy shot and one that still hangs over me. Just lucky I’m not a sensitive fucking soul.

  Needing a break, I headed off to Florida to meet Elle. I sat inside one sweltering balmy afternoon in order to make full use of the state-of-the-art air conditioning. I was in legal hell with the band by now and just wanted it to end. It was time to move on. The warm breeze blew off the Gulf of Mexico and through the apartment. The humid conditions were as distant from the brittle and brisk cold air of Manchester as could be. Not everything was quite so far removed, though.

  The afternoon radio was blaring away and my ears pricked up when I heard Noel’s instantly recognisable voice. A song filled the room – it must have been a new Oasis song. I had a silent chuckle to myself as the chorus kicked in that claimed we were all part of a masterplan.

  Brilliant. I pissed myself laughing. The video that later accompanied the song depicted the five of us walking the grimy industrials streets of Manchester. We trudged along depicted as Lowry figures; watching it made me laugh again. Begrudgingly, I had to admire the humour in his message. The Lowry argument and the masterplan. I cast my mind back to Liam singing ‘Matchstalk Men’ in the rehearsal room under The Boardwalk. ‘They came down to London as Lowry matchstick men and turned into a Jeff Koons,’ somebody once said of us. I don’t think they knew just how telling their statement would turn out to be.

  I was back in Manchester, preparing myself for the impending court case, which was now only a week away. The case had also affected my relationship with Elle. It was difficult to fix from over four thousand miles away.

  I felt fit and healthy and it was another beautiful day. My exit from the band had also led me on a march away from the chemicals. I guess when you see such a habit as a core part of your job description, it’s easy to justify and, therefore, you overlook the dangers you are putting yourself in, both mentally and physically. As I said, I took my fair share, but my recent time abroad had cleared my mind from the numbing fog and I was firing on all cylinders.

  We were sitting in a pub on Stockport Road. It was a sun-drenched afternoon and we hid in the shade. The carpets wore a coat of chewing gum, stains and burns. The usual collection of misfits and the just-released flitted through the place. The landlady was having a pop at the regulars over a half-hearted charity effort. BigUn suggested that if she wanted to do a bit for charity she should contact the local Tourette’s society and offer her pub as a halfway-house-type establishment. She called him a cunt and told him to sit down.

  ‘See what I mean. Perfect,’ said BigUn.

  I was feeling the urge to get off. ‘What we doing in this khazi? C’mon, we’re going out. I need to visit a pal first and then I’m gonna get some… gonna get some…’ BigUn stood up and was now dancing in the pub doorway, his huge frame blocking patrons and sunlight alike. He was laughing and roaring and his eyes had that dangerous twinkle. He had obvious intentions. Behind him lay the picnic table-strewn concrete car park, which, even at this early hour was littered with miscreants and charlatans all busy skinnin’ up.

  After considering the options, we left the pub and the inevitable bloody brawl that would occur later, and jumped in BigUn’s motor. As he was still in contact with Liam and Noel, I made sure he promised not to discuss the impending court case.

  ‘Just got to nip and fix a small problem in Alderley Edge. After that, the horizon is clear and it’s lift-off. I fancy town, maybe Ked’s place,’ he said as he turned the keys. It wasn’t long before we had left the city streets and were flashing through the Cheshire countryside. As we entered Alderley Edge, I remembered the times we had descended on this suburb in my youth. We would gather as many as possible, including rival factions. At times, there had been more than a hundred of us on the train, including Guigs, Noel and Liam. The train journey would be free – an Away Day; you just hoped it wouldn’t be you as the statistic.

  I’d be seeing them all again soon. The court case was fast approaching and I just wanted to put a finish to it all. We sped past boutiques and pavement bars. A shop-fronted statement of the wealth that lay behind either side of the short high street – in sharp contrast to the kebab shops and fuggy pubs that lined the high road we had just vacated. At the end of the high street we struck a left and landed in a small courtyard in front of a suitably impressive house.

  ‘Be quick, BigUn. Don’t be fuckin’ about.’

  That was one of BigUn’s many traits. He fucked about. What any other individual would complete in minutes, BigUn would take hours to achieve. This was mainly due to his tea breaks, mobile phone conversations every two minutes, cigarette breaks and the like. He needed to be constantly hurried, which was a fuckin’ bore.

