The sound of helicopter blades whirs inside my ears. An electric guitar that sounds like a klaxon rings out repeatedly. But I am sure it’s all in my head. My hands are trembling as I line up against the outside walls of the old boxing ring now called Festival Hall. It’s not cold. It’s the 1st of December, but I am a pock-faced 16-year-old with a fake ID that says I am 21 years old, and I am very quietly shitting pants that I won’t get in. I won’t see Oasis, and my year, my life, will be ruined.

Everything is dramatic when you’re 16 years old—even queuing outside boxing rings. Did I get in? Course I did, Tyrone.

Despite the 88 on the back of my Learner Driver’s Licence being shoddily scratched to resemble an 83, the geezer at the door barely looked at me before apathetically grunting and handing back my audaciously altered identification. The Morning Glory helicopter whirs of stress quickly subsided as I broke from a walk to a saunter to a full-blown Saturday Night Fever-John Travolta strut towards the bar on the floor of Festival Hall, to buy my first ever beer.

My first ever 18+ gig. With no parents. On a school night. To see the greatest rock’n’roll band of my generation. Tell me what the song Live Forever is about again?

Reflecting on it now, the gig was a late-era Oasis trudge. A band still clinging to former glories, barely glancing in each other’s direction and peppering their set list with mediocrities like Mucky Fingers and The Meaning of Soul from their touring album: Don’t Believe the Truth, a title that epitomised Noel’s weary, middle-aged contrarianism that he thought was much cleverer than it was.

But tell that to the 16-year-old version of myself. I lapped up every second. No one was going to tell me that this anonymous night on an otherwise anonymous tour, by a band losing relevance by the day, wasn’t the greatest night of my life. They played Don’t Look Back In Anger during the encore, and my friend launched my scrawny teenage body onto his shoulders, where Noel and I made eye contact, and he gave me a knowing wink as I screamed his words back to him.

That last part probably didn’t happen. Surely not. Complete bullshit. But I’ve told myself that it happened so many times that my memory now can’t separate fact from fiction. They finished the gig with a rabble-rousing cover of The Who’s My Generation, which was befitting my evening’s embrace of reckless abandon in the true spirit of the mouthy Mancs and their Londoner progenitors. I slept like a baby that night.

And here we are again. Twenty years later. It turns out that time really does make the heart grow fonder. You can even measure it. From two shows at Festival Hall in 2005 to three shows at Marvel Stadium in 2025. Don’t even ask about the change in ticket price. It’s safe to say it isn’t in line with the CPI growth rate. As my grandfather would say, they have played us like a fiddle. Or maybe not. It’s all about supply and demand, and the last twenty years have seen a catastrophic drought of rock’n’roll singers who habitually throw tambourines at their lead guitarist’s head.

Sure, we have had some exceptional bands come along that rival their songwriting prowess, like Arctic Monkeys. But Alex Turner now seems more content play acting as a mysterious lounge crooner than being a world-conquering rock’n’roll star. We have had magnetic frontmen, yes. Howlin' Pelle Almqvist from The Hives is a ball of bombastic energy on stage, but the songs were just never strong enough to sustain his constant high kicks. And of course, there have been effortlessly cool bands like The Strokes. Find me a suaver man in the last 25 years of rock’n’roll than Julian Casablancas. But those boys couldn’t handle their drugs.

What the doubters don’t understand about the popularity of the Oasis 2025 reunion is that at their peak, they were the whole Venn Diagram. From 1993 – 1996, Noel Gallagher didn’t write a bad song (even if he did waste too many as B-sides). A rare hot streak that even Stevie Wonder would tip his sunglasses to.

And the ying to his yang was his younger brother Liam, who, from the opening line of their first single Supersonic inhabited the aloof, don’t-give-a-fuck, rebel spirit of every intangible rock’n’roll enigma that had come before him, from Lou Reed to Jim Morrison to Kurt Cobain. For a brief moment in 1995, Liam Gallagher was the heir to the throne, and he was the coolest man in the world.

