US Road Trip - Photos: Boston

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US Road Trip - Video Diary: Boston, Day 2

New York: Buzzing Around The Big Apple

USA - New York, New York

“For a transitory, enchanted moment, man must have held his breath at the sight of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

If Boston came across positively European, with its winding streets and inclines, New York is the ultimate American city. Living up to its name as the city that never sleeps, the Big Apple was our home for three nights, and over the course of a heady weekend in one of the world’s great metropolises, Dean and I came to realise that most of what you hear colloquially about New York is true. Everybody has a story in New York City. Everybody comes here for a reason, a goal, a purpose. This aspirational element, combining with a cityscape that takes your breath away, is what preserves this city’s place in so many people’s hearts, from London to Los Angeles, Radlett to Rio.

We arrived on the Friday before Halloween, taking the Amtrak from Boston, and enjoying the many bays, harbours and canals of New England’s waterways along the route, stopping off at some Ivy League destinations like New Haven, Connecticut (Yale), and Providence, Rhode Island (Brown). As we approached New York, and the Manhattan skyline slowly meandered its way towards us, the pangs of excitement were clear and constant. Arriving in New York is amongst the most pleasurable and exhilarating experiences for a young adult. A world of possibility lies in wait, just beyond the Hudson, stretching up almost indefinitely to the sky, as if trying to grasp it before anybody else can. It is why multitudes of writers have come to New York and tried, if it is even possible, to put into words just what this city can bring out in a person. From Walt Whitman to Robert Frost, Emma Lazarus to F. Scott Fitzgerald himself, the giants of modern American literature, New York has compelled them into the same ‘aesthetic wonder’ that grabbed characters like Gatsby, and socialites Evelyn Waugh.

Dean and I, upon arriving at Penn Station, navigated our way to East 14th Street, on the corner of 3rd Avenue, to the apartment of Robert Gilbert. Surreally, Rob was back in London (though he will join up with us in Chicago this weekend), so the keys to his place were ours for the duration of our stay. It was a quick turnaround in the flat, before heading back out again to meet Dylan Viner in the West Village, close to Tribeca. Dylan pulled out all the stops for us throughout our time in Manhattan, and kicked off our Friday evening with a trip to Shiller’s Liquor Store, bar-cum-restaurant that served up a dab hand in burgers and beers, and where wealthy Upper West Side patrons rubbed shoulders with blue-collar Tribecans under a warehouse roof with loud music and laughter.

After dinner we popped into an old-fashioned ‘Speak Easy’. For those who do not know, ‘Speak Easies’ grew up in the time of Prohibition during the late 1920’s, where the sale and consumption of liquor was prohibited. These clandestine alcohol venues sprung up all over New York (and beyond) and acquired their name because of the need for secrecy, and thus a requirement that those frequenting the venue spoke ‘easy’ about is existence. Beer served inside brown paper bags, and vodka appearing in English tea cups were the norm, and the modern version that the three of us sampled after dinner maintained those traditions. It seems astonishing to think that Prohibition even existed. New Yorkers can certainly drink, so even the slightest attempt to moderate their liquor consumption was bound to have caused some entrepreneurial enterprise on the part of those looking to bend the rules. This, of course, worked well for Dean, Dylan and I, because Speak Easies now exist as throw-backs to a bygone Jazz Age era and can thus be enjoyed by wide-eyed tourists looking to try something a little different.

If Friday seemed a little circumspect, a tad slow or lacking excitement to you, I feel confident you’ll enjoy Saturday’s offering in the Big Apple. I had an early start at 8am, taking a cab into the Village to Dylan’s apartment to watch Arsenal v Spurs in the North London Derby. Together we sat in Dylan’s comfortable lodgings, watching Arsenal defeat my beloved Tottenham, as I questioned my mental sanity, desperately trying to find a reason why I had voluntarily decided to wake up early and watch my team lose against our most hated rivals, in the company of a boy who supports the very team I despise. Still, being in America, it was easy enough psychologically to distance myself from the haphazard nature of Tottenham’s defence and concentrate on getting to know New York a little more.

