THE DUKE LISTENS TO LYLA BY OASIS
Dig this, man.
I had no kind of treacherous notion lurking around in the back of
the skull, no sort of optimistic whisper whatsoever, with regards
the first single from the upcoming Don’t Believe The Truth, i.e.,
the first Oasis album in however long it’s been since Heathen
Chemistry. Far as I was concerned I’d be lucky if it was
listenable. If it managed to offer some shit along the lines of
the pleasant-enough stomp of, say, The Hindu Times, I suppose it’d
be a victory of some sort or other.
What occurred was that this very eve I find myself in such a
position as to press play and to hear this new single, the
cheekily titled Lyla, and to see what the hell the result of all
this stopping and starting and re-recording and so on and so
fourth might be, anyroad.
Here’s a scenario I just this very second ripped out my stinking
face for to illustrate the plight of the Oasis fan.
Let’s imagine a fella is having an affair with a married lass. Or
vice-versa, depending on ones anatomy. Those first few illicit
passion-drenched filth-displays, they leave a fella high as a man
cracked to the teeth on the white and the brown for the very first
time. Next thing he knows, though, he finds that he doesn’t really
like all this hiding around and pretending there ain’t no shit
going on. She claims it’s “fun”, it’s “dangerous”, but to him it’s
just a pain upside the rectal cave. He has to sit in pubs with
groups of deviants chortling and hollering about so-and-so and the
slime-enveloped sessions what they summoned in the toilets. They
look at our protagonist, and they suddenly change the conversation.
We can’t yack about the filthing, they collectively assume. He’s
gonna feel left out. When was the last time he had a poke, anyroad?
But fuck you, thinks our slighted hero, I been getting up to the
kindsa things they don’t even let you import on VHS. I been doing
things you folks don’t even get time to think about before you’ve
gone and cracked one off over the morning paper.
And yet he has to pretend. Yeah, you’re right. I’m pathetic, is
all.
Now and again the lady-friend says shit like “I’m gonna tell him”,
and maybe even “We’ll be able to hold hands in the street”, and
maybe you stay up to five in the morning plotting her confessions.
When she arrives on the doorstep the next night, your heart jumps
up into the back of your right nostril. Has she done it? Has she
revealed all and here she is ready to set sail on the good ship
Legitimacy?
No, she says they had a long discussion and then agreed things
weren’t as they should be, but they might be able to fix it. Fancy
a shag?
What this new Oasis single is like, is like she comes up to that
doorstep, and the memories of all those bitter disappointments
linger in the air, and you open the door and first thing you see
is she ain’t wearing her wedding ring. More to the point, she’s
smiling. Something’s up, man. Something good, is what.
Lyla is fucking fantastic. It has a simple as hell riff, but it’s
catchy as all fuck. The chorus is the best damn chorus Oasis have
penned since Girl In The Dirty Shirt. Lyrically it’s probably just
as ridiculous, but The Duke was too busy smiling, I mean actually
grinning like a man screwed in the mentals, saying to myself “Well
it’s about time, man. It’s about fucking time.”
Now, chances are the parent album will prove to be a bit like
maybe she says yeah, I ditched him, but I don’t feel ready to jump
straight into another relationship. Maybe it’ll sully the memories
of that ring-less finger and that dirty grin, but fuck it, man,
right now a man just wants to run upstairs and romp himself
unconscious.
But I dunno. At the time, The Hindu Times and Go Let It Out seemed
like they were gonna herald a return to form, but then the album
arrived and all a fella could do was think about shit, man, this
should’ve been half the fucking length. And also, it’s Shoulders,
Gallagher.
Liam sounds great, the band sound energised, the music sounds fun,
fresh, it doesn’t just plod along until it collapses and bleeds to
death over the fade-out.
I’m looking forward to Don’t Believe The Truth, man. Here’s hoping
she’s serious.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
I had no kind of treacherous notion lurking around in the back of
the skull, no sort of optimistic whisper whatsoever, with regards
the first single from the upcoming Don’t Believe The Truth, i.e.,
the first Oasis album in however long it’s been since Heathen
Chemistry. Far as I was concerned I’d be lucky if it was
listenable. If it managed to offer some shit along the lines of
the pleasant-enough stomp of, say, The Hindu Times, I suppose it’d
be a victory of some sort or other.
What occurred was that this very eve I find myself in such a
position as to press play and to hear this new single, the
cheekily titled Lyla, and to see what the hell the result of all
this stopping and starting and re-recording and so on and so
fourth might be, anyroad.
Here’s a scenario I just this very second ripped out my stinking
face for to illustrate the plight of the Oasis fan.
Let’s imagine a fella is having an affair with a married lass. Or
vice-versa, depending on ones anatomy. Those first few illicit
passion-drenched filth-displays, they leave a fella high as a man
cracked to the teeth on the white and the brown for the very first
time. Next thing he knows, though, he finds that he doesn’t really
like all this hiding around and pretending there ain’t no shit
going on. She claims it’s “fun”, it’s “dangerous”, but to him it’s
just a pain upside the rectal cave. He has to sit in pubs with
groups of deviants chortling and hollering about so-and-so and the
slime-enveloped sessions what they summoned in the toilets. They
look at our protagonist, and they suddenly change the conversation.
We can’t yack about the filthing, they collectively assume. He’s
gonna feel left out. When was the last time he had a poke, anyroad?
But fuck you, thinks our slighted hero, I been getting up to the
kindsa things they don’t even let you import on VHS. I been doing
things you folks don’t even get time to think about before you’ve
gone and cracked one off over the morning paper.
And yet he has to pretend. Yeah, you’re right. I’m pathetic, is
all.
Now and again the lady-friend says shit like “I’m gonna tell him”,
and maybe even “We’ll be able to hold hands in the street”, and
maybe you stay up to five in the morning plotting her confessions.
When she arrives on the doorstep the next night, your heart jumps
up into the back of your right nostril. Has she done it? Has she
revealed all and here she is ready to set sail on the good ship
Legitimacy?
No, she says they had a long discussion and then agreed things
weren’t as they should be, but they might be able to fix it. Fancy
a shag?
What this new Oasis single is like, is like she comes up to that
doorstep, and the memories of all those bitter disappointments
linger in the air, and you open the door and first thing you see
is she ain’t wearing her wedding ring. More to the point, she’s
smiling. Something’s up, man. Something good, is what.
Lyla is fucking fantastic. It has a simple as hell riff, but it’s
catchy as all fuck. The chorus is the best damn chorus Oasis have
penned since Girl In The Dirty Shirt. Lyrically it’s probably just
as ridiculous, but The Duke was too busy smiling, I mean actually
grinning like a man screwed in the mentals, saying to myself “Well
it’s about time, man. It’s about fucking time.”
Now, chances are the parent album will prove to be a bit like
maybe she says yeah, I ditched him, but I don’t feel ready to jump
straight into another relationship. Maybe it’ll sully the memories
of that ring-less finger and that dirty grin, but fuck it, man,
right now a man just wants to run upstairs and romp himself
unconscious.
But I dunno. At the time, The Hindu Times and Go Let It Out seemed
like they were gonna herald a return to form, but then the album
arrived and all a fella could do was think about shit, man, this
should’ve been half the fucking length. And also, it’s Shoulders,
Gallagher.
Liam sounds great, the band sound energised, the music sounds fun,
fresh, it doesn’t just plod along until it collapses and bleeds to
death over the fade-out.
I’m looking forward to Don’t Believe The Truth, man. Here’s hoping
she’s serious.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
