In 1995, as the twentieth century’s decade of meh drew to its middle, it seemed music was drowning slowly in the muddy, swirling waters of the Wishkah. The era of glam rock had passed and arenas, once heaving, lay empty and moribund. Angsty, moody, stubbled bands of thin angry-naughts had taken over the radio and were busily grunting out the soundtrack for a generation of ‘misunderstood’ teens to hate their parents to. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden and their ilk however, had seen off the last gasps of hair metal and, with it, songs about rooting, drinking, partying and drugs seemed to have vanished. In their place, weird tales of mulattos and albinos, inabilities of finding a better man and the scientific impossibilities of blackhole suns were boringly and confusingly warbled. It seemed rock and roll had gone wussy. Hotel televisions everywhere breathed a sigh of relief, legions of big titted glamour models went unviolated backstage and the board of Jack Daniels held emergency sales strategy meetings well into the night.

As all seemed lost however, an album appeared and, just as quickly, disappeared. But to a young me in high school still mourning the loss of guitar intro, verse, verse, chorus, verse, guitar solo, chorus, guitar solo, guitar outro; it stood out. A little hunting down and I found it again, an album by a Pommy band that was energising barloads of drunken dickheads from the motherland. The album was called Definitely Maybe and the band was Oasis. While it was not a great success in Australia, it lit a spark amongst the soap dodgers half a world away.

What happened next is the kind of rock history that the world needed. Oasis made enough cash off their first album to do three very important things for the future of non-boring music. Firstly, they developed a passion for comprehensive and voluminous drug consumption. In a related move, vast oceans of clear spirits vanished into their foul mouthed, vitriol spitting gobs. Thirdly, reviving a lost tradition of the rock stars of old, they became convinced that they were indeed the greatest, most talented and most worthy bunch of musicians ever to grace the world with their presence, a fact they announced to anyone within ear shot at every available opportunity. Somehow there was enough money left after their drunken, drug fuelled violent binge to put together a second album. The result was called (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? The legacy, in my humble opinion, saved music.

The stats for (WTS)MG? are impressive, it debuted at number one in the U.K and didn’t move for 10 weeks. It has currently sold 20 million copies, which is only bettered by Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band and Queen: Greatest Hits. Of the songs that grace the album, more were number one hits than weren’t. There was a time when the sounds of (WTS)MG? were so prolific that I wondered whether the Gideons were handing out Wonderwall singles rather than bibles. But its biggest feat, in my opinion, was to save rock and roll from the apathy that Seattle bestowed.

Grunge was on a mission to dilute and drown rock, in some sort of nihilistic protest against itself. Shy of the spotlight and ungrateful about their commercial success, the likes of Smashing Pumpkins and Nirvana seemed to think popularity was something to be ashamed of and they blamed us for having the audacity to like their music. Oasis came along and shouted at the top of their lungs “Fookin’ look at uzz. We’re fookin’ brilliant and you should fooking love us.” While the grunge-nobs were shunning awards ceremonies and pretending to be shy, Oasis were showing up hammered and punching on with the hosts and presenters. In short they were giving rock and roll the reality check it needed.

Inevitably the excess that made Oasis such a saviour eventually consumed it. The flagship of the British invasion sank. In it’s wake however the main force landed with names like Blur, The Killers, Radiohead and Coldplay ensuring that, for the time being at least, the world was safe from the scourge of boring whingers from the land of grunge.

So thank you Oasis, you loud-mouthed bunch of total wankers

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