On Aug. 27, 2024, Oasis did the unthinkable: they announced their return. For years, talk of a reunion had been little more than pub chatter and wishful thinking, but that morning a cryptic post from the Gallagher brothers lit up the music world.
Three days later, on Aug. 30, the U.K. and Ireland presale opened; by the 31st, the general sale had wiped every ticket clean in hours. By September, billboards were flashing across North America, South America, Australia and Asia, confirming what fans everywhere already knew: Oasis weren’t just back, they were taking over again.
When the U.S. dates dropped, the reaction was surprising. Five stadiums sold out in under a day, nearly half a million tickets for a band that was never an American chart giant. “Wonderwall” remains their only U.S. top-10 single, peaking at No. 8 in 1996, and by the late 2000s Oasis were struggling to fill arenas. Which is why when American Stadiums sold out, it was unreal, and why Liam Gallagher can hit us back on X: “America, you have one last chance to prove that you loved us all along.”
When the reunion was announced, I wanted to see what their comeback would feel like, not just in the U.K., where Oasis are mythic, but in America, where their story has always been more complicated. I didn’t expect them to sound different, but I knew the crowd would be. Edinburg and Los Angeles were two different nights, two different kinds of love – one electric and one nostalgic. But both remind us that the Gallaghers were still the brothers, and Oasis was still Oasis.
I flew into Scotland on Aug. 6, two days before the gig, and it was clear before I even reached Edinburgh that Oasis weren’t just returning, they’d taken over the country. In Glasgow, pubs blasted “Morning Glory” on repeat, kids on the high street strolled in Adidas tracksuits and bucket hats, and half the conversations you overheard were about which night people were going to Murrayfield.
You could feel it on George Street, where an official Oasis pop-up shop had queues down the block. Fans walked out with Adidas x Oasis jerseys and armfuls of posters, comparing B-sides and setlist predictions. On the day of the show, the buildup spilled into the streets outside the stadium. Two girls had gone full Gallagher cosplay — Adidas tracksuits, bucket hats, wigs, even penciled-on stubble. One strummed a guitar while the other snarled into the air, and soon a circle of fans surrounded them, harmonizing to “Wonderwall.”
Inside Murrayfield, the restlessness turned electric. Whole sections were already singing “Live Forever” before the lights dimmed, their voices echoing across the terraces. It was the perfect cue for Richard Ashcroft to step out. He wasn’t just an opener; he was Britpop royalty, the frontman of The Verve, a band that had risen alongside Oasis in the ’90s and carved its own place in the movement. The crowd greeted him like a brother returning home.
Before starting his final song, Ashcroft paused, grinning into the roar. “It’s been a pleasure opening for one of the greatest bands in the world, and I’d like to finish with one of the greatest songs of all time.” Then the unmistakable strings of “Bittersweet Symphony” began, and the stadium erupted. Arms shot into the air, strangers threw their arms around each other, and the chorus carried across 70,000 voices before Ashcroft even reached the mic. It was less an opening set than a reminder: Britpop wasn’t nostalgia that night — it was alive and still echoing through a new generation.
When the loop of “Fuckin in the Bushes” tore through the speakers, out they came: Liam and Noel Gallagher, strolling with their arms draped across each other’s shoulders, a sight nobody thought they’d see again.
Liam stepped up first, arms out wide. “Oasis vibes in the area. Edinburgh vibes in the area.” With that, the band launched into “Hello.” When Noel leaned into the mic to deliver the line, “It’s good to be back, it’s good to be back,” the crowd bellowed it straight back at him. The irony wasn’t lost; this was the same man who’d spent years swearing a reunion would never happen. Fans joked it might take divine intervention, or a divorce lawyer, to change his mind. Turns out the latter did the trick.
Before “Cigarettes & Alcohol,” Liam leaned into the mic: “I’ve never asked you lot to do the Macarena or the Hokey Cokey, but I will ask you to all turn around and do the Poznań.”