Dean met us for brunch (French toast, poached eggs, proper coffee, chocolate chip cookies – basically the full works) and then the three of us enjoyed a stroll westwards towards the Hudson, eventually walking along its banks and taking in the views across to New Jersey, and the Statue of Liberty further out into the bay. Then came the great Halloween costume race across town, as Dean sought to find numerous garments with which to turn himself into a ghost/ghoul/monster (delete where appropriate) and I attempted to find knee-high soccer socks to go with my England kit, and paints to draw a massive Union Jack flag on to my face. In between, we managed to have a coffee in Dylan’s rather plush Soho House club, wander around Wholefoods, and find graffiti to take stylish photographs of. Most tourists would have spent their first New York hours around 5th Avenue or Times Square, so it was interesting to look at the city through a resident’s eyes, taking in the sights and sounds in Dylan’s New York life, noting the independent-run cafes and bookstores, the small side-turnings and open thoroughfares, the tenement apartments and early twentieth-century townhouses. This was a different New York to what I had previously experienced, but it only enhanced my opinion of Manhattan. In New York, everybody talks, everybody is out and about: the streets are alive with human chatter, teeming with people of seemingly every class and creed.

Halloween in America is a big deal. Much more so than in England, where our natural cynicism makes it impossible to find the treat in a trick, the amusement in fancy dress, or the interest in what other people in our communities are doing. Sure, there are other major holidays in the UK that get people talking, but Halloween in America is beyond anything I have experienced. This was a pageant of people, cramming the streets in costumes and face paints and props of every variety under the sun. Bumble-bees (Dean’s particular favourite) mixed with Cowgirls (my particular favourite), numerous versions of Alice in Wonderland rubbed shoulders with Russian Generals and, well, you name it and it was walking around somewhere in New York on Saturday night, ever so slightly inebriated and more than ever so slightly having a lot of fun. The Subway, already a little confusing for me to work out, became a cacophony of colour and noise and revelry as partygoers made their way across Manhattan in search of their own quintessential Halloween moments.

Ours began on Lexington Avenue, at a rather lovely midtown apartment belonging to friends of Dylan and his good mate Dan. With our English accents working nicely, the alcohol flowing gently (and when I say gently, I mean rigorously), and the music playing loudly, Dean and I found our form. What followed was a merry march through Manhattan, from Subway stations to bars, sidewalks to clubs. Needless to say, we were really drunk. I mean ‘absolutely, completely, totally and utterly off our faces, not sure where we were going and how we were going there but more than happy for some Americans to show us’ drunk. Dean woke up with a bumblebee’s antennae on his face (and he was rather pleased, to be honest). I woke up with half my face-paint mysteriously missing (also pleased). Dylan woke up and realised his Russian General’s uniform was several sizes too big (not pleased).

Bleary eyed, with pounding heads and aching limbs, we awoke into the cold light of a Sunday morning, safe in the knowledge that while the hangover would only be transitory, the memories of what all of us now consider to be one of best nights out of our lives will remain steadfast in their permanence. The hangover was worth it.

That might make Sunday sound like a right-off, but we still managed another long walk around town, a little spot of shopping, and another rendezvous with Bumblebee and Cowgirl in Brother Jimmy’s Sports Bar in Midtown, near to the Empire State Building. This was World Series night, where the Yankees were (and still are, as it is a best of seven contest) taking on the Phillies. It took a little while for me to understand the finer points of Baseball (thanks to Cowgirl, however, for setting me straight), but I am happy to tell you all that I am now a New York Yankees fan, and just to prove that I am fully on board Team Yankees, they promptly went and got hammered tonight (Sunday), in a manner similar to how Spurs can often take a goal lead against teams like Manchester United, but still inevitably lose. I am told the Yankees are actually pretty good, and they play in white and blue, so I am stuck with them now. “Let’s go Yankees!”

