Bernard O'Shea: Oasis wasn’t just a gig but a reminder of who I was and who I’ll always be
Liam Gallagher, tambourine in his mouth, whips up the crowd at Croke Park, Dublin, during the Oasis Live ’25 concert. Picture: Chani Anderson.
The last time I went to an Oasis gig, my biggest concern was whether I could sneak a nagging of Pernod into a plastic Coke bottle without the bouncer noticing.
This time, my biggest concern was whether my Apple Watch would count the steps from the car park to the stadium because, honestly, I needed them. Somewhere between those two gigs, I went from “live forever” to “will my knees hold out if there’s a second encore?”
At first, I thought I’d be fine. Sure, I’ve been to plenty of gigs in recent years. But Oasis is different.
Oasis is tied up with an age where your metabolism still worked, when you thought Guinness was a food group, and when you could go out three nights in a row and still make it to work on Monday morning.
Back then, a hangover was a badge of honour. Now it’s a medical condition that might require a GP referral.
Standing in that crowd, I looked around and thought: “We’ve all gotten older.” The same people who once threw pints in the air to “Cigarettes & Alcohol” were now carefully navigating the sticky stadium floor because their Skechers don’t have great grip.
There were lads there who, in the 90s, would’ve started a mosh pit; now they were googling ‘symptoms of plantar fasciitis’ at half-time.
The gig hadn’t even started when I noticed it. Thousands of people were already holding up their phones to film the empty stage. Not Liam, not Noel, not even the roadies—just the stage. I thought, “Why are you filming this? It hasn’t started yet.” Then I realised: I was filming it too.
There’s something about being at a live gig that makes you think you’re a documentary filmmaker. The second the lights dim, you whip out your phone, as if your shaky, muffled video will ever compete with the professionally shot concert film that’ll end up on Sky Arts in six months. But you can’t help it. You want proof. You want to capture the magic.
Except here’s the truth: you’re not capturing the magic. You’re capturing 47 minutes of footage where you can only see the back of some lad’s head, hear your own off-key screaming, and get occasional glimpses of Liam’s parka when the camera wobbles in the right direction.
The irony, of course, is that Oasis were the soundtrack to an era before smartphones. The 90s were when you lived in the moment because there wasn’t another option. If you wanted to remember a gig, you bought the bootleg CD from some fella in a car park the next day.
There are moments in life where you realise just how collective an experience music can be. For me, that moment came during . Not the first chorus, not even the second, but every bit of it. This obscure B-side that I thought I was the only person in the stadium who knew, but no.
There were middle aged men with beer bellies hanging over their jeans (including myself here), teenagers born after Oasis split up, people who probably hadn’t listened to the album in 20 years—and every one of them belted out “while we’r living the dreams we have as children fade away…” like their lives depended on it. It’s proof that your brain stores everything, whether you want it to or not. I can’t remember my PPS number, but I can belt out “Slide in baby, together we’ll fly” without missing a beat.
Going to an Oasis gig is like stepping into a time machine, except instead of sleek sci-fi chrome, the machine is covered in beer, chips, and the sweat of middle-aged fans. From the moment the first chords rang out, I was transported straight back to 1996.
The clothes! Half the crowd was dressed in parkas, bucket hats, and round sunglasses at night. And it wasn’t ironic either. These weren’t costumes. These were uniforms. People weren’t just attending an Oasis gig—they were attending a reenactment of their own youth.
The songs themselves were pure nostalgia bombs. Every note was tied to a memory. wasn’t just a song—it was the college night out. wasn’t just a track—it was my first guitar lesson. Music doesn’t just take you back; it shoves you back, hard.
Here’s a fact: Liam Gallagher could read the Shipping Forecast between songs and nobody would notice. Because nobody knows what he’s saying anyway. The music? Crystal clear. Iconic.
But the moments between songs? Indecipherable. He’d mutter something into the mic, the crowd would cheer, and I’d be standing there thinking, “What was that?” At one point, I swear he said, “Shabba doo, sunshine, nice one, rkid, custard pie.”
The crowd went wild. People around me nodded like sages. I turned to the lad next to me:
“Do you know what he just said?” “Not a clue.” And that was enough.
Walking out of Croke Park, I realised something. The Oasis gig wasn’t just a night out. It was a reminder of who I was, who I am, and who I’ll always be. Older, yes. Addicted to my phone, absolutely. Nostalgic, tick!
Confused about Liam’s muttering? Without question. But also—part of something bigger.
And maybe, definitely maybe, that’s what living forever really means.
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