Working-class brothers from a council housing estate in a bleak, de-industrialised Manchester destroyed by Thatcher, Definitely Maybe was their ticket to freedom. And that is a story so many teenagers with a second-hand Stratocaster cling to. That rock’n’roll can save anyone, as long as your songs are as great as Slide Away or you’re really fucking good at throwing a tambourine across a stage. 

It’s been thirty years since (What’s The Story) Morning Glory rode a wave of British optimism for the new century and the new millennium. An album that symbolised the temporary recapturing of Anglo cultural hegemony across the world – flaunted with all the subtlety of a hammer as Noel walked on stage at Knebworth in ’96 with a Union Jack sprayed across his Epiphone Sheraton. Now, once again, somehow, we find ourselves at the epicentre of Oasis pandemonium, thankfully without the unfortunate association with New Labour and Tony Blair this time.

But something has changed since they last conquered Britain’s colonies. Because tonight, on the first night of the Australian leg of Live ‘25, they arrive on our shores with no point to prove. No longer working-class underdogs. No longer the flag bearers for Cool Britannia’s bullshit PR machine. With more moderated egos and a reinvigorated appreciation for the songs that coalesced the class system of England, Oasis are once again ready to be the common denominator for the Commonwealth. 

Every fan wanted them to open with Hello, if only to shout along with Noel’s call-and-answer backing vocals, “yeah it’s good to be back, it’s good to be back” – which, ironically enough, is an interpolation of Gary Glitter’s 1973 song Hello, Hello I’m Back Again – speaking of unfortunate associations... But tis but an entrée, because what better way to symbolise their newly reformed brotherly banner than the sparring verses of Acquiesce and the universally true refrain: “because we need each other, we believe in each other…” Ladies and gents, the boys are indeed back.

Relaying the setlist seems reductive considering it has not changed since the tour kicked off in July, but what is worth noting is the quality of Liam’s voice. My god. I want to know what supplements he takes. What tonics and herbs and shamanism can make a man’s age voice like Benjamin Button? Fuck the brand partnership with Adidas, Liam should be the face of Marlboro or Carlsberg, the way he has been able to sound as good as he does after the amount he has ingested over the years.

But maybe it’s exactly that, the hedonistic wildling we knew and loved has been replaced by a sensible middle-aged man who has taken steps to significantly reduce his 1990s era vices. And isn’t it paying dividends? Liam attacks the microphone like a rottweiler tonight, and you can hear the breath drain from his lungs as he finishes a lyric. It’s this passion, the energy he expends and how much each syllable seems to mean to the man that sells the songs, none more so than in his ever-present snarl on Bring It On Down – itself a perennially underrated track – that makes the vitriol really come alive.

But whilst his voice sounds better than it has in a quarter of a century, he’s still mad as a hatter. At one point, he asks the crowd if they’re doing cocaine, before dedicating a song to “the glue sniffers”. Later, he recounts a story about meeting a kangaroo named Drew on the beach that morning, who told him, amongst other things, that all Australians are pot heads.

The on-stage banter for the entire night is either nonsensical or absurd, but after almost three decades worried about his mood on stage like an anxious child…at least it’s jovial…? He’s having a great time, oscillating between banging his maracas and pulling Jesus poses. The man is in his element. 

Noel, on the other hand, is the consummate professional. He’s negotiated himself a little solo mini set halfway through the show, and the difference in approach is jarring. He asks whether there are any Irish in the crowd (lol) before dedicating Half The World Away to them. This may seem odd to the casual observer, but as a Melbournian of Irish immigrant parents, a Manc of Irish immigrant parents, saying this makes perfect sense. The blood is almost green. Through sheer showmanship, he’s able to lift lesser-known Little By Little to an A-Grade showstopper, and you can tell he’s really missed playing these songs. Not that he’d admit it.