Fans around me echoed that same feeling of excitement. Allan Muir, who first saw Oasis in 2005 at Edinburgh’s Usher Hall, told me the reunion felt different this time. “They opened with ‘Fuckin’ in the Bushes,’ then went straight into ‘Lyla.’ The crowd was mental,” he said. “That first time will always be hard to beat, especially in a small venue, but this time felt special. Most of us didn’t think it would ever happen again.”
Chris Tuffen, who caught Oasis back in 1994 at the Corn Exchange in Cambridge, had a similar reflection. “They were raw then, jeans, shirts, just ordinary lads who looked like us. They weren’t polished yet, but that’s what made it brilliant. You could feel the hunger. The reunion shows were great, but it’s never going to compare to being 50 yards away from Liam in ’94.”
A month later, I was back in Los Angeles, this time at the Rose Bowl, standing in the pit for both nights. The vibe was different, not worse, just different. Edinburgh had been wild, chaotic, and communal; Pasadena felt more intimate and reflective. Liam even poked fun at it, calling out L.A. crowds tend to stay a little too cool, and still for their own good. He had a point for night one, but night two, something shifted. Arms locked, backs turned, thousands finally jumping up and down together. It still wasn’t the same energy – but it was still unmistakably the same band.
He wasn’t wrong about the crowd, but by night two, we got it down. Arms locked, backs turned, thousands jumping in sync, it wasn’t the same energy as Scotland, but it was still the same band, the same grit, the same brotherhood, and the same songs that made people feel larger than life.
That’s where I met a man from London, eyes red with jet lag but smiling. “This is history,” he said. “I don’t care where I’m sitting or where I’m listening to them. They sold out the Rose Bowl.” His words hit me harder than I expected. He wasn’t wrong — Oasis had never sold out an American stadium before.
A Canadian woman I met outside later told me, “Oasis are loved in Canada, but someone once threw a shoe at Liam, and he’s never gotten over it.” We both laughed, but it was the kind of joke that said more than it should have.
When Noel introduced Paul “Bonehead” Arthurs, the reaction was polite — nothing like the roar that shook Edinburgh. Phones glowed through entire songs. Muir told me part of what made those early gigs so special was the lack of distraction. “Enjoy it like it’s the last time you’ll ever see them,” he said. “Keep your phone in your pocket.” Tuffen echoed that sentiment when I asked what had changed over the years. “Back then, no one had their phones out. Everyone was in the moment. That’s what made it magic.”
Even so, there was something undeniably touching about how the Gallaghers handled their return to an American stage. Liam was sharp, restrained, still snarling but softer around the edges. Noel, who’d spent decades swearing he’d never do this again, was in good spirits. He didn’t mock the crowd once. On the first night, he stopped mid-set to dedicate “Don’t Look Back in Anger” to a crying fan in the front row. It was small, but the entire stadium went silent before erupting into one enormous chorus.
Walking out of the Rose Bowl, I realized that no one will ever understand what Oasis meant unless you lived in the U.K. in the 90s.
Oasis weren’t just a band, they were a reaction to something broken. “The country was on its arse,” he said, remembering Britain under a conservative government, with pay cuts, rising taxes and mass unemployment. “Then this band that looked like 90% of the country stood up and sang about everyday shit and made us feel like rock ’n’ roll stars.” Songs like “Cigarettes & Alcohol” weren’t escapism, they were survival. Britpop, he said, gave people “a voice, a confidence, a swagger again.”
He wasn’t romanticizing it either. By 1997, when Princess Diana died, he said the country’s mood shifted, the swagger dimmed, the euphoria faded and that moment passed. But for those few years, Oasis changed everything.
And maybe that’s what this reunion is doing again, just somewhere new. America feels heavy right now: uncertain, angry and divided, the same way Britain once was in the early ’90s. Oasis might not have meant to, but they’ve come back at the right time, to remind people, as Chris put it, to find “their confidence and swagger again”.
Maybe they arrived just when America needed a band that still believes in being loud, hopeful and alive.
