By Sara Bright
The noise is the first thing that hits you. A physical, primal, deafening roar that feels less like applause and more like a dam of pent-up, middle-aged yearning finally bursting. Creativitys.UK will tell you about the resurrection of Oasis, a cultural séance staged not in some dusty, spiritualist church, but under the sterile, corporate canopy of Cardiff’s Principality Stadium. This isn’t just a rock concert. It is an act of mass hypnosis, a magnificent, troubling, and obscenely lucrative exercise in weaponised nostalgia. And as the opening chords of Hello crash down upon the adoring faithful, one thing becomes terrifyingly clear: this is a performance of a band that no longer exists, delivering a flawless facsimile of a past that is both glorious and gone forever.
Let’s be clear about the choice of opener. Hello. A song that brazenly lifts its central hook from Gary Glitter’s “Hello, Hello, I’m Back Again.” In an age of relentless cultural scrutiny, it is a move of such breathtaking, arrogant indifference that it almost commands respect. But no one here cares. The crowd, a sprawling sea of bucket hats, expensive parkas, and faces etched with the memory of the 90s, bellows back every word. They even cheer the slick promotional videos for the tour’s sponsors, Adidas and, inexplicably, Land Rover Defender, with the same fervour. They are not here to critique; they are here to worship. They are here to feel young again, and Oasis 2025 is more than happy to sell them that feeling, at a considerable markup.
A brilliantly managed resurrection
Anyone who endured an Oasis gig in the chaotic 2000s will remember the thrilling, often excruciating, sense of volatility. You were paying for the songs, but you were also paying for the drama, the possibility that it could all implode in a hail of fraternal curses and expertly aimed guitars. You never knew which Liam Gallagher would show up: the golden-throated god of rock, or the surly, petulant caricature. That frisson of danger, that hint of genuine, combustible chaos, was part of the appeal.
It is entirely, blessedly, absent tonight. This reunion tour is not an artistic reconciliation; it is a brilliantly executed business merger. Nothing has been left to chance. This is Oasis as a high-end heritage brand, delivering a product of ferocious, risk-free power. Liam, on his very best behaviour, offers a sheepish “thanks for putting up with us, I know we’re hard work,” a line that would have been unthinkable in his pomp. On stage, the brothers are separated by the solid, reassuring presence of rhythm guitarist Paul “Bonehead” Arthurs, a human buffer zone preventing any unscripted flare-ups. The volatility has been surgically removed, and what remains is a ruthlessly efficient hit-delivery machine.
The tyranny of the playlist
The setlist itself is a masterpiece of historical revisionism. This is not the Oasis that trudged grimly through the 2000s, releasing albums of diminishing artistic returns. This is Playlist Oasis. This is the band as they exist on Spotify, decontextualised and stripped of their less successful moments. The show leans, almost exclusively, on the first two albums, Definitely Maybe and (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, and the B-sides from that imperial phase when Noel Gallagher’s songwriting well was so deep he could afford to toss away anthems like Acquiesce or The Masterplan on the back of a CD single.
The much-discussed generation of new, younger fans is certainly here, screaming along to songs released before they were born. But their love is for a myth, a curated stream of classics untroubled by the memory of the bloated, creatively fallow later years. The performance dutifully maintains this illusion. Only the inclusion of 2002’s Little By Little gives any indication that the band even existed in the 21st century. The lumbering, cocaine-fuelled hubris of 1997’s D’You Know What I Mean? still sounds like a trudge, but for the most part, the strategy is devastatingly effective. It serves as a powerful, undeniable reminder of just how incandescently brilliant that initial purple patch was.
An echo of past glories
Against a ferocious wall of distorted guitars, the strange, beautiful alchemy of the band’s core dynamic is laid bare. The disconnect between Noel’s wistful, often deeply melancholic lyrics and Liam’s delivery – a snarling, seething howl of frustration and defiance – remains one of the great, paradoxical engines of British rock music. Even with half their career airbrushed from history, the sheer weight of the classics is staggering. Cigarettes & Alcohol, Slide Away, Rock ’n’ Roll Star, Morning Glory. They land like heavyweight blows, each one triggering a fresh wave of ecstatic, communal roaring from the crowd.
So potent is the back catalogue that even the traditional mid-set dip, where Liam departs and Noel takes over lead vocals, fails to quell the enthusiasm. During a tender, acoustic rendition of Half the World Away, the sound of 70,000 people singing along threatens to completely overwhelm the man who wrote the song. It is a genuinely moving moment, a testament to the enduring, almost folk-song-like power of his writing.
The encore is as predictable and as perfect as it needs to be. Don’t Look Back in Anger, Wonderwall, Champagne Supernova. It is a final, overwhelming barrage of pure, unadulterated nostalgia. The brothers share a perfunctory, almost business-like, clap on the back – the only physical interaction of the night. And then, before the final, shimmering notes of Champagne Supernova have even died away, Liam is gone, whisked away in a waiting car, a triumphant transaction complete. The product has been delivered. The crowd is ecstatic. And the magnificent, hollow roar of yesterday echoes into the night.
