Here’s a more natural and fluent rewrite of your text while keeping the original meaning intact:

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First, I’ll admit it: Oasis fans kind of scare me. There, I said it.

I—along with Dua Lipa, Alexa Chung, Tom Cruise, and 90,000 others—was heading to Wembley Stadium for the long-awaited reunion of my favorite band. I’d had this date circled on my calendar since August 31, 2024, when my Oasis-obsessed friends and I spent a sleepless night frantically refreshing ticket pages (“I’m 11,361st in the queue!”) only to fail miserably. The next day, a mysterious UK friend surprised me with tickets as a gift.

I’ve seen nearly every American Oasis tour, sometimes traveling to multiple cities. Over three decades, I’ve interviewed Noel twice and Liam three times. I’m close enough to the band that I texted Liam’s girlfriend and manager, Debbie (who I’ve met), back in August when the reunion tour was announced, asking about an interview with Liam. (No luck—neither Liam nor Noel are doing much press about getting back together.) When my kids were little, I whispered “live forever” in their ears before bed. Hell, a friend of mine had Liam’s child, sued him for child support after a paternity test, and yet I’ve seen more of Liam than her since then. My dedication to this band is beyond question.

But those fans. Specifically, the English ones.

Here’s the backstory: Though I’d never seen Oasis outside the U.S., I was technically at their final Wembley show on July 12, 2009. I was living in New York but took a shady assignment covering the launch of Jaguar’s new XJ at London’s Saatchi Gallery—knowing Oasis was playing Wembley that night. After flying in and making a brief appearance at the event, I ducked out early, jumped in a cab, and raced to Wembley, where the band’s team had left a ticket for me at will-call. I knew I’d miss most of the show, but I didn’t care—just seeing them play a few songs on home turf felt like the Holy Grail.

When I got to Wembley, the area was eerily empty—everyone was already inside. I sprinted from the taxi to will-call, out of breath, only to find the ticket office closed. Desperate calls to Oasis’s team inside the stadium (who could barely hear me) didn’t help, so I spent the rest of the night outside the walls, listening to muffled echoes of the show. At one point, I tried sneaking in behind drunk fans leaving early, but after being stopped by the same security guard three times, I gave up. Instead, I sat on a concrete bench, cursing my luck, feeling like a 43-year-old man on the verge of tears over missing my favorite band.

That night also planted the seed of my fear of English Oasis fans. Stuck in my misery, I had to ride the Tube back to my hotel surrounded by them—packed in like a sober sardine in a swaying metal box full of rowdy, beer-soaked fans singing, brawling, and wrestling. If I’m honest, my frustration wasn’t about wanting to escape them—it was about wanting to be them.

While my friends and most of my Rolling Stone colleagues were still obsessed with what felt like the dying embers of grunge, that music never spoke to me. Then my best friend, who worked down the hall, tossed a cassette tape onto my—

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Let me know if you’d like me to continue or adjust anything!One day, a CD landed on my desk with the words, “Welcome to your new favorite band.” It was an advance copy of Definitely Maybe, Oasis’s debut album, and it changed my life in ways I still struggle to put into words.

While grunge felt angry, bleak, and resigned—perpetuating the us-versus-them mentality of ’80s and ’90s indie rock—Oasis was joyful, unifying, and open to everyone, even as they sang about alienation, escape, and dreams of glory. (“Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” hits differently when sung by one of the biggest bands in the world, but its brilliance lies in the fact that it was written by a kid with no record deal, performed first to tiny crowds in dive bars near train stations.) Their songs felt universal—Noel wrote about his own streets, people, and dreams, yet somehow, everyone could see themselves in them.

Being an American Oasis fan meant always feeling like an outsider. Their U.S. shows were epic in their own way, but I longed for the energy I saw in videos—like the raucous early gigs at Maine Road, where thousands of fans jumped in unison, or the legendary 1996 Knebworth shows, where 2.5 million people (over 4% of the UK population) tried to get tickets. So when a friend later admitted he’d queued on Ticketmaster—not for himself, but to get me Wembley tickets—it felt like a miracle.

My tickets were for their first Wembley date. This time, I wasn’t worried about missing the last tube (we’re older, wiser, and calmer now, right?). Instead, I wondered: Would I actually hear Oasis, or just drunken fans butchering the songs for two hours?

The day before the show, I pushed my worries aside, rented a bike, and spent the day wandering Primrose Hill and Camden—Britpop’s heartland. As a longtime Oasis obsessive (albeit from New York), I knew all the landmarks: the old Creation Records offices on Regent’s Park Road (hopefully spiritually cleansed by now), the Pembroke Castle pub where Liam was once arrested—reportedly while wearing ridiculous hats. (I stopped in for a sugar-free Red Bull, finding the place empty, then paid homage in the men’s room, imagining the wild nights that once happened there.)

