BE HERE NOW: On Music, Manhood, and My Issues with That Oasis Reunion

The urge came pretty much out of nowhere.

It was 2022, a hot sweaty summer day in Copenhagen. I was wandering around in a white vest and, with the casual entitlement of a helicopter landing, let my shoulders take up whatever space they thought was theirs. And in the middle of all this, I suddenly felt this uncontrollable urge to listen to Oasis’s Be Here Now album. Especially the opening track, 'D’You Know What I Mean?'

It might have had to do with the music video. They also show up in a helicopter, just being all, all my people right here right now, d’you know what I mean? Not that I necessarily knew what they meant—I don’t think that was ever the point of Oasis lyrics—but I definitely recognised the feeling of just being there, sweaty vest and all, not owing anyone an explanation for anything.

It threw me since I'd always identified as a Blur boy.

I was a teenager in the ’90s, back when you had to pick a side. And for me, this was just as much about identity as it was about music—about tight jeans, Doc Martens, and eyeliner; about a body that was as dangerously thin as it was hard with determination. Where Oasis were all about natural and the universal, Blur represented something camp, poised, and performative—in other words, something feminine.

So in that sense, putting Oasis in my headphones also felt like questioning my own gender. Not in terms of whether I was a man or a woman, but rather, what this category I usually just call man really means?

Before Britpop, I'd been mostly into grunge.

I covered myself with long-sleeved T-shirts and flannels like Kurt Cobain. On one of Nirvana’s CDs, he’d written that if you were racist, sexist, or homophobic, you shouldn’t come to their shows or buy their records. He also wrote a song called 'I Hate Myself and Want To Die' which was included on the Beavis and Butthead soundtrack—the last tracks released before he shot himself.

The most I did was cut my arm a little. The marks are still just barely visible. It was only that one time; I didn’t like how much it hurt. It was more the idea of it that I was drawn to—and the fact that Richey Edwards from Manic Street Preachers had done it too. He also had anorexia, so I stopped eating, just like him. I wouldn’t say I hated my body back then, but our relationship was definitely defined by conflict, and my biggest victory was getting through the entire week on nothing but a single cracker.

With Blur, skinny nerds suddenly became objects of desire.

For me, it started in ’93 with Modern Life is Rubbish, which I borrowed from the music library and taped onto cassette. It was the year before they blew up big with Parklife, which I bought on CD the day in April it came out. I hadn't even been that into 'Girls and Boys' when I first heard it on the radio. But still, when I saw the cover in the record store—those greyhounds, skinny as anything but still stars in their own race—I felt seen and spoken to.

It wasn't just their general openness to girls who like boys who like boys to be girls. Bassist Alex James, with his Britpop fringe down over his eyes, became my new beauty ideal. And for those who didn’t have the cheekbones or the hairline to pull off that look, the guitarist with his thick black specs was a solid alternative—“No,” I had to explain again and again, “I don't have Buddy Holly glasses, I have Graham Coxon glasses!”

1994 was also the year Oasis came along.

'Supersonic' was high up on the alternative hit list all summer, and since this was before you had to pick a side, I also bought Definitely Maybe when it came out. I wasn’t so much into the following singles, 'Shakermaker' and 'Cigarettes and Alcohol'; they had this cocky energy that mostly seemed daft to me—this insistence on taking up space that I still couldn't see myself in.

The tracks I liked best on the CD were 'Live Forever' and especially 'Slide Away', the only ones where the body seemed to properly step up on the beer crate and gaze out at something beyond itself, rather than just kicking around empty bottles on the ground.

It was only in 1995 that it became either-or.

Both Blur and Oasis had new albums coming out, and they released singles on the same day. Blur won that battle with 'Country House', though 'Roll With It' was probably the most mindless Oasis single ever.

It was mostly the British press that blew it all up. They painted it as a class war: Oasis, the working-class lads, versus Blur, the art school boys. Oasis fired some pretty nasty shots—like when Noel Gallagher said he hoped Alex James and Damon Albarn would die of AIDS. Blur didn't let themselves be drawn into this; Damon Albarn just said Oasis were “more down to earth,” which was his subtle way of calling them primitive.

At my school, the divide really wasn't that big.

If everyone weren’t middle class, it at least wasn’t something you noticed. But there was still this unspoken rule that a boy’s worth was tied to his body, while paying attention in class and putting in effort was a girl thing. Oasis represented all the boys who were stronger than me, who outnumbered me, who’d give me dead arms in the hallway and ask if I had AIDS as they walked past.

