Neil and Wil.L.I.A.M. in happier times

One bullet: so many targets. In that case it will always be those soundtrackers to the end of the good times, the beginning of the dirge. Emanating from the established bedrock of independent music (1976 – 1989 R.I.P.) and bringing nothing of innovation or originality only repetition to the table they are the luckiest band ever. Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the bland, I give you those Oxymorons, Oasis.

Purporting to be at the forefront of a new revolution no one was agitating for, the ‘Sis turned out to be sheep in wolves’ clothing, the sound of the establishment arriving in town replete with Beatle cuts, a laughably surly demeanour (c.f. Liam Gallagher’s offer to have a punch-up with 53 year old George Harrison on Primrose Hill. Dead. Hard.) and terrace wear, they arrived to save us from all that horrible, thoughtful music suffused with intelligence and wit instead installing a lucre at all costs raison d’être. We’re still paying for it.

Offering trite ditties about staving off death, a tribute to Stars in your Eyes with “Tonight, (Matthew) I’m a rock and roll star” and that classic about Jim Kerr’s son’s noisy toys, these truly are songs to save your life. Musically uninspiring, pedalling recycled riffs and hooks, this is plod rock, the sound of New Labour’s house band, an integral facet of Trickster Tony’s “hypnoasis” charade.

They were indeed “mad fer it” times, a time that memory wishes to forget and by 1997, when the drug-fug had dissipated, the world awoke to find it had been conned. Result: Two criminal masterminds sitting pretty in their mansions.

Assembled from the parts of Frankenstein’s monster (brain) John Lydon (sneer), Ian Brown (gait) and naturally John Lennon minus the intellect or passion, the singer (sic) possesses a voice that to human ears sounds like a puncture emitting gaseous bullshit. Scratch that, all ears. Space constraints and overwhelming evidence ensure the lyrics cannot be discussed.

Also responsible for the succession of unimaginative, textbook bands that have littered the “indie” consciousness ever since (c.f. no-trick phonies Cursesabian and their ersatz schlock.) To wit, Oasis are over-fêted, bafflingly remunerated and criminally underslated and are to The Beatles what Sinitta is to Aretha.

Lennon would be apoplectic at the hullabaloo these fraudsters still generate. Imagine all the people … Oh, and that one bullet? Line ‘em all up single file, quick, before they reform for that universe conquering tour de bores.

So much to answer for. Less an Oasis, more a mirage.