Up the street, I met James Brown, the infamous founder of Loaded magazine (and former NME editor who helped fuel the Oasis vs. Blur rivalry). Before I left New York, he mentioned seeing the show with Brian Cannon, the designer behind Oasis’s early album covers—the guy with his back to the camera on (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?. Over lunch, he said he might go instead with DJ Sean Rowley—the other man on that cover, the one facing forward. When I offered to help with U.S. tickets, James waved me off: “I’ll just text Noel.”

He tipped me off to another Oasis haunt nearby, so I made a quick detour before biking to Camden’s Good Mixer—Britpop’s social hub—passing Liam’s old place with Patsy Kensit and Noel’s “Supernova Heights” along the way. For good measure, I swung by Noel’s first London flat on Albert Street.

Back in the ’90s, pre-gaming for Oasis shows was like the rest of our lives: If it felt good, we did it—until it didn’t.band live—until now.

It worked—until it didn’t. We usually made the list, slipping in just as the band was about to take the stage, buzzed and ready. This time, I took no chances. I wore a sleep-tracking headband in the days leading up to the show, popped extra vitamins, and generally tried to be—to borrow a phrase—fitter, happier, more productive.

We built a family vacation around the Wembley gig, planning a relaxed day that would slowly take us north, dropping the kids off with friends for a sleepover before heading to the stadium.

One thing struck me—not sure if it’s a UK thing or an Oasis thing: Nearly everyone was decked out in official merch—T-shirts, sweaters, jackets, bucket hats—most of it new, though the cooler crowd flaunted vintage Knebworth gear. My personal concert rule? Never wear the band’s shirt to their own show. So I went with my Beady Eye tee (Liam’s post-Oasis project from their 2011 US tour). This sparked a long, whispered debate between the guy next to me and his wife—who clearly thought I couldn’t hear them. (I could.) The gist? He thought my shirt was extremely cool, then spent ages explaining Beady Eye to her. Eventually, he turned to me and said, simply, “Love your top.” That was the extent of our interaction for hours.

But enough about that—what about the show?

What is there to say? One of the greatest bands of the 20th century, torn apart for years, was back together. The scale of this reunion is staggering—economists estimate it’ll pump nearly a billion pounds into the UK economy.

The sheer enormity of it all was overwhelming. The famously feuding Gallagher brothers walked onstage hand in hand—Liam in a Burberry parka and corduroy bucket hat, Noel actually bowing to the brother he’d spent years trashing. The amps roared, the crowd erupted, and there I was, watching my favorite band in what felt like their home stadium. (Sure, they’re from Manchester, but they found fame in London, where they still live.)

Liam’s voice was as raw and powerful as ever—still the best frontman of his generation, maybe any generation. The band (a mix of original and later members) sounded incredible. The setlist, mostly pulled from their first two legendary albums, had 90,000 people jumping, screaming, singing every word. People wept, hugged strangers, flung beer, climbed on shoulders. My section was VIP-adjacent, so slightly more reserved, but even there, it was impossible not to get swept up in the collective euphoria.

At one point, it hit me: When have I ever been surrounded by 90,000 people having this much fun? And it wasn’t just my generation—there were thousands who never thought they’d see Oasis live. Until now.The band performed live together, radiating pure joy. Think about it—when have 90,000 people ever agreed on something so wholeheartedly, celebrating with such wild, unbridled happiness?

And yes, the Tube ride back was chaotic, to put it mildly. But it was also electric, with hundreds of fans belting out Oasis songs—not just the hits, but the deeper, more introspective tracks like “Half the World Away.”

Two days later, while waiting for the Eurostar to Paris, I spotted one of the countless people around London proudly sporting Oasis merch. By chance, we were both wearing the same Adidas/Oasis sweatshirt—just in different colors. We locked eyes, nodded, and grinned at each other. No words were needed.

Of course, there’s the cynical take on the reunion—that it’s just a cash grab, a bunch of middle-aged men chasing their glory days, a band clawing for relevance. Sure, there’s nostalgia at play, but for me, it’s bigger than that. It’s about recapturing the spirit of an era—when we did things together, not alone; when the world felt steadier, less fractured; when life was lived, not endlessly documented and picked apart.

Alex Niven’s brilliant book on Definitely Maybe (part of Bloomsbury’s 33 ⅓ series) stands out as one of the rare attempts to take Oasis seriously—not just as a pop phenomenon or tabloid fodder, but as artists. He writes that Oasis came closer than any band in the last 25 years to voicing the collective hopes and dreams of a generation. At a time when neoliberal politicians were eroding society and pretending socialism never existed, Oasis’s music helped bring people back together.

So here’s my final thought: The Oasis tour rolls on. Find a way to get tickets. Be there.

Long live rock.