Not that you need to be queer to feel like an outsider. Most teenagers probably feel different or out of place in one way or another—that’s always been part of the rock mythology. The only real question is whether you identify with that feeling or push it down to fit in. Oasis were for the boys who managed to blend in and make it look effortless. Blur were for those of us who knew that everything that got us labelled as fags, sooner or later, would become our strength.

But like everything else, Britpop came to an end.

When Be Here Now came out in 1997, that was the final nail in the coffin. My tech college sister bought both that and Blur’s self-titled album, also from 1997. I actually liked Blur’s CD at first, but I couldn’t stand the way 'Song 2' became a mainstream hit—there was too much body and empty beer bottles in that song

I found myself some new art school bands, started listening to OK Computer by Radiohead, which was just as brainy as it was emotional and alienated. Later, I returned to Blur with 13 and Think Tank, where they really leaned into their artsy side. I followed along when Damon Albarn combined the artsy and the poppy in Gorillaz—a band made up of cartoon characters, which was about as screw all that being-present-in-your-body-bogus as sit could have been.

And then, back again to 2022.

A lot’s changed with me and my body since I was a teenager. I’ve actually become genuinely fond of it. I started taking it to the gym, took it to different tattooists, used it for all sorts of excess—sex, drugs, dancing the night away and sometimes the next day too—and I’ve been profoundly overwhelmed by everything it allows me to do.

2022 was also the year I turned 42. My boyfriend says that’s what made him start wondering if that thing about us going through fundamental changes every seven years might have something to it. It was that year I started doing yoga and getting into somatics—trying to listen to my body and give it attention on its own terms. In short, being present in my body finally started making sense to me.

I’ve also listened to a lot of Oasis since 2022.

It’s mainly in summer, cycling around in my sweat-drenched vest, that I get this unexplainable craving for semi-psychedelic ’90s cock-rock. I’ve downloaded all their albums now, even the ones from the 2000s that no one else seems to care for. Standing on the Shoulder of Giants was probably my most-played album last summer.

Looking back at myself in 1995, it feels like I had a completely different gender back then. And I don’t mean that to spark some debate about how many genders there might be—I honestly couldn’t care less—I’m just saying: even though I’ve always defined my gender as male, it’s taken such varied forms and expressions that any box big enough to hold it all would be so broad a category, it wouldn’t say much about anything. Even though I was born with a dick and probably have a Y chromosome, I still think of manhood as a choice. It's a choice I’m overall quite happy with. Just as I’m happy I didn't follow a straight path here—that I never just accepted something as natural without questioning it.

Still, I’ve got mixed feelings about this Oasis reunion.

Last summer, when it was announced, it seemed kind of cute. I wasn’t planning on getting tickets or anything, but sure—Brat summer for divorced men? Fair enough. There should be room for all of us.

But now—with Trump back on the throne, with the war ramping up against women, queers, trans people, migrants—it just doesn’t feel as cute anymore. The right wing is broadening its shoulders, trampling anyone in their way, and if you think dialogue, science, or facts are going to make a difference, you’ve already lost. In that sense, it’s also a war on intellect and bookishness. It’s the playground bullies versus the outsiders all over again.

I’m not sure I can still listen to Oasis in this climate.

I mean, I think I’ve become pretty good at being a man—at least my kind of man. I think men in general have become better at being men, even if some people find it harder now that the bar’s been raised. I hope we can hold on to this. Because even if I'm sure Oasis couldn’t care less what I think, the cocky new lad masculinity of the 90s is probably the last thing we need in 2025.

That said, Oasis have already had their own internal reckoning. While Liam’s always been the top brute in the band, Noel was always a bit of a closet nerd—the one who played piano and wore cardigans and was less good at fighting—and somehow they’ve managed to patch that up.

So I’m choosing to give optimism a chance.

I’m choosing to believe that Brat summer for divorced men can also be a peace and reconciliation project. I remind myself that my white vest and my right to take up space are also just costumes my body gets to wear. And that it’s also possible to take up space to share it—to hold it for others.

And if it all goes to shit, I’ve got a Plan B. Stereolab are also doing a reunion tour right now, and I’m more than happy to push a Stereolab revival. I gave it a test run in my headphones on one of the first proper spring days. And honestly, casual chic Marxist mocktail party might be just the vibe to get me through this summer.