Funny, usually it's us that are shut out!
Here you are:
The former Oasis frontman’s Glastonbury set proves that he epitomises both a particular strain of Britishness and a universal figure of pure entertainment.
What is it like to be an American watching Liam Gallagher play an early evening set on Glastonbury Festival’s Pyramid Stage? This question was running through my head because there was an American stood next to me, alongside a Swede and an Australian, just as the former Oasis frontman, younger brother to Noel, and godlike British figure prepared to come on stage on Saturday.
Even before he appeared, it was a strictly British affair as the PA blasted out The Stone Roses (alongside Oasis, The Stone Roses never had as much success across the pond). Gallagher encapsulates a particular strain of quintessential Britain. He is the sound of football chanting and he is lairy (British slang used to describe rowdy, provocative behaviour). He is a thoroughbred Mancunian who in the 90s quickly became not just a rock star, a pop star and a huge celebrity, but also a hero to the working classes and to every man and woman of the UK. Gallagher is proof that while us Brits may speak the same language, we also do not.
At the centre of all this, he is emblematic of the way in which many British people share a heartfelt connection, particularly when they've had more beers than they have words to express. Gallagher's set is about love because nobody attending is alone. They're gathered in groups of friends to hold one another and sway or jump up and down, their voices growing ever hoarser by the moment. Gallagher's set is about self-love too, because you will never see a man on a stage more in love with his own reflection than ‘our kid’ – a term of endearment for a younger brother or sister.
For the non-Brits here, Gallagher seems to be an exhibition. Like Buckingham Palace's Changing the Guard ceremony, or taking a jaunt up to Edinburgh Castle, he's on the to-do list for a passing visit through the country.
It takes some patience to wade through this set as an outsider for two reasons. One, there's no participating with anyone if you don't know the words to Rock ‘n’ Roll Star or Slide Away, Columbia or Cigarettes & Alcohol. The American here cannot name a single Oasis song aside from Wonderwall, which is still a radio hit in the US. A woman next to me turns to her friend, disgusted by some younger groups who aren't singing every word, and says: “How can you not know all the words? What have you been doing with your life?”
The other test is Gallagher's flitting between past and present. With his last solo album As You Were going to number one in the UK, he has earned the ability to play the non-classics on stage. So the set becomes an hour of stops-and-starts as the fans prepare themselves for an inevitable new round of nostalgic singalongs – after he's finished flogging another batch of new songs to comparatively limp reactions.
Gallagher, however, is universal as a figment of pure entertainment. If you don't worship him, you're going to at least find his antics comedic – or probably both. He's self-aware, he knows what the people want, and you can see that he's not taking it for granted – 25 years on.
He comes out to tell the crowd that because of the record-level heat he's left his signature parka at home “sat idle” in his hotel room. There's been a significant dip in the temperature. “I'm freezing my tits off,” he says, lips pouting as he swaggers about like a lion on a mountaintop.
Amid the songs, he breaks for conversation, spitting out some classic Liam gags. He calls his brother “a little fart” for Noel's comments about certain hits in the Oasis back catalogue, before he plays them himself with his own band. He wanders over to the ‘Rock And Roll’ banner that decorates his stage, turns to face it and gives it a lovely long smooch for a good while, because rock 'n' roll is Gallagher's true life partner. He thanks Glastonbury organisers the Eavises for having him back and goads them to give him a “hat-trick” with a third solo booking next year to “continue my Glasto residency”.
The American standing next to me only sticks around for half the set, saying that he got a feel for it. Fair play, particularly given the lack of lyrical meat to stick your teeth into. You forget how nonsensical Oasis lyrics are until you're standing in a field belting them out yourself, wondering if you know them properly. On Morning Glory, for instance: “Tomorrow never knows what it doesn't know too soon” – anybody?
But the onlooker misses the more brilliant moments. As Gallagher has grown older, he's been more capable of a balanced sentimentality. He dedicates one song to a fan – Lauren Mahon – who is battling cancer, and a year ago asked him to do this the next time he ever appeared at Glastonbury. Gallagher actually remembered. He dedicates one song to Sir Ken Dodd, a comedian from Liverpool who is another quintessentially British legend. However, the most moving was his final dedication to former Prodigy frontman Keith Flint, who took his own life earlier this year.
Flint and Gallagher were in different lanes of Britpop’s heyday. Flint was the leader of rave; Gallagher the leader of rock. Both were chart-toppers; larger-than-life figures, and both perhaps misunderstood entities. In the wake of Flint's death, the commemorations revealed that he was far more than the one-dimensional self-proclaimed Firestarter he had been mythologised as. Likewise, Gallagher proves that there's far more to him than ego and profanities today. The sea of friends in the field cry as he closes out with a piano-led version of Champagne Supernova. “Where were you while we were getting high?” we sing, thinking of Flint. “How many special people change?” Liam asks, leading the final mass shout-athon.
What does it mean? It's hard to say it in words. But if you know, you know.