In the grand, creaking circus of popular music, where nostalgia is the only ticket stub worth keeping, the Oasis reunion tour bursts onto the scene like a perfectly poured pint of lager—crisp, effervescent, and undeniably cheering. Meanwhile, Black Sabbath and ELO, those weathered architects of sound, take their final bows with farewell gigs that resonate with the gravitas of a well-earned encore.
These departures mark a poignant moment, a salute to the era when musicians were sorcerers, conjuring magic from strings and sweat. Yet, amid this twilight, Oasis’s return offers a defiant spark of hope, a reminder that real music—raw, human, and gloriously unpolished—might still have a pulse. Compare that to the modern scene, where bands like The 1975 churn out algorithmic ennui and performers like Sabrina Carpenter peddle sex as if it’s a limited-edition NFT, and you can’t help but cheer for the Gallaghers’ raucous resurrection.
Let’s start with Oasis, those magnificent Mancunian brawlers who’ve decided to grace us with their presence once more. Liam and Noel Gallagher, the Cain and Abel of Britpop, have sheathed their verbal daggers—at least long enough to book a tour. This isn’t just a reunion; it’s a bloody miracle, a chance to relive the days when Definitely Maybe and What’s the Story (Morning Glory)? soundtracked a generation’s swagger. Sure, Liam’s voice might be a touch weathered, like a leather jacket that’s seen too many gigs, but it still carries that inimitable snarl, a clarion call for every lad in a parka who ever dreamed of being somebody.
Noel, the maestro behind the curtain, will weave his guitar lines with the precision of a poet who knows his rhymes by heart. The fans will sing “Wonderwall” like it’s the national anthem, and they’ll mean every word, because Oasis were never just a band—they were a movement, a middle finger to the mundane. This tour isn’t about recapturing 1995; it’s about proving that the fire still burns, that two brothers from Burnage can still make stadiums shake with nothing but attitude and anthems.
Contrast this with Black Sabbath and ELO, who are exiting with the dignity of elder statesmen. Black Sabbath, led by the indomitable Ozzy Osbourne, whose voice is less a melody than a primal howl from the depths of Birmingham’s industrial heart, have given us heavy metal’s blueprint. Their farewell gigs are a sacrament, a chance to bow before the band that made darkness sound divine. ELO, meanwhile, with Jeff Lynne’s orchestral wizardry, have spent decades crafting pop symphonies that make the Beatles seem positively minimalist. Their goodbye is a shimmering coda, a final flourish from a band that turned AM radio into a cosmic voyage. These acts, for all their differences, share a common thread: they were musicians, not content creators. They built songs like cathedrals, not TikTok clips.
And while their departures leave a void, Oasis’s return suggests that the spirit of real music—gritty, heartfelt, human—might yet endure. Now, turn your gaze to the present, where The 1975 hold court like self-appointed philosophers of the streaming age. Matty Healy, with his dishevelled charisma and a lyric sheet that reads like a Reddit thread after a Red Bull binge, leads a band that’s less composed than calculated. Their music, all retro synths and performative angst, feels like it was designed by a focus group to slot neatly into a “Chill Hits” playlist. Healy’s musings on love, technology, or whatever else he’s skimmed on X that morning are delivered with the earnestness of a sixth-former who’s just discovered Sartre.
It’s not bad, mind you—just safe, like a latte with an extra shot of predictability. The kids eat it up, because in a world where attention is currency, The 1975 offer the illusion of substance without the bother of actual weight. And then there’s Sabrina Carpenter, whose performances are a masterclass in commodified allure. With her breathy vocals and wardrobe of artfully placed sparkles, she’s less a singer than a brand ambassador for desire itself. Her songs—“Espresso,” “Please Please Please”—are earworms engineered for virality, catchy in the way a pop-up ad is catchy. Every shimmy and pout is calibrated for maximum engagement, as if liberation can be measured in likes. It’s not that she lacks talent; it’s that her talent is packaged like a product, shrink-wrapped in sexuality that feels more corporate than carnal.
Compare her to, say, Chrissie Hynde, who wielded sex appeal like a switchblade, and you see the difference between art and algorithm. This isn’t to say the modern scene is a total wasteland. Artists like Phoebe Bridgers or Wet Leg are out there, quietly proving that music can still be a craft, not a content farm. But they’re swimming against a tide of bands and performers who mistake a vibe for a vision, who think a viral hook is a legacy. That’s why Oasis’s reunion feels like a lifeline. The Gallaghers, for all their flaws, are the real deal—flawed, fractious, and fiercely alive. They don’t sing about algorithms or brand deals; they sing about cigarettes, alcohol, and the fleeting thrill of being young and reckless. Their music isn’t polished to a sheen; it’s scuffed, like a pair of boots that’s seen a thousand nights out.
As Black Sabbath and ELO take their final bows, they leave behind a legacy of sweat and soul, of songs that endure because they were built to last. Oasis, in their own chaotic way, carry that torch, reminding us that music can still be a roar, not a whisper. So here we are, raising a glass to the old guard and the prodigal sons. Black Sabbath and ELO will fade into the sunset, their discographies gleaming like relics of a golden age. The 1975 and Sabrina Carpenter will keep churning out their glossy ephemera, and the algorithms will hum along happily.
But Oasis? They’re back, brawling and brilliant, ready to remind us that music was once a fistfight, not a focus group. I’ll be there, singing along to “Live Forever,” not because I’m stuck in the past, but because for a few glorious hours, the past feels like the future. Long live the dinosaurs—especially the ones who still know how to rock.