REM once said that leaving New York is ‘never easy’. I agree. While excited to head on to Michigan, and another close friend of ours in Adam Jacobs in the town of Ann Arbor, Dean and I were both a little down to be departing such a wonderful town having had such a busy and exciting few days. Thanks go to Dylan for that, and to the myriad of fantastic people we met along the way, from our Halloween buddies, to Robert’s other East 14th Street flatmates, all the way to ordinary New Yorkers who help contribute to the magic of this place. It was fitting, then, that we ended our stay with a walk through all the New York hotspots, from the Rockefeller Centre to a beautiful, autumnal Central Park, before finishing up at Ground Zero, where the World Trade Centre regeneration project has recently worked its way up above street level, rising out of the ashes of an unspeakable tragedy and once more preparing to soar above New York and the fields of the Republic beyond. What an inspirational way to leave the city.

Another skyline is on its way: Chicago, Illinois. Before that, however, we are off to Michigan to see Adam. Put your hands up for Detroit. The English are coming!

US Road Trip - Video Diary: Boston

Boston: Freedom Trailed

USA - Boston, Massachusetts

There was a point when I wasn’t sure whether we’d make it in one piece. Around about the time that the British Airways stewardess angrily told a frankly reprehensible young gentleman to sit down amidst a fearsome bout of mid-Atlantic turbulence, and following on from a rather perfunctory message from the Captain, I came to the conclusion that only Dean’s Rubik’s Cube (and watching him complete it in an impressive two minutes and twenty-four seconds) could stop me from a full melt-down into aerophobia. Fortunately for all concerned, not least my fellow passengers aboard the flight to Boston from London, the bouncing around at 36,000 feet abated, and the rest of the journey was concluded without noteworthy incident.

This, then, is the beginning of the adventure: four weeks schlepping my ridiculously large suitcase around from city to city, state to state, in the USA. My good friend Dean (he of Rubik’s Cube and manageable-sized suitcase fame) will be with me for the duration; other Habs Boys now exiled in the Colonies are slated to make guest appearances throughout, as we move from Boston to New York, Ann Arbor to Chicago, Nashville to Dallas. Planes, trains and automobiles will be the order of the month, alongside a video diary, a battered but appropriately travel-weary guitar and Dean’s hair-straighteners.

Jet-lagged and slightly disorientated, we arrived at Boston Logan Airport in somewhat of a cloud. Literally, in fact. Clouds, clouds, everywhere clouds. The weather upon landing was frankly atrocious: dense fog and mist with torrential rain. Hardly what you would hope for when leaving London in the early winter, but we were assured that the next day would be brighter. The rest of Wednesday was as you would expect after a long flight. We mooched around, we sipped coffee, we found Dean a jacket (a necessity given this trip includes Michigan and Illinois in November), we managed to eat less than a quarter of the world’s largest (and obscene) salad in the Cheesecake Factory, and we went to bed. In separate beds.

Thursday, refreshed, showered, contact-lensed to the max and excited for some cultural and historical musings, we began the heralded Boston Freedom Trail: a remarkable stretch of red bricks that lead through Boston’s busy streets from Downtown to Bunker Hill, taking in the many important sites and landmarks in the city’s, and indeed America’s history. It is no wonder people describe Boston as the ‘Cradle of the Revolution’. It was here that British soldiers fired on restless colonists, angry at being taxed without having representation in Parliament. It was here that John Adams (eventually America’s second President) riled against King George’s politics and legal system. It was here, that angry residents marched down to the harbour and decided to throw 342 crates of tea into the Atlantic. As a result, Americans place great emphasis on the heritage of Boston and have preserved the sites of this revolutionary spirit, the landmarks of liberty, in an impressive way, merging them against the skyscrapers as if to point out that the later progress of these United States was borne out of the struggles of the people of Boston in the first place. E pluribus unum (out of many, one) may well be the Latin motto of the United States, but it is perhaps fair to argue that in the case of Boston, and all it represents, it could read: ‘Out of one, many.’

