So, the Gallagher brothers have landed in Melbourne, and the official word is there’s “not a hint of conflict between the two.”
Let’s just pause and read that again. Liam and Noel Gallagher, the two men whose sibling rivalry was so legendary it could power a small nation on pure spite, are apparently getting along just fine. Right. And I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you. This isn’t a rock and roll tour; it’s a hostage negotiation with a killer soundtrack, and we’re all supposed to pretend the guns aren’t loaded.
This entire “Live ‘25” tour feels less like a reunion and more like a carefully managed corporate merger. No, ‘merger’ isn’t right—it’s a historical reenactment. They’ve assembled all the original parts, polished them up, and are now parading them around for anyone with a credit card and a fading memory of the 90s. The promise isn't danger or spontaneity; it's a surgically precise delivery of nostalgia, as sterile and predictable as a Vegas residency. Phew, indeed.
The Sanctioned Rebellion
Look at the machinery grinding around this thing. It’s a masterclass in monetizing memory. You can’t just go to a show anymore; you have to participate in the experience. There’s an official pop-up store in Melbourne Central hawking an Adidas Originals x Oasis collection. Because nothing screams “Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” like a limited-edition track jacket that costs more than your first car.
Then you get to the venue itself, Marvel Stadium, a place with all the soul of an airport terminal. Gates open at 5 pm, but the main event doesn’t hit the stage until 8:45 pm. That's nearly four hours to marinate in the concourse, contemplating life choices while standing in line for a $15 beer. You’re encouraged to travel without bags, but if you absolutely must bring one, make sure it’s no larger than a piece of A4 paper. I’m not kidding. They want you to shell out for a $70 t-shirt but god forbid you bring a bag big enough to carry it home in...
This is the new rebellion, I guess. A rebellion so safe and pre-approved that it comes with a complimentary cloaking service. It’s like a classic muscle car that’s been meticulously restored, but the roaring, gas-guzzling V8 has been ripped out and replaced with a silent, efficient electric motor. It looks the part, it gets you from A to B, but the thrilling, dangerous, soul-shaking noise is gone forever. At what point does the music just become the background noise for a very loud shopping trip?
A Setlist Written by Lawyers
And what about that music? The Oasis Melbourne Tour: times, tickets and confirmed setlist, cribbed from their UK shows, is a murderer’s row of hits. "Wonderwall," "Don't Look Back in Anger," "Champagne Supernova." It’s a flawless collection of anthems designed for maximum crowd satisfaction and zero risk. Every note will be played with professional precision. Every chorus will be a mass singalong. It’s exactly what people are paying for.
But where’s the chaos? Where’s the chance that they’ll throw a curveball, play a deep cut, or, hell, get into a blistering argument mid-song? That was part of the deal with Oasis. You paid for the classics, but you stayed for the drama. You were watching a beautiful, volatile chemical reaction that could either create gold or explode at any second. What we’re getting now is just the gold, pre-packaged and sold by the ounce. There ain't no danger here.
I can just picture the crowd now. A sea of aging Britpop fans in their bucket hats, filming the entire show on their phones through a forest of other phones. They’ll get their perfect, shareable clip of "Live Forever" and post it with a caption about how music was so much better back then. It’s a feedback loop of nostalgia, and offcourse the band is happy to provide the product. Are we really paying to see a band anymore, or are we just paying to hear a Spotify playlist we already own, performed live with maximum efficiency and minimum humanity? Then again, maybe I'm just the cynical bastard who can't stand to see people happy.
It's Just a Job Now
Let's be real. This isn't about art or reconciliation. It's a business transaction. A very, very lucrative one. The Gallagher brothers finally realized they were leaving billions on the table by hating each other in separate rooms. Now they can hate each other on a private jet while the money rolls in. Good for them. But don't sell me the fantasy that the most dysfunctional band of a generation has suddenly found peace, love, and understanding. They’ve found a common financial interest. This isn’t the Oasis that snarled their way to the top of the world. This is Oasis™, the legacy act. And while the songs remain the same, the soul has long since left the building.