Oasis: The Studio Albums

Hello you. Make a cup of tea. Put a record on.

You. Yeah, you. Let’s get one thing straight. Oasis didn’t just make music. They made declarations. Riffs you could tattoo. Lyrics you could scream in a pub toilet stall. Seven albums. Fifteen years. And every one louder than the last. More brittle. More bitter. More brilliant. A band so volatile the Gallagher surname should come with a safety warning.

But you knew that already. Or you thought you did. Thought it was just lager and parkas and punching each other backstage at TFI Friday. But it was bigger than that. It always was. Even when it was small.

Say what you like. Call Be Here Now a coke-fuelled car crash. Call Standing on the Shoulder of Giants a cry for help. Call Liam a gobshite and Noel a control freak. But don’t say they didn’t matter. They mattered like broken glass matters to bare feet. They mattered like shouting matters to grief. They mattered because we needed something that sounded like a fight.

And here’s the loop. The start and the end and the middle all tangled up in microphone cable. They didn’t just soundtrack your youth. They scarred it. In vinyl. In ticket stubs. In the echo of a song someone’s still singing at the back of the night bus.

So here it is. Seven records. Each one a different kind of breakdown. Each one louder than the last. Let’s walk the wreckage. One smash at a time. And then do it again. And then again. Because this isn’t nostalgia. This is forensic. This is still happening.

1. Definitely Maybe (1994)

29 August. 1994. Definitely Maybe kicks the doors in. No plan. No brakes. No debate. Fastest-selling debut in UK history. 2.7 million sold. Every copy a war cry. Every spin a beer-soaked sermon.

The title? Already taking the piss. Like they couldn’t be arsed to name the masterpiece. And why should they? They knew. They knew. And so did we.

Live Forever. Rock ‘n’ Roll Star. Supersonic. Not tracks. Not singles. Excuses. Excuses to kick off. To believe. To feel like gods for four minutes and eleven seconds.

And it worked. It fucking worked. Britpop wasn’t just born. It was bloodied and roaring and standing in your front room demanding another pint. And another. And another.

And here’s the sick twist. That wasn’t even the peak.

2. (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? (1995)

2 October. 1995. And now they weren’t just kings. They were gods with guitars. Morning Glory doesn’t knock. It floods in. 23.5 million sold. 5.2 million in the UK. And half of those bought on impulse and heartbreak.

Wonderwall. Don’t Look Back In Anger. Champagne Supernova. You’ve sung them all. At weddings. At funerals. At 1 a.m. on the kitchen floor. At 3 a.m. outside the kebab shop. At 5 a.m. on the floor of a stranger’s flat.

But under the platinum? Cracks. Wales. A cricket bat. Tony booted. Noel storming. Liam shouting. The Gallaghers tearing strips off each other like it's Christmas and rage is the wrapping paper. You could hear it. You could feel it.

And it never stopped. The cracks just got louder. The noise just got stranger.

3. Be Here Now (1997)

21 August. 1997. The summit and the sinkhole. Be Here Now didn’t come out. It erupted. Fastest-selling UK album ever at the time. Every lad in the queue thought they were buying greatness. What they got was girth. Layers. Loops. Guitar tracks stacked like lager cans on a student fridge.

D’You Know What I Mean? opens with helicopter noise and a riff that circles like a vulture. Stand By Me tries to care. But nothing breathes. It’s production as punishment. Brilliance buried beneath bloat.

Noel called it a disaster. Critics called it overcooked. Fans called it an event. And it was. An ego-trip turned time capsule. Oasis, preserved in cocaine and chorus pedals. Eight million sold. None returned.

4. Standing on the Shoulder of Giants (2000)

28 February. 2000. Creation gone. Guigsy gone. Bonehead gone. Liam writing songs. Little James gets a lullaby and the rest of us get warning signs.

Still hit No.1. But only because we were too dazed to admit it was over. Fuckin’ in the Bushes had energy. Gas Panic! had ghosts. But the rest felt like silhouettes of a band mid-exit.

This wasn’t evolution. It was erosion.

5. Heathen Chemistry (2002)

1 July. 2002. Another number one. Four times Platinum. The comedown after the blackout. The Hindu Times snarled. Stop Crying Your Heart Out made the X Factor crowd weep. Songbird went acoustic, vulnerable, sincere. And somehow it worked.

Liam wasn’t punching. Noel wasn’t leaving. Not yet. The album wasn’t great. But it was there. Solid. Present. Trying. And maybe that’s what people needed. Not a miracle. Just proof of life.

6. Don’t Believe the Truth (2005)

30 May. 2005. The pulse returned. Lyla. The Importance of Being Idle. Both chart-toppers. Both reminders. You forgot this band could write hits, didn’t you?

The production stripped back. No more ornamental ego. Just riffs and venom and a band that sounded like they gave a shit again. Critics noticed. Fans forgave. For a minute, Oasis mattered like it was 1995. And not in a nostalgic way. In a dangerous way.

7. Dig Out Your Soul (2008)

6 October. 2008. One last howl. The Shock of the Lightning punched. I’m Outta Time sighed. But the cracks were earthquakes now.

Liam wrote more. Noel snapped more. By Paris 2009, it was over. A broken guitar, a slammed door, a legacy sealed.

Except it wasn’t.

Final Note

Fifteen years later. 2024. Definitely Maybe turns 30. Liam starts tweeting. Then deleting. Then tweeting again. Then Wembley posters appear.

27 August. It’s happening. 2025. Five nights at Wembley. Five more in Manchester. More coming. Europe next. Then the world.

So no. They’re not gone. Not even close. They never stopped. We just ran out of ways to describe them.

Still here. Still bitter. Still brilliant. Still shouting.

See you down the road. Ticket in hand. Pint in the other. Voice gone by the third song. Like it should be.