Cold, hard cash can resolve even the most bitter disputes
“YOU have enemies?
Good. That means you’ve stood up for s omething , s ometime in your life.” Often erroneously attributed to Winston Churchill, the above quote is a modern variation of a line first penned by French poet and essayist Victor Hugo. Regardless of its origin, it’s a good rule to live your life by, a solid excuse when you fall out with the lads over who the greatest corner-forward of the 21st century is.
Enemy is a strong word, though, a term more commonly associated with comic-book heroes than the humdrums lives of the young middle-aged. In saying that, by my latest estimations, I have approximately eight enemies. They might not know they’re my enemies, but they are, and, while I would never wish harm upon them, they have upset me to such a degree that I would not shed a tear if some tragic, unforeseen event befell them.
What would it take for me remove them from my list of enemies, to not only remove them, but to make amends, let bygones be bygones and move past all the hurt and acrimony?
I think something in the region of €50m would be a start. That would be enough for me to consider abandoning my morals, suppressing the murderous thoughts, and smiling like I mean it.
That’s how much it’s purportedly taken to reunite the brooding brothers Gallagher, to convince them they are better together than apart. After 15 years of backbiting and disdain, 15 years of pursuing their own, moderately successful, side-projects, they have realised that there’s not an argument on Earth which can’t be resolved with cold, hard cash.
Indeed, if they so wish, they don’t even need to hug it out, can retain the air of hostility which characterised their band at its heyday – so long as they stand on stage together and play the songs the money will be forthcoming. In many ways it feels like the latest tiresome chapter in the lives of the Brothers Grimm, an inevitable U-turn for a pair of musicians who have, like many of their contemporaries, spent their entire lives trying to recreate the magic of their earliest, most unencumbered, work.
It goes without saying that the comeback shows will be sold out wherever they go, that the financial rewards will ease any simmering tension. Not only are there millions of legacy fans with enough disposable income to pay the extortionate ticket prices and still have enough left over for a new pair of adidas sambas, but Oasis have acquired new generations of fans in their absence, young followers eager to experience their Knebworth, their Maine Road.
Of course, it can never be the same. If they’re lucky, those young fans will have a joint passed to them by a knowing old head as the strains of Live Forever pipe up on the sound system, the girl they’ve liked for ages will drape a drunken arm round their shoulder as Liam, somewhere in the far distance, sings about wanting to fly, and they’ ll have their moment, their €100 moment, which they’ ll carry with them until the next reunion tour when Noel and Liam run dry once more.
For the rest, the knowing old heads, the samba-gang, it’ ll just be a nostalgia trip, a pilgrimage to a shrine they prayed at many years ago. The anarchy and apathy of their youth, which drew them to the Gallaghers in the first place, has been replaced by comfort and stress – but that can be forgotten for at least one night. If the lads on stage can do it then so can they.
While everyone is sure to have a good time, and the brothers will make enough money to ensure they don’t have to speak to one another for a decade or more, it’s a sad indictment of modern music, of entertainment in general, when the biggest gigs of 2025 are likely to feature a bankable band whose greatest hits were almost 30 years ago.
The public will always get what the public wants but spare a thought for the oases of today, the young, working-class lads making music in their bedrooms which will never get heard, never spread beyond the confines of a dusty, unvisited Spotify page. One look at the charts tells you all you need to know: bands, rock bands, funk bands, any kind of bands where instruments are played, can’t compete with singer-songwriters, with performers who can tour for a fraction of the cost of a big, ugly five-piece with hunks of metal and plastic attached.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve interviewed talented band members who, to the outside world, appear to be successful, at least successful enough to be full-time musicians. Instead, they play part-time, combining it with a regular job as they save up enough money to maybe, if they’re lucky, play a few festivals around Ireland, a few dates in England.
With online streams essentially worthless unless you’re pulling millions of listeners on a monthly basis, touring is the only way up-and-coming Gallaghers can ever hope to make an impact; but without the capital from music sales it’s nigh-on impossible to fund the kind of shows required to amass a decent following.
This is not Oasis’s fault. They are only answering the call of the masses. But for those of you who do attend the shows, savour it while you can, because we may never see their likes again – at least not until the 50-year anniversary tour of Definitely Maybe in 2044.