It’s election season! No politics today. I might do a pass next week, but I’m never great at hitting a deadline. Or am I? I guess that depends on your expectations. Maybe I’ll try a day-after synopsis, but I don’t believe a wave election is coming for either side. This week it’s all rock music, with a ’90s Manchester slant. I mean, have you really listened to Oasis? Feel free to skip to the end; AI doomscrolling lies ahead. Oh, when will this bubble burst? Maybe that’s a political question too?
And apologies for the duplicate email, I might have hiccuped finalizing this while the Brewers were finishing off the Rays.
What does it mean to say you’ve listened to a song?
Or that you understand an artist’s body of work?
Can you really hear U2? I mean, really hear them. Or Dave Matthews? Or Pearl Jam? Choose your favorite artist, close your eyes, and pump up the volume.
Now visualize a treble clef. Picture those notes dancing, building into songs. But assembling a collection isn’t the same as building a perfect album. I don’t mean the type where you scroll around in Spotify or Apple Music and click track four, skip to six, and then return to four. God help us, what a sad life to dirty your phone with so many fingerprints. But let’s not cast blame; music economics requires that one hit. It can be life-changing for singer and songwriter.
But a full effort? Ten to twelve solid tracks. No filler. No reason to bounce. Just pure musical greatness. A collection where you drop the turntable’s needle and listen until the last track fades. Not because the format creates friction but because, damn it, you feel like you’re cheating the artist by not sharing in what the muse conjured from deep inside their soul. The good lord knows finding the muse is hard. There has to be magic behind creativity, even if the dark arts make an appearance now and then too.
Again, there are few architecturally perfect albums. Some would indeed sell their souls to make one.
Many claim Taylor Swift is our generation’s songwriter. Swifty Nation and I have ordained her transformational. She’s one of a kind. Who is bigger than Taylor? The Tortured Poets Department is a perfect title, a wink and nod to a favorite movie. Yet a great title doesn’t make a great album, and this one doesn’t hold together from first track to last. None of her albums sustains that raw energy throughout. You can hear an edge on All Too Well. Red has it in doses. Playing music critic today, I’d classify her as more songwriter than architect.
But building perfection end to end? Oh, call it my opinion, but there have only been a handful, really.
Earlier this year, I argued that Pearl Jam’s Ten proved its case as transformational. But transformational isn’t the same as perfect. Yes, Eddie Vedder had something to say, a vision, and the band never deviated from that raw, unbridled energy. Yet is it perfect? I struggle here, biting my inner lip as I type, No, far from it. That doesn’t mean I don’t love it. Album debates are tough; I say this knowing Swifty Nation’s claws are at the ready. Still, some have reached the pinnacle.
Brian Wilson’s masterpiece, Pet Sounds, belongs on that list, despite a cover that proves you should never judge a book, or album, by its cover. Crafting arrangements and harmonies so far ahead of their time sent the bandleader into a tailspin. The muse clearly helped create the work. But did the music gods reveal too much? He didn’t finish the encore, Smile, for decades. Oh, what could have been. Pet Sounds set too high a bar with its harmonic blend, borrowing the universe with its pageantry, with Coca-Cola cans, dog whistles, bicycle bells, and, of course, animal sounds. And he did this in a pre-digital era, on a handful of tracks and a lot of tape. How was that even possible? To truly hear the full album, try listening on vinyl, solid stereo system included, and turn the dial up because today’s digital services wash out the subtleties. Doing it right places you in true throwback territory.
What about the Beatles? No, you can’t leave John, Paul, George, and Ringo out of this discussion. Has any band recorded so relentlessly over such a short time? They were together only ten years. For my money, I’ll pass on Sgt. Pepper, since it’s playing catch-up to Brian’s opus. Revolver, the White Album, and Rubber Soul come close. But for me, Abbey Roadshines brightest; it’s my go-to listen. The band went into the studio knowing the end was nigh, and they refused to let the world down, producing the definitive song in Here Comes the Sun. George wrote it, and it remains one of their most streamed tracks. Harrison’s work has aged well.
After those two, what else is there? What album makes the list? Rumours? Dark Side of the Moon? Boston (1976)? Purple Rain? OK Computer? I struggled to find my next pick until I walked into the theatre and watched Oasis: Don’t Look Back in Anger, the reunion tour documentary. I admit I’ve been sleeping on these guys, a term my kid shames me with whenever he knows more than I do about music or books or sports, my lesser Scarlet Letter. Yet I grew up during the ’80s rock god era. Think Steve Perry and his four-octave greatness. Then Nirvana tore it all down with that grunge god wail. Pain. Raw energy. Yes, I wore brown corduroy. Who didn’t? Don’t laugh; the style is making a comeback, and I should have stored mine in a time capsule or wooden treasure chest.