Dean and I saw the Massachusetts Old State House, the King Charles Burial Ground, Faneuil Hall, Bunker Hill and Charlestown Navy Yard, and each stop enforced the impression that Boston punches above its weight in terms of its significance in proportion to its size. You can walk around the city easily in a day, and literally breathe in the historical relevance. In many ways, the study of American history and society is a little easier than other areas, for two reasons. Firstly, there is not as much history here as, say, the UK. Second, and more importantly I feel, America wears its cultural identity so obviously, so profoundly on its sleeve, that you can watch the symbiosis between the ideals of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, and the modern-day commercial attitude and innovation, almost take place in front of your eyes.

Later, our natural British cynicism returned when we visited Cambridge, home of Harvard University. Perhaps unfairly expecting something along the lines of our Cambridge back home, Dean and I felt America’s most famous academic institution lacked a suitable ‘wow’ factor, although this may be attributed to the many tourists and few students we encountered. It was nice, but that was really it. The Science Block resembled the University of Nottingham Coates Building (hardly a heady feat), and they seemed very reluctant to offer an eatery of any kind. Do Harvard students not like food? Are they too busy working? Alas, we shall never know. All I can say is that there are more food options available at Chicken Joe’s in the Nottingham University Portland Building than there were in the entirety of Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Dusk fell quickly on that Thursday, as if reminding us that this was not the height of summer, but in fact the rapid onset of winter in this part of the world. A clear day gave way to a frosty night, though it was pleasing to catch the twinkling lights inside Boston skyscrapers for the first time, given the mist the night before. Boston is, being a harbour city on the Atlantic, famous for its seafood, in particular Clam Chowder, a sort-of fish pie/soup, where clams and potatoes are warmed gently in a creamy sauce. Trying it out in the Legal Seafoods restaurant in the Prudential Centre, we were both pleasantly surprised. There’s a market for that in England, I’m sure. Less good was the frankly vile Ommegang beer, brewed apparently in Belgium, but only popular really in America. How anybody could enjoy it is beyond me. Just a few moments after drinking a few sips, I was so taken aback that I promptly lost my voice. That is not even a joke. I literally lost my voice. I was back on the Corona in a sports bar near to Northeastern University after dinner, where we met up with two of Dean’s Spanish friends from Madrid who are now studying in Boston. Though still tired and jet-lagged, this is the sort of student-friendly pub that America is famous for, and we both hope to visit more during the next few weeks. The less said about the game of pool, from my point of view anyway, the better.

Now, switching back to the present for a moment, I sit and type this on an Amtrak Train service to New York. I’m reminded of that line in The Great Gatsby, where Nick talks about his commute into the City, telling us that “I began to love New York, that racy, adventurous feel of it at night.” Small town USA is just around the corner, but for now we have a weekend in the Big Apple, which will include watching the North London Derby at an ungodly hour in the morning New York time, and sampling Halloween USA style, which I fear may be a little too full-on for my taste. Still, there is something exciting about heading for one of the world’s great conurbations. Emma Lazarus had it correct in her poem now adorning the Statue of Liberty. New York does indeed take the “tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Hopefully it can also find room for two travellers from London, England, yearning to breathe fun and frolics in the city that never sleeps (apart from when it is a little tired and has to get up early).

Until next time!

Evidence Of Things Not Seen: Judaism in the twenty-first century

It is entirely appropriate, I believe, for the Jewish High Holydays to take place in our autumn. A time of change and newness, September represents important phases and stages in our lives: new school terms, new University years, new jobs. So for the Jewish New Year to fall during this busy period works well in my opinion. It sits nicely alongside these more secular occasions.