  ‘Stretch yer legs and stop mithering. This fella reckons the roof of his motor wasn’t cleaned properly by Jacobs.’

  Jacobs was one of BigUn’s star employees, which didn’t necessarily mean much as BigUn seemed to recruit at the exit door of Strangeways. BigUn figured he was the first step in their rehabilitation and spoke to them like an aggressive counsellor. He also knew that the job he offered sort of sat between being unemployed and actually having a proper job. In the far corner of the courtyard sat a jet-black convertible Ferrari Spider. It glistened in the afternoon sun. Privately plated and a whole lot of mullah. BigUn walked over and I followed.

  ‘Fuck all wrong with that. What’s he rattling on about?’ BigUn had his sleeve over his wrist and was trying to rub away a solid line of shite that still ran the length of the roof. Guess that was what ‘he’ was rattling on about. The line was not shifting easily and as BigUn increased the tempo of his rubbing to a pace that would surely burn a hole in the canvas roof, the door to the house opened and out walked David Beckham. BigUn spun round.

  ‘Orwite, BigUn,’ said Beckham, with a grin.

  ‘Hiya Becks, how they hanging? Can’t believe the mess that’s been left here. Real sorry. I’ve just fired the kid who cleaned it. Tony, just fetch us that bucket from over there while I sort this out, will you? There’s a tap at the side of the house.’

  I sloped off round the side of the house, wondering how the fuck I let myself get in these situations with BigUn. Our day out had turned into a valeting job. Becks gave a smile and went back to the house to ready himself for the afternoon. I reappeared, holding a hose pipe.

  ‘Why don’t you buy a car like this, To’?’ BigUn said, laughing.

  I couldn’t. I had never told BigUn about the contract I had signed. I never told anyone. I aimed the pipe towards him and he squeezed himself into the drivi
ng space of the Ferrari for cover. The windscreen wipers were knocked on by his huge frame and like a monkey at the controls of the space shuttle, BigUn prodded buttons and flicked switches while I levelled the hosepipe at the roof of the car. Water shot powerfully from the hose and battered against the roof. The pipe was a proper fucking water cannon. I was loving it.

  ‘What the fuck you doing?’ shouted BigUn angrily over the noise of the water.

  Before he could say another word, the roof mechanism kicked into gear and the hood started to retract. With eyes wide BigUn pushed frantically at switches and dials and buttons and ashtrays in a vain attempt to halt the sequence. Rather than moving the hose away from the vehicle, though, I continued to batter water against the roof as it tried to rise backwards. With a loud crank the roof suddenly froze, pointing to the glorious blue skies above.

  BigUn was now out of the motor and wrestled the hose from my grasp as I fell about laughing. Fuck him, it was only a laugh. BigUn didn’t see it that way, though. No matter how hard he tried to physically force the delicate roof back into place, it would not budge. No number of buttons pressed helped either. The car sat on the drive with what looked like a gigantic side-on tailfin stuck three feet into the air. BigUn sat in the driver’s seat with his head on the leather steering wheel of the Ferrari in despair. Shit.

  ‘You fuckin’ numpty. That’s a two hundred grand motor that you’ve just fucked. I ain’t paying for it. You’re gonna have to cough up the dough.’

  At this point, Becks decided to reappear on the scene. Coiffured and lotioned, he stood looking dumbfounded and bemused at the sight of his motor. ‘Is everything all right?’ he squeaked. ‘I wouldn’t normally bother, BigUn, but I’m signing a new contract today, so it’s a bit special.’

  I was thinking he was gonna look proper special driving his newly modified sports car which couldn’t be less aerodynamic.

  ‘Yeah, slight hitch with the drive compartment in the roof, David. It’s very common on these cars. The Mancunian rain plays havoc with the Italian sports car, as my friend Luigi keeps telling me. He’s one of the chief mechanics for Ferrari, you know,’ bullshitted BigUn. As the overwhelming stench of manure still hung in the air, he continued, ‘I’ll ring the garage in Wilmslow for you, David. Hold on.’