Delayed by traffic, I tiptoed into the theatre late, but there was no doubt I was in the right place. Liam Gallagher curses like a rampaging beast fighting hell’s demons. Yes, he’s a Manchester rock god, and he leaves no doubt. F-bombs launched every third word.
The memories came roaring back. Sure, I’ve listened to Wonderwall and Champagne Supernova, dirtying up my cell phone screen. Somehow, I never let the band’s magnum opus play on repeat.
How Did I Forget About Oasis?
It’s simple; I remembered them more for the constant bickering and childish British boy antics. Rock gods played. They roared. Yet that was their lesser schtick, even after they broke up in a hurricane frenzy. Noel left, forming his own group, High Flying Birds. The rest of Oasis stayed with Liam under a new calling card: Beady Eye.
But that didn’t end the spat.
With each respective album release, Liam attacked Noel’s authenticity. He portrayed himself as the genuine rock-and-roll Gallagher and Noel as someone who had become pretentious, forgetting his roots. Noel, never letting a slight go, attacked Liam’s musicianship. His argument was that his brother played a hapless lounge singer performing songs other people wrote.
I guess it was never about record sales but about who stood atop the Gallagher pedestal. In a brotherly war, nobody wants to lose that fight. Alas, their poor mother; I doubt she gave a damn about the band, but she did care for her kids.
As for going back, I understand Noel’s reluctance; returning means more than walking through the same door. Can you recover what made the old work haunt hum? I ponder this often. How long should you stay in a gig? If you decide to pack up, thinking you can always go back in time, is that an option? Well, the answer is often no. And rejoining Oasis, that’s more than a routine day job—that’s an epic life with certain strings, and baggage, attached.
After the walkout in 2009, the next fifteen years became a running game of Liam saying yes and Noel saying no. Near the Morning Glory 20th anniversary, Liam offered to play the album live if they put the fighting aside; yet, reports surfaced that Noel had turned down millions to reunite. Years later, 2018-ish, Liam’s message was simple: I forgive you, let’s get Oasis back together. Noel never engaged.
When a rumored nine-figure offer made the rounds, Noel joked he’d do it if someone produced the money.
Then, Liam, in classic fashion, said, “I’d do it for free.” How epic is that? Had the swagger returned? Maybe the showman never left? Most of the earlier reunions weren’t failures so much as Liam wanting it, promoters throwing out big numbers, and Noel declining. In August 2024, the impossible was finally announced.
Watching, I sensed the fans weren’t sure the boys would actually show up for that first concert. Hundreds upon thousands descended, wearing old T-shirts, many finding spots in trees or atop hills, if only to hear their favorite band roar again. And, oh my, the tears flowed when the two walked out holding hands. The crowd knew every lyric, shouting along. That’s the remarkable part of their work: these records had transformed; they had become lasting.
The Architect and the Instrument
It’s complicated. Yet simple. Noel played architect. The songwriter. He composed all of the classic-era material (Live Forever, Supersonic, Wonderwall, Don’t Look Back in Anger, Champagne Supernova) and increasingly controlled the arrangements and the band’s direction. As a guitarist, he’s not a Slash-style shredder or a Dave Matthews or Tim Reynolds acoustic savant. He worked things out on a Gibson J-150. If a song held its weight with just chords and a vocal line, it went electric and became stadium enormous. That’s why the melodies breathe the way they do. They climb, hang at the top, and fall back, and the next verse builds again.
For me, the beauty of Oasis is this variance: the swell, the release, the swell. The New York Times ran an article in 2021 on what makes a Grammy-nominated song; this type of modulation is a key ingredient.
And Liam was the instrument that played that rise and fall. His sneering, nasal delivery made fairly simple melodies erupt, and his stance, that swagger, that unpredictability, gave Oasis an onstage identity. While watching, I was surprised how little he moves during performances, hugging the microphone. He described it as a forward-thinking, strategic choice—a type of longevity hack. No throwing his hip out attempting Jagger-style kicks for this British rock god.
Their breakup and solo careers show this same division between brothers. Noel without Liam kept the songwriting sophistication but lost some of the Top Gun Danger Zone. Liam without Noel kept the voice, attitude, and visceral impact but needed other writers for consistently strong material. Not to toss shade, Liam did become a legitimate songwriter, with I’m Outta Time. And yes, Noel evolved as a singer too. I think his post-breakup efforts are the strongest of either brother’s.
