Have the Oasis brothers suffered from ‘naked classism’?

Though I’d never read any books about Oasis before this one, I’d have bet it would be impossible to write boringly about the band – for two reasons: namely Noel and Liam Gallagher. As the most entertaining men in music, the former could be talking to a goldfish and still end up riffing in an entirely fresh, witty and profound way, while the latter is probably the greatest natural clown since Buster Keaton.

I’ll put my cards on the table and admit that I’ve got a chronic crush on Noel. When I interviewed him for the Sunday Times nearly ten years ago, the simpering, gushing and giggling on the tape sounded as though a coachload of Japanese schoolgirls had joined us. He has spoken of how he enjoys the company of journalists – the mark of a reckless man with nothing to hide. So I felt pleased at the prospect of this book, but also potentially envious of the relationship that P.J. Harrison might have had with the object of my affection.

It has an introduction by Andrew Loog Oldham that reads a bit like a crazy drunk buttonholing you at a party and gabbling about this brilliant guy you just have to meet. The press release seems pretty starstruck with the author, too:

A former label owner who has spent time on the road and in the studio with the band, treats fans to the inside story… Harrison spent every day around the band, getting to know their management and developed friendly relationships with them.

I am not without sympathy for those who seek to write about the liveliest of the arts and fail woefully. I have done so several times myself. Being eloquently nasty is far easier for the writer and often more amusing for the reader. So just as I managed to produce a dull newspaper interview with one of the world’s least dull men, I had my fears about the outright fan-boy Harrison managing an entire book.

The first hurdle is that he means well (and was there ever fainter praise?). He writes:

I’ll start by saying that I have a huge amount of respect for any self-made individual who has excelled at the top of a highly competitive field … I grew up in the same class and geographical space as the Gallaghers … often their incredible achievements are obscured by naked classism in the British media.

This is true; but there’s a reason why Richard Hoggart couldn’t write an Oasis song. The uses of literacy and the ability to create a great piece of music are worlds apart, and not going to university certainly never did the Gallagher boys any harm. Indeed, it could be said that had Britain been less class-bound the extremely clever Noel might easily have succumbed to further education, got a “good” job and been lost to music forever.

When it’s not trying hard to be a political text, the book does a good imitation of a gossip column. Harrison positively pants over the minutiae of the brothers’ love lives. I found it amusing until he describes the betrayed second wife Nicole Appleton’s “songbird’s wings” being “melted by Liam’s red giant,” and dubs Debbie Gwyther “the Liam Whisperer.” She is the prospective third wife who appears to have helped him calm down somewhat (though arthritis and hip replacements might also have contributed). At this point, to quote Dorothy Parker, Tonstant Weader fwowed up. But to be fair I hadn’t previously realized what dry wit Liam can display. Dismissing his brother as being too rich, he once sneered: “Noel lives in a £17 million house ($23 million). That changes you. You have appropriate furniture, appropriate kitchens and appropriate red wine that Bono’s recommended.”

The book’s basic problem is this: how can a quicksilver talent as precious (in a good way) as Noel Gallagher’s be written about without the author sounding precious (in a bad way)? It’s a crime to which I plead guilty in the first degree. But despite its faults, this is an engaging book – and a decent companion to the Oasis mania that is sweeping the nation.