However, this year, perhaps more than any other, I have found myself questioning the festivals of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. For the uninitiated, these two festivals are generally considered to be the most important in the Jewish calendar; the first being a celebration of the birthday of the world, of the creation story, and thus a New Year under the Hebrew timescale, the second being the culmination of ten days of internal soul-searching and repentance for all manner of yearly sins and wrongs, ending in Yom Kippur itself: a 25-hour long fast where Jews refrain from eating or drinking, or other earthly luxuries from sex to shaving and even wearing leather shoes. On Yom Kippur, Jews openly articulate their wrongdoing from the previous year and ask for forgiveness from God.

On many levels, this is so important. What could be more suitable, in an age of selfishness and arrogance, where materiality takes precedent over spirituality, than to cast our minds back through the vastness of the previous twelve months and not only admit our failings, but to understand why we did them. I am a reflective young man, and feel such a Judaic device is to be applauded for the most part. The problem I have is in the nature of the repentance. It seems to me to be a little strange to be asking for forgiveness from a being, an entity, whatever you want to call him, her or it, that we have little or no evidence for the existence of, beyond what we have been told are ocular examples in scripture.

Let me be clear, today's blog is not to shatter the illusion of divinity that governs most world religions. I simply do not know whether there is or is not a God. Being brutally honest, I am one of those who goes about ritual or ceremonial duties more out of hope than expectation, believing it still important to maintain the tradition (and remembering the genuine history that prompted them) rather than completely do away with it, regardless of what the net result will be in the long run. I am, however, 100% certain in my own mind that it is possible to be Jewish and still have major doubts. After all, self-doubt is a paragon virtue of modern Judaism, so I suppose I should fit right in. There is, friends, a generational problem here, however. If I had this conversation with my mother, for example, her unflinching support for everything she has been told and taught in her life would no doubt eventually evolve into an argument with me about my lesser faith, my lapsed ability to trust explicitly.

So where do I fit in amongst the denominations of my religion? Do I fit in at all? There are, sadly, an annoying few who would claim I have no place in it whatsoever, a cabal of near-medieval prelapsarians whose literal ideology I believe to be not only morally wrong but equally socially dangerous. There are some, be they Jews, Muslims, Christians, you name it, who hold steadfastly to everything that scripture and custom and influential leaders tells them. For the most part, this is fine. In many ways it is to be applauded. There is much, as an example, within the Jewish Torah that is relevant to modern-day life, offering important distinctions between right and wrong, imploring responsibility and charity, kindness and forgiveness, moral guides to what is at times an amoral world. But it also talks about stoning rebellious sons to death at the city gates, or that homosexuality is an abomination, and even sanctions a father's right to sell his youngest daughter into slavery. By any modern moral standard, all of these are just plain wrong. The vast majority of British Jews will treat such commandments in the same way they treat meat from a pig: with some distance. There remains a minority, the same minority who consider me to be as Jewish as Egyptian footballer Mido, who will still cling to this prose as, forgive the pun, gospel.

Judaism could be doing a better job of putting on a united front. At a time when the wrongdoings of the state of Israel (goodness me that is worth a blog on its own), for example, turn attentions towards Judaism more generally, I am concerned that many people who know little about the religion in this country will see a group of people divided, of denominations clashing and bickering, resolutely and consistently articulating their differences rather than their similarities, the shared traditions and cultural elements that have sustained Judaism for thousands of years.

All across the UK over the next couple of days, Jewish families will come together both in synagogues and at home to celebrate a New Year. They will dip apple pieces into honey to help represent what we all hope will be a sweet year to come. These are the sort-of rituals that I can base a life on. Not just because I enjoy the taste of apple dipped in honey, but because it is a simplistic gesture that means a whole lot more. It is about the hope of a good year, yes, but it's also a symbolic moment shared with loved ones, and as Judaism is a family-centric religion, placing an importance on the family unit and shared family experiences, it is entirely appropriate to spread that hope around those we love and care about. Similarly, in ten days time, Jews will again congregate together as the autumn light fades and the gates of repentance start to shut, in order to break their Yom Kippur fast together, proving that even at our most personal and reflective of moments we still supplement this with a familial element. Such traditions, which include Shabbat meals on Friday evenings, or the Passover Seder, with its own myriad customs and traditions, and so on, can help Judaism thrive, and not the 'more righteous than thou' faction that stains any modern, liberal spirituality.

