Oasis Reunion: A Last-Ditch Effort to Save Manchester’s Soul? #oasis #madchester

Manchester that Grim decrepit slum of Broken Dreams and shattered pints where the Relentless drizzle drenches the cobblestones a symphony of Despair composed by a sadistic deity drowning out any lingering hope and ensuring that every sodn soul is painfully aware of their Bleak existence but wait I missed a Perpetual Gloom a flicker of Hope ights a momentary reprieve from the soul crushing monotony the down TR and masses of Manchester their Spirits dampened but not extinguished deare to dream could it be yes on the rain soaked Breeze Oasis their prodigal sons are returning like a pair of rabid Wolverines emerging from a Bend of fueld by topshelf whisking decades worth of Bad Blood the Galaga Brothers those mancunian Messiahs of mediocrity swaggering peacocks of Brit pop whose mediocrity was only surpassed by their arrogance have crawled snarling and spitting from their gilded bunkers they have threatened us with a reunion a spectical that promises to be either a glorious Resurrection or a catastrophic train wreck is this madchester 2.0 the city needs it because honestly what else does Manchester have these days once a vibrant Supernova of music and culture has dwindled to a dying Ember a city of chances lunatics and Slots clinging desperately to their faded glories like an old [ __ ] clutching a last cigarette live forever no thanks not if my eternity was spent in this concrete morsum Oasis was the heartbeat of Manchester in the '90s a Sonic pulse that reverberated through the brick and mortar infusing the city with a raw defying energy now the music has fallen silent the rhythm is seized and the city stands Frozen in Time a decaying Monument to its own Faded Glory Manchester has become nothing but a punch line a cruel joke a faded tattoo on a wrinkled arm and the stalgic relic of a time when the city still mattered and yet like a pair of clapped out time traveling circus clowns emerging from a man incest wet dream the Gallagher brothers stumbl back into town their reunion is inevitable as death and taxes it's a stench of desperation and greed as subtle as a fart in a crowded lit wave a fist full of cash under the noses of these rock and roll dinosaurs and watch them dance like trained monkeys they wered claws clutching at the golden carrot of a reunion they'll sell their souls their mothers even their autograph tambourines all for the chance to regurgitate the same tide old anthems a soundtrack to a generation of midlife crisis alcoholics their lyrics so painfully simple they make nursery rhymes sound like shakespeareans sonets wouldn't even pass muster at a nursery talent show at first glance Oasis might fool you with their swaggering snear a mirage of rock and roll Rebellion shimmering in the desert of Brit pop but then the curtain drops the Smoke Clears and you're left with a St realization these blos are just singing about things like lasagna but at the end of the day who cares really who [ __ ] cares sure this might be a wet dream come true for the 50y old coked up geizer in in me Asma of a midlife crisis and unfulfilled dreams they'll flock to the stadiums like moths to a flame their wallets bulging with hard-earned cash eager to witness a spectacle that's about as interesting as watching paint drown a North Korean prison War whilst being forced to tickle king Jong Hill's balls with your tongue for two hours a day this is a grotesque parody of rock and roll nothing more than a glorified karaoke session with two Grumpy Old Men pretending to give a to it's a blatant cash grab plain and simple and anyone who thinks otherwise is either delusional daed or just plain desperate you can see the music industry's vultures are circling from a mile off their beaks dripping with anticipation the fat cats are getting fatter their pockets ready to be lined with your hard-earned quid the ticket TOS lurk in the shadows their eyes gleaming with avarice ready to pounce on the desperate and the delusional while you're left scraping the bottom of the barrel for a couple of pints of warm logger the music once a Rous celebration of Youth and Rebellion would now sound like a funeral durge for a generation's lost dreams their performance is lifeless as a blowup doll deflated in a back alley I wouldn't spend a single penny to see these charlatans unless they offered a complimentary bottle of whiskey and ate for the finest Afghan Hash a big tited Asian escort and a seat so far from the stage I wouldn't be tempted to throw my whiskey glass at their smug self-satisfied faces and let's not forget about the Peter Pan of Brit pop Liam Gallagher Forever Frozen in a state of Arrested Development who built his Persona by mashing John Lennon and Johnny roton into some sort of Frankenstein monster a satirical cartoon of rock and roll Rebellion watching him prance around the stage as a pathetic 50-year-old shaking a tambourine like an autistic Court Jester sneering down at the crowd like he's the second coming of Christ when in reality he's just a washed up parody of himself a man who's idea of profound lyricism peaked in about year four so here we are strapped into the roller coaster of rock and roll's inevitable decline Oasis those mancunian Misfits who once set Britain a blaze are back to reheat The Leftovers the bickering Brothers the Gallaghers have finally admitted defeat trading their Artistic integrity for a golden handshake making a oneway ticket to the Nostalgia circuit they're here for one reason and one reason only to milk that cash cow dry unable to create anything new or meaningful they're flogging the past like a pair of desperate Carneys at A Dying Fair welcome to 20124 where the past is the only currency that matters and the future is a Barren Wasteland of recycled Rifts and tired cores we've traded our you for idealism for World weary irony our burning passion for a lukewarm bath of nostalgia add dreams of a better world for a steady paycheck and a comfortable retirement plan go ahead surrender to the siren song of Oasis let those familiar Melodies wash over you a comforting blanket of mediocrity and a world gone mad buy your ticket dust off your bucket hat and relive the glory of Brit pop when the Gallaghers were young arrogant and relevant but don't fo yourselves my friends this ain't no Second Coming it's a zombie apocalypse a grotesque parade of hasb shuffling Through the Motions for a quick pound if you're smart you'll stay home crack open a bottle of vodka and mourn the death of rock and roll in peace as for madchester it's time to pull the plug on this life support machine of nostalgia they had their 15 minutes of fame and now it's time to pay the piper the party is over the drugs have worn off and The Hangover is a [ __ ] the city's Glory Days Are As Dead As a dodo and clinging to the past is like trying to reanimate a corpse with a defibrillator and a prayer let the whole damn place sink back into the grimy swamp it crawled out of just another rain soaked [ __ ] hole a breeding grow for mediocrity and despair populated by ghosts of its former self their dreams are shattered as the empty Pine glasses litter in the streets so go ahead wallowing your self-pity Drown Your sorrows in warm beer and listen the Fain of a tambourine rattling in the distance a haunting reminder of the time when the city still mattered the tension now hangs heavy in the air a palpable force that threatens to crack the very foundations of the stadiums they'll soon inhabit can these two battered Veterans of the rock and roll Wars find Harmony amidst of chaos or while they pent up frustrations and simmering resentment ready to spill forth in a torrent of onstay fit tril will their reunion be a kartic release a cleansing fire that burns away the bitterness of the past or will it be a catastrophic meltdown a nuclear explosion of egos that leaves nothing but scorched Earth and Broken Dreams in its wake the world watches breathless as the C down to a reunion that's about as genuine as a politician smile begins