Oasis
Be Here Now

THE REVIEW

Liam and Noel Gallagher are two sons of a bitch with mop heads instead of eyebrows. This is an established fact. Bonhead, Guigsy, Alan White? A side of bastards in vegetable broth that, fortunately, adds nothing.

Three fags who were there just to make noise and drink beer and then, and then Bonhead is a grouchy with bulging eyes like those of a dead fish, a sub-proletarian who smells like a can of natural tuna opened seven years ago. The andropause of a world. The tragedy of the negative. The tragedy of the Gallaghers. The problem is that those two huge assholes got clean. That prosthesis of his own dick (which is none other) Noel Gallagher stopped snorting crap up his nose, the cocaine stopped burning his mucous membranes, and he stopped writing that kind of filth that, if you want, after a hit on the head, could even be passable as music.

But nothing extraordinary: the ideal soundtrack to keep in the background while you take care of oral hygiene and move from the lower dental arch to the upper one. Now that prick serves us only stuff consumable only by an ego generously fueled by goat milk and fried onions. But come on! And we are there, at every album: this is the album of rebirth! They will make a boom here! But who, how, what!!! No way I'm buying another of your records, take that! The first hint of diarrhea was birthed with "Be Here Now": a gonad-breaking dirge that lasts eleven tracks plus the ending of "All Around The World" as a hidden track, bravo, encore, another one of these! Your mother-in-law.

The album starts with "Do You Know What I Mean" and Liam Gallagher starts complaining like this, a hybrid between someone having a spastic colitis attack and another one who has a stick shoved up his ass. A crap that goes on for a good five minutes until you decide you've had enough and change the song. Olé! Turn up the amplifiers! These five polka-dotted junkies from Manchester think they're the adoptive sons of Maynard from Tool. Go crash into a wall. Then there's "Magic Pie: now, I say, who gave permission for Noel Gallagher to sing, that bastard hunting dog, a filthy red carrot top, a sterling silver piece of shit eight-hundred-twenty-five, someone who should get on stage only to dismantle the microphones.. well.. And now two special litanies for teenagers who spray in their pants: "Stand By Me" and "I Hope I Think I Know"... enough, please, go screw around, go chop wood, go to a Povia concert, do anything. Musically it’s fake, embarrassingly fake, stuff that even Boy George or those three horned ones who sing "Vamos A La Playa" could have come up with something better, with Nino Buonocore as the lyricist. Who the hell bought this album in ninety-seven? I want your names! You are the new terrorists, do you have any idea of the mess you've made unleashing these five insane ball-slicers around the world???? The filth emerges in its entirety when "Fade In Out" arrives, the song that Natale Gallagher wrote while having an orchestral wank on the carpet in his bathroom looking at a photo of Cesara Buonamici, then called that unholy faggot Johnny Depp to play the slide and olé! A nice dish of genuine steaming crap, for all, for you, pure souls of my bidet. My intestines start calling the crisis unit when "All Around The World" arrives. There really are no words, enough seriously, I’m disgusted, what the hell do I need that acoustic guitar in the middle of all that mess? Oh well.. we are almost at the end, another line of coke and "It's Getting Better" starts.

It's over: you just feel like kicking them all in the ass until their balls dry up, but I’m serious, believe me, a mess of sugary treacle, pseudo-rebellious for ultra-ninety-year-old retirees who piss in their woolen underwear. You just feel like sticking a hand in Liam Gallagher's mouth and ripping out his tonsils because of how disgusting his desperate housewife voice is that screws with the "Folletto" salesman. I pray mother nature drenches him in clusters of boils on his penis.