We need to respect each other more. I want to go about my business without being concerned at what a fellow Jew thinks of what I do. Mine is a private Judaism, one that all to often sadly clashes with its public counterpart. In my opinion (and remember this is just my opinion, with no disrespect meant to any one of my many friends and family members who think differently), we could all be afforded a little bit more leeway and freedom from judgment to be as religious as we want, or do not want, to be. Ultimately, it is more important, surely, to try to be a good person than solely a good Jew and nothing else. Liberalism, acceptance, open-mindedness is key.

This Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I will put on my suit and go to synagogue with my family. Most of it will go through one ear and out the other, and even then my ears will probably still be ringing from the gig I'm going to tonight at Wembley, even though technically Rosh Hashanah begins at sundown this evening. I'll probably not enjoy the company of those around me that much (becoming no doubt incensed by the same whispering, gossiping and general looking around for other people that I will no doubt also partake in), save for my friend Jack, who I will no doubt sit with and quietly giggle with when the choir comes in flat, or sharp, or both. I know that the Rabbi will offer a sermon on how important it is for young people to come to shul every week (why?), and to stay in contact after their Barmitzvahs (surely if you are a 'man' post-Bar Mitzvah you can decide for yourself if you want to go to shul or not, free from pressure or judgment from others?), and how the majority of the congregation only turns up twice a year and that this is not good enough (according to who?). I know I will probably disagree with him, but equally that somewhere in the sermon he'll say something profound that will grab my attention for a moment or two.

I know that I will get very little from my synagogue attendance over the next couple of weeks, until the final service of Yom Kippur, known as Neilah. On Yom Kippur I attend Neilah without fail every year, usually with both my Dad and Grandpa. It is important to me and without doubt I feel at my most spiritual, most Jewish, most at one with my family, community, congregation, the works, during Neilah on Yom Kippur. Poetically, it is a fascinating service, full of stylised prose and poetry, of close choir harmonies, all juxtaposing perfectly against the gloom of the gather dusk, where the candles in the synagogue flicker against the darkening skies. It is atmospheric and, frankly, wonderful. It is the only time I properly think about what I've done over the previous year, something I am meant to do over the entirety of Yom Kippur but which eludes me until the final couple of hours, after the anguish at my inevitable defeat at the FA Premier League Monopoly board game to my friend Jonny during the afternoon has calmed down.

It is clear, I am sure, that I am a walking religious contradiction, unsure of my place within my religion, or even if I want a place, caught between my own personal values and customs, and the wider communal pressure that is hard sometimes to ignore. In just a couple of paragraphs I talked about going to Wembley instead of seeing in the first High Holyday festival this evening, but also about a spiritual connection to later services and my strong support for many of the familial elements of Judaism. Being a good person should, nevertheless, not have to be connected to religion at all. It can be if you want it to, of-course, and this should be lauded; but it does not have to, and as I get older I'm beginning to feel that more and more, without wanting at the same time to say I'm not Jewish. I am what I am.

Clearly this is a religion of differences, and that is fine, as long as we can embrace them, whilst maintaining the traditions and cultural customs upon which it can thrive, rather than descend into a ranting fiasco of discord and disillusion. Of-course I am also aware of the irony, of how my pleading for a more liberal, open-minded, less judgmental religion has clearly clashed against some of my obviously narrow-minded thoughts about the ultra-orthodox mentality.

So be it. On Eruv Yom Kippur, which is the evening beforehand, Jews ask for forgiveness not from God but from mankind. That's something we can probably work on. Certainly I know I need to.

The Oasis Story, Part I: "Where were you while they were getting high?"

