Oasis : 100 Club, London

There it is, the new sound of young Scotland, wiggling its corduroy-wrapped hips, pursing its lips and clapping enthusiastically into the mic in a basement club in Oxford Street, London, March ’74... Ooops! Sorry, but that Andrew Shields of Whiteout is a deadringer for a young-ish Rod.



But only if you’re drinking Bacardi. Whiteout continue the current obsession harboured by a clutch of West Coast Scottish bands of choosing an early to mid-’70s rock group and carving out a direct replica in their own image.



There’s only room for one Faces cover band in this world, and they’re called The Black Crowes. Hopefully Whiteout will come to realise this and develop accordingly, because there’s real, raw talent lurking in those skinny frames.



Oasis, however, are fully formed and fantastic. They sound like Happy Mondays’ ‘Kinky Afro’ crashing headlong into Teenage Fanclub’s ‘What You Do To Me’, as each song, from the assured debut single ‘Supersonic’ right through to the T-Rexian highlight ‘Cigarettes And Alcohol’ revolves around a collection of huge grooves attached to glittering yet menacing glam guitar riffs.



At times tonight Oasis assume the mantle of Best Live Band In The Country with joyous, arrogant Mancunian confidence. They may never be this good again and they may have never been this good before but, four rows from the front, they sound like the most astute, important signing Alan McGee has made since Ride. They may even cancel out all the Hollyfaiths, Boyfriends and Shonen Knifes that once littered the Creation office.



Certainly, Liam Gallagher could do with shaking off some of his more latent Ryder-isms – the hunchback microphone molesting, the between-song banter (“Cheers, big ears”?). But he’s twice the singer Ryder was, much better-looking – and if he just stands up straight every now and then, he’ll be on Top Of The Pops by Christmas.


Ted Kessler