But during the years that made Oasis, the formula proved simple. A songwriter. Add in a power voice. Sprinkle in a talented band. And that combination became ethereal, soaring above their contemporaries.
A War Cry
By the documentary’s end, that formula had become larger than the band. People across the world knew every single word to Don’t Look Back in Anger. Rice farmers. Fishermen. Divers. They all shed tears, if only to experience what was lost for oh too long.
I wiped a lone tear off my cheek for a different reason. What could have been?
Sure, the brothers who fronted this beloved ’90s band screamed a war cry of crass hedonism, arguing they didn’t give a damn about the world. By the end of the flick, I hope both Noel and Liam realized, definitely maybe, that the world gave a damn about them. Forever onward.
Notes:
Yeah, it’s a reference to an epic Christian Slater movie. Those exist. Not sure it’s his best; that ending from True Romance is next level.
I have a deep hatred for Radiohead; a controversial take. I just can’t listen to them outside of one song. And sadly, it’s the song the band hates most.
Should Nevermind be on the list? Maybe. It’s just not on mine because their MTV Unplugged effort surpasses everything else. Cobain, with Martin guitar in hand, conjured a dark magic that night. I can’t think of a frontman expressing more pain during a live performance. The sad part is knowing what happened months later.
Liam’s first solo songwriting effort with Oasis was Little James. Panned for numerous reasons by critics. Contrived. A knock-off John Lennon song. And I love it.
After the breakup, the brothers were prolific, dropping ten albums between various projects. I haven’t worked through every one, but, for now, I lean toward Noel being the brotherly winner. He does take more risks. Who works in cutting scissors for background noise? Well, the Beach Boys’ leader would give it a go. But besides him, not too many would make the attempt.
Be Cool, Pass The JPLA On …
Going Down The Well: A Ranking of Every Oasis Album (What Else Would I Be Listening To)?
After taking in the spectacle, I listened to each end to end; I hadn’t done it in years. I forgot what an amazing band this is. Every record holds up, no going wrong here, but a ranking is a ranking, even if I’m splitting hairs after number four.
(What’s the Story) Morning Glory? Amongst Oasis fans on Reddit, there is a debate that Definitely Maybe takes the top spot. But I’ll go by what members of the band say. Noel’s framing, roughly: Their first album was about wanting to be a rock band. The second is about becoming the rock band. Think of the first Matrix movie when Neo stops the bullets, stares at them with a puzzled face, and the agents take notice, running in fear. For me, this isn’t an argument. Even with a track list filled with memorable singles, this is meant to be listened to beginning to end. Tight. Nearly perfect. Wonderwalland Champagne Supernova are upstaged by what I think is a top-five all-time song. What do I mean? Here are the others on that list:
The Beatles, Here Comes the Sun.
Floyd, Wish You Were Here.
U2, One.
The Beach Boys, God Only Knows.
And then, I have to list Don’t Look Back in Anger. There are few better.
Definitely Maybe. Here, they sound like they are hoping to Live Forever, amidst all that Cigarettes & Alcohol. A hedonic feast for the ears and one of the best debuts for a band, like ever. Never gets old. Blast it on repeat with the windows down. Better yet, find a Buick Grand National, push in a CD, and drop your foot to the floor. Outrun the cops, cross state lines, and hide on a seldom-used country road. Kidding, don’t take that advice.
The Masterplan. I almost listed this as number four. Or numero uno? A B-side compilation that could top this list? About half of the album was cut from the Morning Glory sessions. That’s a feat, showing what lightning in a bottle meant during this time period. A groove. Or masterplan.
Be Here Now. Stand By Me, what an incredible song. Don’t Go Away, stunning. As a whole, some critics believe that it’s overlong, overproduced, and buried beneath an avalanche of its own guitars. But I love that this effort is beautifully reckless, with an ambition that fits the attempt. A stadium-sized feat no other recording quite matches. As a side note, The Masterplan also has a few songs from these sessions. Oasis never suffered from lack of creative output. When you are this good, the bigger question is how do you choose?
Dig Out Your Soul. Nothing about this record deserves to be underappreciated. Some rank this lower, but the guitars and riffs and songs have aged well despite the short recording turnaround time. And this wasn’t meant to be the last one; they didn’t have that Beatles insight going into the Abbey Road sessions. Granted, in the creative world, always think it’s the last one, be it song, book, or even a blog post. One never knows when the end is nigh. Unfortunately, the band imploded shortly afterward.
