Welcome to a special (and late, apologies) edition of The New Cue.
My seat for the first Oasis show in sixteen years, the one gig I could not contemplate missing, was in a row reserved for the ladies and gentlemen of the press. There were, as you can imagine, representatives of every news organisation and periodical in attendance, but I was lucky to have my old NME desk buddy Kitty Empire, now of The Observer, assigned to my right and, to my left, the man, the myth, the legend and co-founder of The New Cue alongside Niall and me, Chris ‘Catchers’ Catchpole, covering for MOJO, the one guy in that row who I knew would not shame me for crying during Slide Away.
The price for my lucky admission was that I must review it for The New Cue. Not a heavy tag, it must be said, but one I am paying off now on Monday morning. When you are in one of those rows of heavy-hitting reviewers you note the modern live review technique: no longer do we scribble in notepads throughout the show, we instead tap away in the notes of our phones. No shade on anyone there making a real living, but I could not do this for the biggest concert of the last decade. I had to sing, and cry, and only hold my phone for occasional filming of songs for my kids.
So, if you would like a considered, blow-by-blow, contextualised review of the night, please consider Kitty Empire’s review, or The Guardian’s Alexis Petridis, who was next to Chris, or Will Hodgkinson of the Times, who I bumped into on the concourse – all reliable witnesses. Here, I will instead tell my journey through the day and night of our 24 hours to and from Cardiff, a journey that felt like a dream – possibly because I hadn’t slept the night before – and one which may genuinely have changed the lives of all those staying in our AirBnB and associated Premier Inn rooms. I apologise if you find it self-indulgent. But in the words of Kevin Rowland on Dexys’ What She’s Like: well, this is my story, the strongest thing I’ve ever seen…
Enjoy the edition, see you Friday.
Ted and Niall.
Friday July 4, 2025
10:00 am: The alarm sounds next to me in bed, to where I have returned after producing breakfast for my kids ahead of school. I have not slept in the interim 90 minutes, nor the night before, as Thursday was the day our book about Oasis, A Sound So Very Loud, was published. It was an occasion we marked by appearing live on BBC Breakfast in Salford at 7:50 am, then later on BBC 6 Music’s Roundtable at 6:00 pm, and, finally, by having a bash in swinging London’s Social, an effort I was so pleased with that I celebrated by not going to bed. And so here we are. I rise, get dressed and head to Paddington to meet co-author Hamish MacBain, who is not here. His brother Spud is present, as all the crew from our travelling party of committed O heads – but no Hamish. He’s in a cab. So, I wait for him in WH Smiths in order that that we may bathe together in the latest 5-star review of our book (in The Sun, A Sound So Very Loud’s fourth five star marking from the failing mainstream media).
12:15 pm: Hamish and I wearily board the train west. Hamish has a strip of codeine and a bottle of Malbec, so he will very shortly be back in the game – he also did sleep, which helps – but I can only face the former now. We luckily find the only two unreserved seats on the train, on a table, and I settle down for a nap against the window.
12:50: Hamish sends a message to the group with a photo of me asleep, paraphrasing Liam Gallagher’s famous greeting to Wembley Stadium in 2000, ‘If you think Ted’s over the moon to be here, you’re fuckin’ trippin’’.
1:30: I open my eyes as I can no longer ignore the vibe-rise all around me. Hamish has introduced himself to our two Oasis-mad opposite numbers, an Italian guy over from Naples for the show and a young lady from the Far-East who is wearing a Korn t-shirt in protest at Liam’s tweet that employed archaic language a few days earlier. “I was going to wear a Blur t-shirt,” she explains, “but that seemed too far.” At Bristol Parkway, a gent joins us in the aisle. By complete coincidence, it is also his 20th wedding anniversary and the first dance at his marriage was Slide Away. His wife gives us a little wave down the carriage: it's that kind of day, already.
2:30: We find ourselves with time to kill as, foolishly, BBC TV have invited the pair of us on to discuss Oasis during their ten-hour rolling coverage of the event. We’re meant to get to the apartment they’re shooting from opposite the Principality Stadium at 3:15, so instead of joining our party for lunch, we stand outside the flat, drinking red wine in the street. The weather is lovely.
3:00: I spy former Everton and Burnley boss, the gruff and buff Sean Dyche, enter the block, accompanied by his assistant manager Ian Woan. Hamish is unimpressed. “Who the fuck is Sean Dyche?” he asks. Next in is actress Vicky McClure and her husband Johnny Owen. That guy over the road, he looks like Brian Cannon – oh it is, he’s in too.
4:00: We are ushered up into the flat. There’s been a few problems with sound and so everything is running late. No problem. BBC’s Emma Vardy is in the green room eating a cake and all is well with the world. We have now been joined by our own personal film crew from the Oasis documentary, who have decided to film our interview too: they are great vibes considering they have a 16-hour shift of filming and won’t even see the show, that’s another crew (or ten). Up the stairs we go to the broadcast platform, watching Brian Cannon wrap up his bit.
4:15: We deliver our usual Oasis sermon to the sweetheart hosts, world’s proudest Welshman Jason Mohammad and Tina Daheley. Asked about the book’s genesis, Hamish describes us sitting in the pub at Liam’s O2 show watching loads of kids singing obscure Oasis songs, pissed up. Tina’s eyes widen at me. “Do we need to apologise for any bad language?” she asks Jason. “What, ‘pissed’, that’s not a swear word,” insists our hero. Another apology follows. But luckily, now Jason has to hand over to Emma Vardy, who is out in the street, interviewing fans. Emma…
Emma…
Emma…
Seems there’s a problem getting hold of Emma right now, explains Jason, but at least we still have Ted and Hamish here on the sofa…We chat more about Oasis, for perhaps an additional 15 minutes. Neither my mind nor mouth is in the right condition for live TV banter, but I am so grateful for Hamish’s presence, as the bottle of red he’s drunk is apparently exactly the right amount for live TV chit chat. Eventually, it’s Emma Vardy time again.
