And indeed, much of Oasis’ first album sounds like it could very well backtrack the scene in This Is England where the young skinhead boys run around play-fighting each other in the abandoned factories of the Midlands; songs like “Cigarettes and Alcohol” aren’t exactly subtle in their discomfiting ire. But where Definitely Maybe played hard into working-class discontent, the group’s second long-play is more introspective, a light-footed exploration of mercurial, youthful moods and the confusion of fame. It was also the record that cemented the band as a veritable mainstay of British rock, and an international sensation to boot.
Where (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? shines is in its nudge toward sincerity, a curious admixture of gruff British masculinity and sensitive, pleading emotion. The album posits itself precariously between the poles of apathy and desire. It is this strange, contradicting juxtaposition that makes it so captivating: that “Bonehead’s Bank Holiday,” a churlish, mocking swinger of a song about middle-class vacations, shares space with “Cast No Shadow,” an ingenuous, bleeding deep-cut about the fragile genius of the Verve frontman Richard Ashcroft. It makes the album feel unpredictable and lithe.
(What’s the Story) Morning Glory? is also, endearingly and stubbornly, a very English record. The Gallagher brothers’ signature Manchester rasp infects the tracks with a brusque energy, teasing and unaffected in that quintessential U.K. way. “Roll With It,” a case for a life well-lived even under less-than-ideal circumstances, is one of many songs to include thinly-veiled Beatles references—“it’s all too much for me to take” being a clear nod to the band’s underrated Yellow Submarine tune “All Too Much.” That the brothers managed to wrangle such patriotic sentiment out of their countrymen is no small feat: there is perhaps no contemporary band that Britons claim so fiercely, and whose sensibilities are so taken to mirror that of their unrelenting fanbase.
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Oasis’ work has drawn such nostalgia because it represents the sort of caustic, brazen youthfulness rendered inaccessible in a world universalized and commodified by the Internet and its accouterments. The emotions the band expresses might feel corny to a modern listener because they are so devoid of self-protecting farce. Also, because some of them are a little corny. And yet: Oasis stands the test of time because of a relatability the Gallagher brothers could not have predicted. Theirs is recession music, and its impact as such has not shrunk: the socioeconomic conditions beleaguering British youth in Oasis’ heyday—high unemployment, inflation, and loss of consumer confidence—are mirrored with startling parallelism by the world celebrating (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?’s pearl jubilee.
That balmy effect has helped maintain Oasis’ star-power, even as the band went on what some speculated would be a forever hiatus. After the 2017 Manchester Arena bombing, the country’s largest terrorist attack since 2005, the plaintive, consolatory ballad “Don’t Look Back in Anger” became a rallying cry of British resilience. The song is, indeed, a special one: rarely does a rock band proclaim such nakedly pacifying ideals. It is this nakedness, however padded by Mancunian bite, that makes Oasis’ sophomore record so addictive. “She’s Electric” is another standout (and my favorite song on the album): after a rollicking, Stones-y guitar riff rockets in, one of the era’s silliest, most beseeching love songs of the 21st century. “There’s lots and lots for us to see, / There’s lots and lots for us to do,” Liam croons, with all the unvarnished enthusiasm of a kid brought to Disneyland. There’s something deeply affecting in the song’s simplicity, its accessibility. (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? is quintessentially comprehensible: in languid lyricism and emotive instrumentation, the band tells us exactly what they mean, often in verbiage a third-grader could comprehend.
And I need not wax poetic on “Wonderwall,” which has, for better or for worse, become one of those songs so ubiquitous that it’s impossible not to resent it and equally so not to hum along when it comes on in Walgreens. It is cheesy and beautiful and annoying and perfect. It is nonsensical and impossibly catchy, a song whose lyrics are so vast and all-encompassing as to apply to nearly anything. It is a love song, or a political anthem, or a meditation on addiction, or all of them at once. Such broadness is a rare songwriting feat, and one that has granted “Wonderwall” generational longevity.
In its best moments, (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? is at once playful and sincere. It teases and relents, maintaining a fervent forward thrust even in its downtempo moments. It promises the listener that they are in on the joke—that they, too, can laugh at it. The record opens itself readily and wholly to its listener, inviting them inside the sardonic, lazy, desirous world of its progenitors without commotion or flourish. The last track, “Champagne Supernova,” is the thematic apex. A 7.5-minute scorcher reminiscent of the Beatles’s psychedelic detours, the track is thick and chewy, cyclical and explosive. It is kinetic and confessional, an epic tour de force of the world’s cosmic mysteries delivered in the band’s signature no-nonsense style. “The world’s still spinnin’ round, we don’t know why,” Liam admits over watery guitars and roiling drums. The song bursts into a whirlpool of strings and cymbal-crashes, and just as quickly retreats. So, too, does its existentialism: As the track rolls softly to a finish, Liam repeats playfully a singular line: “We were getting high.” There would be no better way for (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? to announce its departure than with a cannabinoid decree. For better or for worse, roll with it they will.
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Miranda Wollen is a former Paste Music intern. She lives in New York and attends school in Connecticut, but you can find her online @mirandakwollen.