Standing on the Shoulder of Giants. Far different from the rest. A little darker. Electronica textures. The hurried fury is missing, that urgency. Uneven, sure—but it is also adventurous, moody, and more ahead of its time than critics give it credit for. I love it, even that odd Little James everyone seems to hate.
Don’t Believe the Truth. Again, splitting hairs. Not quite the same Oasis swagger. But did anyone else have this much to spare?
Heathen Chemistry. Messy. Still glorious.
What Am I Reading (GPU Funding, Anthropic S-1)
There’s this scene in Star Wars: Episode VIII, my favorite in the trilogy, where Luke Skywalker appears. It’s not just any moment; this is the moment. Why Disney recruited the original trio back into the fold but never bothered to put them in a scene together remains malpractice. Still, I give Rian Johnson credit here.
This is handled with care because it isn’t just any hero’s journey; this is Luke’s finish. I love the music. The buildup. How the remaining rebels stand up and take notice. And there is that Mark Hamill wink as he marches past to take on the entire empire all by himself. Kylo Ren sees his former master, orders the attack, and keeps on screaming. It reminds me of the tech industry, rushing to spend before regulations and market incentives shift.
And, of course, there is Anthropic with its billions in losses. The corporate structure is even more of a joke. Typically, a shareholder buys the upside and, with voting rights, can push the founding team to make changes. But not here. This is Facebook-style shenanigans, but worse: 51% of decision-making authority rests with an LLC made up of the company’s founders. What could go wrong here?
I’ll probably be wrong, and the joke is on me. Invest away. Stay thirsty, my friends.
More Readings (A Handful of Links and Two Great Thrillers)
The return of Lights-Out Lidge. Hey, the Astros are out of the postseason, but we will always have our memories.
Will the Staten Island Ferry joke ever end? Maybe they are getting their money’s worth.
I’ve been working through thrillers featured in The New York Times. S. A. Cosby can deal. Blacktop Wasteland. Razorblade Tears. Both are great.
What I’m Pondering (Words and the AI Arms Race)
Well, the world finally stood up and noticed the upcoming AI apocalypse. The security concerns and the impact on the web’s fabric are real. And the utter lack of responsibility in Silicon Valley remains appalling. There was a time when founders would at least say, “That’s my fault. I take responsibility.” Then they’d try to fix the problems. That could be my nostalgia but that era appears over. Politicians don’t apologize or say they are wrong. Companies fight in court. Nobody is accountable.
Weeks back, the White House introduced an AI council with nonbinding agreements. All the founders touted safety. Everyone needs to take a breath.
But this slowdown of sorts has an entirely un-American feel. Instead of having a government agency set rules, we’ve decided to allow the companies to do this themselves? This screams all things illegal. Years back, Apple, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble all formed a consortium to artificially inflate book prices. Yeah, $14.99 was a thing. Pricing is complicated—once prices go up, it’s awfully hard to bring them back down. Anyway, the companies worked with the publisher to keep e-books the same cost as the physical copy. They paid a settlement and everyone forgot.
I know, this isn’t the same. However, there is a place for government intervention. Collusion happens in our system due to a mismatch of incentives. Is safety the goal? Or winning the AI war in a global market? Maybe cold, hard cash? And who decides? But I think we know the answer.
Enter a close cousin to the prisoner’s dilemma. Sure, Mark Zuckerberg agrees to slow down. Yet let’s assume Meta is behind in the AI wars. What would a rational person do? He’d signal a slowdown and put his foot on the gas. And Sam Altman? If he’s ahead, he’ll believe Mark is investing. So OpenAI will set up a hidden project team or SWAT unit to blaze forward. With NVIDIA, Amazon, Anthropic, Microsoft, and others all in this race, and billions on the line, where do we end up? Fun times. It’s a game theory lesson as incentives don’t care about complex and flamboyant personalities. But I’d argue they are neither. Oh, I wonder if Steve would be haunted by this legacy.
What I’m Testing (Jogger’s Journey)
Kenya’s Sabastian Sawe became the first athlete to run a marathon under two hours in a competitive race, winning the London Marathon. I listened to the how on a recent Verge podcast. Apparently, it’s more than just shoes. Drafting. Fuel. Who knew baking soda was a thing?
But the shoes do matter. Nike kicked off the effort. Adidas took home the crown. Shows that first-mover advantage doesn’t always carry the day. So after trying on half a dozen pairs, I’m running in a version for regular Joes. Think high heels equipped with a nylon plate. And yes, these are glorious. Let’s see if they last longer than a couple hundred miles.
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And the Music Continues
“You are the music / While the music lasts.”
— T. S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages
