As a freshman in college, cowering in the shadows of WKCO’s CD racks, the sheer volume of unheard music caused me to cling hastily and naively to the dictum that if I hadn’t heard of it, it must be good–and if it was also British, then it must be REALLY good. Listening to mix tapes from the time illustrates this shameful practice in sharp relief. (Ultra Vivid Scene, anyone? How about the Blue Aeroplanes? Yeeesh.) Eventually, I learned to think for myself (I…believe), but I’ve never quite been able to shake a vague Anglophilia. (Studying in England junior year surely didn’t help.) Don’t get me wrong–I don’t slavishly adore any old disc that comes from across the pond. Let’s just say I’m more willing to give those crazy limeys a chance than some of my Amer-indie brethren. I mean, they don’t all sound like Suede. Really.
So my ear was cocked Blighty-ward in 1995, and at that time there was, of course, just one word wafting across the Atlantic with the fervour (!) of a dozen simultaneous Isle of Wight festivals: “Oasis! Oasis! Oasis!” I’d read that the two brothers fought a lot and that they considered themselves superior to the Beatles. I got a load of Noel’s eyebrows and was duly impressed. I knew they were brash and snotty and determined to “break” America. And even for the notoriously hperbolic British press (“The Jesus and Mary Chain are the only rock and roll band we need”–NME), the hype machine was cranking and whizzing like nothing I’d ever seen–even from my time there during the Year of Nirvana.
So one Sunday night at the 5-0 in Raleigh, dollar beer night, 1995, the dance floor was packed with everyone except me and my friends, as per friggin usual. Somehow visible-yet-center-floor was this girl who came into the coffee shop a lot, this bald-headed goth girl I had a crush on. Lights akimbo, smoke and sweat and all that. I don’t remember what the guy she was dancing with looked like, probably because it was soon not going to matter at all: One song started and the next came on with this…BEAT. A really DUMB beat, eight counts. Then an absurdly rich guitar part over that, like Neil Young meets T. Rex. Sixteen counts. And then this ridiculous voice, kinda like Johnny Rotten with some Lennon thrown in– honestly, if a voice could wear sunglasses, this would be it: “You need to be yourselfffff.” That first line ushered in a “wicked” guitar lead, like a curtain rising on a superstar, and it was awesome. But it was stupid. But it was AWESOME: “You can’t be no-one elssssse.” I didn’t even have to ask the DJ–I knew it had to be Oasis, HAD to be. I watched the bald girl sneering and stomping perfectly along, and I knew I’d be getting in touch with these lads soon enough–it was fate. And, much to the chagrin and confusion of tasteful indie fans all around me, it’s remained my fate ever since. God bless ‘em!