And fuck Tasmania needing to build a football stadium, I don’t know if Marvel Stadium can handle two more shows of them playing Cigarettes and Alcohol and Rock ‘n’ Roll Star. The AFL may need to rebuild this thing sooner than they’d like. Really ,the only blight on the night was the inclusion of the song that was the beginning of the end for the band’s glory years: D’You Know What I Mean.

A joyless dirge upon its release as the highly anticipated first single of Be Here Now in 1997, it was a soul-sucking drainer then and unsurprisingly, time has not upped its tempo or changed its asinine lyrics. If I had Noel’s ear for one minute, I’d be telling him to swap in either Lyla, The Hindu Times, She’s Electric, Columbia, Stop Crying Your Heart Out, The Importance of Being Idle – I’d even take Gas Panic! – really anything to spare us from that almost 8-minute slog.

But for a band that imploded before ever doing the typical ‘Greatest Hits’ tour, you forget how indefatigable their catalogue of singles is when played back-to-back, which only makes the inclusion of D’You Know What I Mean all the more stark as an energy vacuum. 

Conversely, the second single from Be Here Now, Stand By Me was one of the more surprising sing-alongs of the night, proving that even the deepest coke tunnels bear some creative fruit. 

For a gig so bereft of youth, the only real moment of generational cringe was the choice to superimpose the Gallaghers’ faces onto National Geographic images on the LED screens. During Whatever (possibly the most egregious example of Noel underusing his best material), live video footage of Liam’s singing was superimposed onto a background of some lush green grass fields, making him look like some pagan god of the harvest or just a poorly constructed boomer meme to do with horticulture. 

Liam tagged on a cute Octopus’s Garden outro that, whilst being a fun, playful touch, only served to underscore that their masterful cover of I Am The Walrus should definitely have made the setlist.

For a gig that followed the same trajectory as all those before it on the tour, Liam’s marking of the night as Wonderwall’s 30th birthday was a poignant moment. Too young to remember the release of Definitely Maybe, I bought (What’s The Story) Morning Glory on double-cassette as an 8-year-old (with my own pocket money) whilst transferring through Heathrow Airport as my nascent pop-music-ears had been transfixed by Wonderwall drifting through the speakers.

In some ways, Wonderwall is still underrated, and its rarity is the key to its value. A song that your 80-year-old grandma enjoys when it comes on Gold 104.3 and makes the hairs stand on end for the 8-year-old wandering through Sanity at an airport. Even now, the scene kids arguing about whether Fontaines D.C. have sold out will admit to it being a good tune after the right amount of pints. Hearing it with new ears on its 30th birthday, with Liam more dedicated than ever to its tonal changes, it’s a revelation all over again. 

But for a tour this monumental in hype (and cost), there is very little fanfare to finish the night. There was no runway, no B-Stage for an acoustic set. No flamethrowers, confetti guns or light-up bracelets. And thank fuck for that. Oasis were always rock purists, and if you asked Liam, I am sure he’d say that you’re lucky to have some screens to see their faces.

And whilst this old-school mentality sometimes meant having to ignore the dumb shit that came out of his mouth when he was too hungover to play nice with the press, whilst his charming older brother appeased them with a wink and nod, it’s nice to know some things never change. Tonight was about three guitars, some keys, a drum kit and the best scowl to come out of Britain’s post-punk heyday.

Champagne Supernova was the obvious and fitting choice to finish the evening, and as if the song couldn’t get more hubris, someone let off a flare in the crowd to really amp up the soccer hooligan vibes. Is it the best dumb song of the last 30 years? Probably. Don’t even ask Noel about the bloody cannonballs; he was high as a kite when he wrote the thing. But I’m glad he has finally learnt Paul Weller’s guitar solo, because it really ties the whole thing together.

And my first thought once they exited stage right? Biblical. My second thought was that I want Liam’s parka. He still is one of the best-dressed men in rock music. And if I were to admit to a third thought, it would be that The Music probably should have hired someone with less bias to review this gig more objectively, because I am positively buzzing.

And seeing the lads arm in arm, I can’t help but think that after 15 very awkward Christmases, Mrs Gallagher would be so happy; and at the end of the day, don’t you just want yer mam to be proud? Walking out with a delirious Marvel Stadium crowd, I hope there is a 16-year-old kid wandering out in a daze with their mouth agape. I hope they waited nearly ten years for this moment and, like I did back in 2005, and that their lives are now forever changed. Even if the needless stress of fake IDs was not needed this time, as the once roughhouse brothers, now fathers, embrace the virtue of an all-ages gig.

This wasn’t late-era Oasis desperately trying to grasp the remaining sand in their hands and watching it slowly slip through their fingers. This was an imperious band revisiting their legacy. And finally back together, having watched from the sidelines as their discography helped shape an entire generation of British music, they are clearly revelling in their dominion.

And the most surprising thing? They did it all so magnanimously, including but not limited to the fact that no tambourines were hurt in the making of this gig. The insurance companies had obviously seen to this. Already dubbed ‘The Eras Tour For Blokes’, this concert and all those after it have some pretty penny lanes riding on it, and both brothers have definitely been told to mind their p’s and q’s lest they don’t receive the pay slip with all the zeroes on it. After the tour was announced, bookies had them at 4/1 to split up either before or during the tour, and whilst that bet is still live (!), you’d be a mug jumping on it.

The Gallaghers never claimed to be artistes; they are showmen. Blur were the art students; your man even made a band out of some cartoon gorillas for fuck’s sake. No, Oasis work for a cheque, not the art. And whilst there might have been a time where the tension and acrimony were high, the only thing they’ve ever loved more than they’ve hated each other is money. There’s no way 1994 Liam is charging me $180 for an Oasis football shirt. No, from the moment the guns fell silent and the boys signed their armistice, this tour was always going ahead.

Was the reunion inevitable? Well, after the middling dad-rock of High Flying Birds and the Diet Oasis of Beady Eye, Noel had settled into a sweet life of being interviewed by Q and NME once a quarter to make witticisms about British life like Oscar Wilde and slag off the latest indie band like Lester Bangs. And Liam’s fashion label, named after The Jam, went into administration in 2019, so… yeh I’d say so. But if you’ve ever heard their B-Side Let’s All Make Believe, you’d know that no matter how many barbs they traded on Twitter, the love runs deep between these petulant boys.

So, the romantics would call it brotherly love. And the cynics would point to the timing and size of Sara MacDonald’s divorce settlement to being a key cog in breaking down Noel’s long-standing recalcitrance.

Yes, it’s a cash-in job, but if your nose scrunches at the thought of a nostalgia tour for Gen Xers, then can I tell you that the most magical part of the gig was seeing the little universes between friends and couples come alive. They screamed lyrics in each other’s faces. They hugged and jumped in unison. They slow danced in silence. These are the songs they pashed to in that dive bar in Leeds in 1998. These are the songs they walked down the aisle to. These are the songs they sent to each other on MSN Messenger.

This history is alive again between all these people at the soulless Marvel fucking Stadium of all places, and the tears being held in by their eyelids are a testament to how powerful these stupid fucking pop songs are. It’s the soundtrack to their lives. It’s the compersion of their shared, lived experiences being replayed in real time. Life is short, so let’s fooking ‘ave it.

If you’re too proud or pompous to enjoy a rare trip down memory lane for a time when cigarette smoke filled band rooms, big choruses boomed on the breath of cheap lager and Manchester City were shit at football, then you can blow it out your arse.

Tonight, we were all rock’n’roll stars. Liam once sang that the dreams we have as children fade away, but after this final gargantuan victory lap to reassert their dormant supremacy and carve their names onto the pantheon of rock’n’roll excess, Oasis finally achieved their only goal; they really will live forever.