So, farewell then, Oasis. Britpop extraordinaires. Rock'n'roll luminaries. Siblings at war.

Since 1994 they have dominated the airwaves, selling over 50 million records, achieving numerous number 1 singles and albums, not to mention Brit awards, Ivor Novellos, Mercury Prizes and general critical acclaim.

I grew up listening to Oasis, to their swagger and arrogance, their commitment to escapism, the can-do above the cannot. For Be Here Now, I was there then. That album, much lambasted, affirmed my love for these Madchester madcaps. I adored Liam's croon, Noel's hooks, the soundbites, the live sights, the street fights. At their peak, Oasis defined the mood, nay the epoch, of an entire generation, and at their worst they still gave us something to talk about.

The critics, and there are plenty (and not all unwarranted), point to a formulaic policy of chord progressions and average lyrics, of the same Gibson Epiphone guitar making the same slide, the familiar beat, the traditional process of verse-chorus-verse-chorus. They are wrong. Just one listen to Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants will demonstrate Noel Gallagher's ability to mould and shape a song with more than just a guitar, bass, drums set-up. Here is an album of psychedelic charm and gothic acknowledgments, of slap-bass, gospel choirs, electric organs, flutes and synth. Musically, it is by far and away the most complex Oasis album, with syncopated rhythms and time-signatures, odd but appropriate key changes, and genuinely impressive instrumentation. People forget this album, this backwater of 2000's belated post-Bonehead, post-Guigsy comeback, but ultimately it is a fine piece of work that helps illustrate that Oasis were not just about four chords and an uplifting chorus.

Being a self-declared muso, a lover of many forms and genre, I will not be arguing that Oasis have stood above and beyond other artists over the past fifteen years. I will not suggest they were artistic revolutionaries (though politically and culturally they may have been). Nor are my affections held solely by Oasis. After all, I am sat here writing about the brilliance of Oasis while my Ipod is currently playing Everything Is Borrowed by The Streets (more on Mike Skinner's genius another time). Yet after the news last weekend of Noel's departure, of one final brotherly barrage, it is only appropriate to pause a moment and reflect on all that Oasis were and represented. So, in the words of Mike Skinner (and I'm sure you all enjoyed how I segwayed back into him): "Relax in your sitting position and listen; it's fitting."

During the early years of Oasis, from 1994-1997, they defined an era. Every decade since The Beatles has had one or two era-defining bands. Think The Beatles and The Stones in the 1960s, The Who perhaps for the 1970s, maybe Michael Jackson in the 1980s, and so on. Oasis were that band for the 1990s, capturing the mood of a UK hit by a recession (sounds familiar) and an uninspiring government who had clung to power for too long (sounds even more familiar). Unemployment was rife, crime high, and England weren't very good at football. Then Definitely Maybe came out, with its tales of living life "for the stars that shine", of just wanting to fly, living forever, feeling supersonic, of looking for some action when all that existed were cigarettes and alcohol. The guitars were turned up high, the reverb was left on, and five lads from a council estate in Burnage, Manchester, dreamed of escaping, of something better than what they had experience so far. Rock'n'Roll Star, the first track on the album, is less a statement of intent and more a call to arms. "Wake up England!", it rasped. "Let's get going."

Oasis encapsulated the mood of change, of increasing optimism that surrounded the birth of Tony Blair's New Labour. The summer of 1995 was like 1969. Knebworth. History. Right here, right now, they said. Years of Tory rule was about to end: the people would remove the chains of traditionalism and embrace a new liberal cultural of free markets, innovation, inspiration, aspiration. And whilst this sea-change in emotional, social and political opinion increased, Oasis released records with a zeal and vigour that matched the people's drive. If Noel and Liam can roll with it, so can we. If they have a masterplan then we can have one too.

