While 2024 had Brat summer, 2025 is undoubtedly shaping up to be a Britpop summer. Why? Because Oasis – arguably one of the best (and most conflict-ridden) bands in the world – have shocked us all and are kickstarting a global reunion tour tonight.
When I was at university, I told myself I would pay whatever price was asked of me if Oasis ever got back together. In the days of student union shots and bargain vintage buys, the idea of my favourite band of all time doing a reunion tour felt like as much of a pipe dream as me becoming a journalist. Now, both of those dreams have somehow come true.
Of course, the Oasis dream came at a rather surprising, specific cost (not that a journalism career didn't, admittedly). Tickets for the much-hyped reunion tour went on sale last summer, with an entire hellish day lost to the stressful pursuit. Ticketmaster was eventually found to have “misled” fans into spending an unprecedented amount of money, as the site used “dynamic pricing” to inflate prices.
And the spending won't stop there. According to Barclays, fans are predicted to spend a combined £1.06 billion while attending the tour.
But as the tour kicks off, and my opportunity to weep for a couple of hours straight to the songs I’ve loved so dearly for 20 years approaches, another cost has dawned on me. The price I'll potentially pay when it comes to my feminism.
In the age of famous men being called out for all kinds of bad behaviour, from the criminal (Harvey Weinstein, R Kelly and P Diddy, just to name a few), to those abusing power in more subtle (sometimes legal) ways, it feels like my radar for problematic men is on high alert. So many young women, in fact, feel bound to sharpen their feminism, in order to survive what is a really unsatisfying time when it comes to bringing problematic men to justice.
While Liam and Noel don’t fall under the category as the above disgraced men, it still feels ironic how much I have idolised them and their music throughout my life. My feminism extends to how I feel about racism, disability rights, trans rights, structural inequality and the treatment of many more minority groups. The Gallagher brothers don't exactly align with my politics or wider beliefs. At all.
In recent years, Noel has criticised Glastonbury Festival for being woke, yo-yo’d back and forth over whether we should oppose Brexit and ranted about the high house prices in Brighton while I watched him perform live on the beach, even though he reportedly lives in (*checks notes*) London's wealthy Maida Vale. Liam has recently apologised to his fans online after posting a since-deleted racial slur that is used to mock East Asian people on X (formerly Twitter).
The band also sits dead in the centre of lad culture. Did lad culture come first, or did Oasis? It’s surely a chicken and egg situation. And somehow, the music makes me glory in the Stone Island parka vibes and the Fred Perry polos, even though the more toxic sides of lad culture make me cringe and bristle with anger and defensiveness in equal measure.
The older I get, the more I find myself rolling my eyes at both brothers. But the music is a whole other story.
Oasis could quite literally soundtrack most milestone moments of my life from the age of fourteen to perhaps 21 years old, so acute was the influence of their music. Certain songs are permanently intertwined with memories of certain house parties, holidays, school trips and – inevitably – doomed romantic relationships that I now see as precious, crucial memories and life lessons.
I’ve watched both Liam and Noel perform live several times, with two stand-out instances being a Birmingham date of Noel’s 2012 tour – which still goes down as one of the best nights of my life – and a bittersweet 2018 Liam gig in Finsbury Park that marked the beginning of seven happy years living in the London neighbourhood. I can still clearly remember sitting on a friend’s shoulders screaming along to Live Forever and wondering if I will ever feel this alive and happy again.
During my teen years, Oasis’ music was integral to how I connected with men (friends and boyfriends alike), seeing as very few of my female friends shared my obsession. I was a fairly brash teen, with an attitude masking deeper-seated insecurities, so adopting Oasis’ bravado suited me quite well as I navigated my adolescence and university career. The empowering, liberating lyrics of Whatever, the cheeky jokes colouring She's Electric and the catharsis of Stop Crying Your Heart Out fused parts of my personality to be what it is today.
I’ve felt obligated to weigh my love for Oasis against my feminism and political beliefs partially due to a feeling that the aura of male musicians has shifted. I stood in the crowd for Sam Fender’s London Stadium performance earlier this summer and was absolutely bowled over at the way he sung about male mental health, suicide and family relationships. His lyrics and stage presence are a far cry from the men criticising a festival for allowing people to express their left-wing politics during a time of war and injustice.
So the question is this: can, and should, you separate the art from the artist? And if I choose not to, am I a bad feminist? Is the misogyny internalised within lad culture doomed to be woven into the music that I love most, unable to be unpicked?
Of course, we’re 34 years on from when Oasis started out and attitudes have moved on, but questioning their exact place in the 2025 music world feels prudent. Especially if you take the power of nostalgia out of it.
The hype and excitement for their return answers part of the question – their impact on British culture is undeniable. But perhaps the most important answer to the question is that the political views, attitudes and behaviour of two Gen X men can't – and won't – define either my own beliefs, or my love for their music.
