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Edinburgh, Usher Hall, 15.05.2005 (Quelle:

David Pollock

"THIS one’s for the kid up there in the green top," offered Liam Gallagher, craning his shade-shrouded eyes up to the very highest tier of the Usher Hall’s balcony as Oasis’s first Scottish gig since their Corn Exchange date in September 2002 drew to a close. "This one," he repeated, his thoughts having arrived on the connection between Scotland and a very long drop, "is for that wee wotsername Krankie woman."

If Oasis have truly embraced the way of olde English psychedelic whimsy, as those who have heard the forthcoming sixth album Don’t Believe The Truth say, here it is in full effect.

Yet such world-of-his-own mutterings have been a staple of Gallagher jnr’s persona since Oasis spent 1994 trying to be the council estate Sex Pistols, and only the fact that Noel-vocaled new song The Importance of Being Idle sounds a little like the Kinks reinforces the case. Otherwise, much of the unnecessary trappings which have conspired to derail their bandwagon since - overblown Beatles rip-offs, misguided thoughts of a new musical direction, tacky stage sets - have been put back in their box.

Now bassist Andy Bell and drummer Zak Starkey (son of Ringo) have been given the only instruction an Oasis rhythm section needs - turn it up loud while Noel and Gem duke it out for the biggest, most anthemic guitar riff. Of course, old rockers Bring It On Down, Cigarettes & Alcohol and Morning Glory (dedicated to Malcolm Glazer by gloating Man City fan Liam) set the rampaging blueprint, while Live Forever and Champagne Supernova are the prototype singalongs.

Yet Stop Crying Your Heart Out (from 2002’s Heathen Chemistry) proves their recent career has also thrown up the odd classic, while mildly underwhelming new single Lyla makes perfect sense as an easy-to-remember terrace singsong. And there’s more - The Meaning of Soul starts with the drum riff of the Stone Roses’ I Am The Resurrection and builds to an irresistible stomp, while Mucky Fingers references the Velvet Underground and Sixties’ garage rock, a field ripe for picking by Oasis.

As the band pummel their way through the now-mandatory closer, a cover of The Who’s My Generation played with fierce vigour by men who know their own generation is still just within their grasp, the view of the wild moshpit from the balcony sends neck hairs to attention.

It looks rough, exciting, dangerous. And for the first time in a while, Oasis sound all of these things too.

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