This, of-course, is representative of the exterior Oasis, the chart-topping band of critical acclaim. Yet Noel Gallagher's songwriting has always contained subtleties that people today, in 2009, often dismiss. Back in the mid-1990s, Noel clearly knew his band were destined for, well, destiny, but often let his most prosaic offerings take a back-seat as b-sides and album tracks. Half The World Away, immortalised by the BBC comedy The Royle Family, strives for the same escapism of larger-than-life numbers like Rock'n'roll Star and Morning Glory, but in a far more reflective way, almost quietly noting that the madness surrounding the band and its individual members was transitory, whereas nobody could give Noel Gallagher the dreams that were his all along. It's a wonderful song, simple but so effective, still talking, almost desperately so, of something better ("I would like to leave this city/This old town don't smell too pretty/And I can feel the warning signs running around my mind"), but equally very personal: "You can't give me the dreams that are mine anyway." Similarly the arrogance of Oasis came later. 1994 b-side Going Nowhere longs for "a motorcar, maybe a Jaguar, maybe a plane or a day of fame" but ends with a negative refrain: "Here am I, going nowhere in the rain." Perhaps the adulation ruined Oasis. They were fine when there was something to strive for, but once that was achieved, one they were there then, the interest faded.

This is what makes Be Here Now so fascinating, not just as a piece of music in its own right, but where it sits in the lexicon of British culture. Released just two weeks before the death of Princess Diana in August 1997, to an hysteria last seen when Abbey Road was released, it sat perfectly as the epitomisation of new Britain. The Labour landslide was still being enjoyed, the weather was hot, the country basking in the warm and comforting glow of progress. This is why it is such a genius album title, almost as if Oasis knew that this was the highest, the biggest, they would ever be, arm-in-arm with a period of time on a societal level that could not possibly last. Be Here Now makes perfect sense and, crucially, tense: the Gallaghers were offering a final rallying-call - to join the party while it lasted, not because they were going to all of a sudden become incompetent and stop releasing great records, but because trends, by their very nature, are transitory, and deep down everyone knew this. If you weren't there then, and many were sadly not, it is likely that today you regard the passing of Oasis to be nothing more than the latest in a series of daily celebrity news stories, a fleeting by-line to a bygone era.

Be Here Now is full of imperfections and lyrical inconsistencies, from the confidence of It's Getting Better (Man!) and D'you Know What I Mean? to the heartfelt and tender insecurities of Don't Go Away (a genuinely moving track that should be on any Best Of compilation) and Stand By Me. Today it may not sit together well as a long-player, but take each track on its own for a moment, and it deserves to be listened to again. There are few better Oasis moments than seeing Liam spit out the words to My Big Mouth, as they have done live recently, a song that acts as a microcosm for the whole album: staggering arrogance mixed with genuine concern for the future - "Guess who's gonna take the blame for my big mouth, and my big name, I'll put on my shoes and walk you slowly down my hall of fame."

Without knowing it, the band became the first winner of The X Factor before Simon Cowell had even thought it up. People liked Oasis because of the aspirational attributes of the personnel and the music they played. They dared to dream, and through them so did many of us. It is why the Knebworth gigs were so triumphant, so epoch-defining, because they represented rags-to-riches in startling detail, like a real reality TV show. "This is history. Right here, right now. This is history," bellowed the band on that Hertfordshire stage.

So where were you while they were getting high, while they were providing the soundtrack to millions of people's hopes and dreams, loves and hates, highs and lows? It is easy to pick holes in Oasis, to criticise for criticism's sake, to jump on an increasingly popular bandwagon of counter-culturalism, reactionary attempts to play down what they signified and how good they were, almost as if we are embarrassed. Ultimately, folks, you simply cannot sell that many records if you are no good. Somewhere, beyond the in-fighting and the drugs, the press attention and the celebrity lifestyles, at the heart of it all, lies the music, and when you list the multitude of famous, radio-friendly songs you have to concede that these guys knew what they were doing.

"I think you're the same as me,

We see things they'll never see,

You and I are gonna live forever."

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Coming soon - The Oasis Story, Part II: "Outta Time."