Emma…
Emma…
Still a few problems getting hold of Emma Vardy, let’s keep chatting to Hamish and Ted. Hamish, you mentioned football just now, stalls Jason, what team do you support? This goes on for some more time, emptying our minds of any small talk for about thirty additional minutes…
5:15: We are back on the streets, heading towards bag drop at the AirBnB, running into some of our party en-route, before stocking the fridge for the aftershow.
5:30: THIS IS HISTORY! RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW! THIS IS SPOONS! We are in the nearest Weatherspoons to the stadium, The Prince of Wales, trying to carry four pints through the throng, and the atmosphere is a bit like how I imagine VE day was. Some Oasis stadium gigs in the past could feel a bit like a football away day, gotta keep yer wits around you. Not today. Everyone is hugging, chatting. In the toilets, a guy in a bucket hat with a Union Jack over his shoulders is leading dozens facing the urinals in a rendition of Headshrinker. Upstairs around our table, one of our number, Billy Skinner, is belting Go Let It Out in a perfect approximation of Elvis Presley. It is brilliant, head-turning (as in, everyone’s head turns).
6:40: Marching around the stadium looking for our various entrances, Billy shouting in a thick German accent “have a good show, Ja?!” to bucket-hatted geezers. Nobody flinches, everyone laughs, waves. There is an indescribably beautiful atmosphere, as if MDMA has been pumped into Cardiff’s water system today. Cardiff is a perfect city for huge events like this, because the station, many pubs, all the hotels are all within minutes of the stadium. “A triumph of Welsh town planning,” as Jason Mohammad told us on air.
7:00: Some of the nation’s press join us for Richard Ashcroft, breaking off from “the media buffet” in an ante room I never visit. Two days later my son will beg me to stop singing the intro to Lucky Man, but tonight I chant all of Dicky’s greatest hits package, which is perfectly judged. “Happiness…” A picture is uploaded to the WhatsApp group of Hamish and brother Spud already in tears. More to come, more to come.
7:45: I run downstairs to the bar as the last notes of Ashcroft hang in the air, slamming directly into James Dean Bradfield of the Manics, who gives me an almighty hug. “Be careful tonight,” he says suddenly, seriously when he looks into my eyes.
8:00: The only way I can adequately describe the mood as the Fuckin’ In The Bushes intro bursts out across the stadium and the screens flash up ‘This Is Not A Drill! This Is Happening! Cardiff!’ is to compare it to supporting a second-tier team – let’s call them QPR – and watching them appear for the only time in their 100+ plus year history in an FA Cup Final, Oasis emerging into the stadium to the ecstatic roars of an audience who, in many cases, have waited all their lives for this moment. Because, other than in my row, the age range here is huge, from preteens to pensioners. All for the O, O for all.
8:01: I am not going to detail every song, every moment of the gig. I was too tangled up in blue throughout and, besides, all the papers did live blogs. Laura Snapes, two seats from me, provided a cracking live minute by minute account for The Guardian if you want Google that one. But that first nine song salvo before Noel’s quieter interlude is entirely overwhelming.
Hello
Acquiesce
So beautiful, so joyous. I can’t pick highlights. It was all a highlight, the cresting of the last 16 years of their absence. Diego Jota appearing on the screen at the close of Live Forever, though. Heavy, beautifully judged. Here’s the official snippet of Acquiesce they released, giving some 4K professional flavour.
Afterwards, we roll into the streets of Cardiff, hugging and kissing each other, as well as complete strangers, and people we bump into we haven’t seen for ten years or more, constantly aiming in a westerly direction for the AirBnB afterparty and. eventually, sweet, sweet sleep – all four hours of it.
10:00 am, Saturday: Just as I’m about to join Spud in turning right for the train back towards London, I instead turn left with Hamish and a small hardcore back towards The Prince of Wales, the promise of breakfast Stellas and the rumours of oversold trains too strong to ignore.
10:15: We manage to coax Dylan Southern, who is co-directing the Oasis documentary, down to the Spoons. Dylan was filming from a special ramp at the show, one of dozens of cameramen in his crew, and he spent some of the night focussing in on the crowd, including what he describes as “a gay thrupple” and one lonesome man who drops to his knees during Slide Away and begins praying. Here’s the soundboard recording of that song which was played Monday morning on BBC R2. You can hear why he was so moved. Bonehead is the secret ingredient, the third guitar adding so much depth and power to the O sound.
12:10: Finally, four of us board the train back to London, but we have left our spiritual leader Hamish MacBain behind. At one point this morning, he’s trying to convince some to leave their jobs, chip in for a camper van and follow the tour around the world. Failing that, he announces he might stay again tonight, even though he has nowhere to stay nor even a ticket. He came without even a toothbrush. “I’m not about that,” he tells us as we wave goodbye, “I’m with my people.”
Over and out. The best, then, now and tomorrow. Looking forward keenly to our next designated Oasis viewing, and jealous of anyone seeing them sooner.
pic: Don VanCleave
A Sound So Very Loud: The Inside Story Of Every Song Oasis Recorded by Ted Kessler & Hamish MacBain is out now, published by Pan Macmillan (£22 hardback - ebook and audiobook also available).