Oasis

When “Definitely Maybe” came out in August 1994, rock's centre of gravity wasn't in London or Manchester. It came from across the ocean, from Seattle, where grunge had redefined sound and imagery alike: a rougher, more introverted musical world, light years away from British tradition. In the UK, meanwhile, the scene was moving in scattered directions. There were Blur, chronicling a daily life of commuters, suburbs and small middle-class obsessions, with arrangements that looked back to 1960s English pop filtered through Damon Albarn's irony. Suede aimed for a mix steeped in sexual ambiguity and decadent romanticism, building a strongly aesthetic identity as early as “Dog Man Star”. Pulp, on the other hand, worked on narrative: stories of neighbourhood life, frustration and desire, told with an almost sociological precision through Jarvis Cocker's voice. It was a vital scene, but still too fragmented, with visions that were often worlds apart from one another.
Oasis placed themselves within this space without aligning with any single one of these perspectives. Their approach was far more direct: songs built on simple, recognisable structures, designed to land immediately. Songs made to be remembered. The influences were plain to see and never hidden: there's the melodic line of the Beatles, the Manchester legacy of the Stone Roses, and certain rhythmic elements borrowed from Happy Mondays.

The band's formation is an integral part of this outlook. In Manchester, in the grey, hope-starved suburb of Burnage, the band took shape around Liam Gallagher under the name The Rain, alongside Paul McGuigan, Paul Arthurs and Tony McCarroll. At this early stage the group had no clear vision yet, moving within the local scene without truly standing out. Noel Gallagher's arrival substantially shifted the internal balance. After a stint as a roadie for Inspiral Carpets, Noel came back with a ready-made repertoire and a clear idea of how the band should operate. He laid down precise conditions for joining, and within a short time redefined both its role and its direction.
The switch from The Rain to Oasis coincides with this transformation. The name was taken from an Inspiral Carpets poster hanging in Liam's room, marking an early moment of self-awareness. From then on, the band began working on a sturdier repertoire, forged mostly on stage. Songs were rehearsed, reworked and repeated until they found a stable shape. It was a slow process, tied more to live shows than to studio time.
The gig at King Tut's Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow in 1993 marked a turning point. Alan McGee caught their set and signed them to Creation Records.

The early recordings of “Definitely Maybe”, however, didn't capture what the band truly sounded like: the production came out too clean, too far removed from their live impact. Things changed with sessions at Sawmills Studios and the intervention of Owen Morris, who pushed the mix towards greater fidelity. The result is a full, relentless sound that became one of the record's defining traits.
The title reflects this phase too. “Definitely Maybe” is a play on words holding together two opposite paths, certainty and doubt. It's a formula that neatly captures the band's position at that moment: aware of their own abilities, yet still in the process of defining themselves, without a fully settled place within the scene.
Completing the picture is the cover. Shot by Michael Spencer Jones in Bonehead's living room in Manchester, it's one of the key images of the nascent Britpop movement. Liam Gallagher lies on the floor in front of the television, while the others occupy the room casually, as if caught in a candid snapshot. Yet within that frame their whole world is already there: the globe, the bottle of gin, the glasses, the photo of Burt Bacharach in the background. And then an almost hidden but telling presence: on the right-hand side, a small figure of Rodney Marsh, former Manchester City player, reinforcing the tie to their hometown. Details that widen the scope of that living room, already turning it into an official statement of intent, in keeping with the record's sound.

The singles accompanied the release and immediately clarified its profile. “Supersonic” introduced the band's language, “Shakermaker” cemented its instant recognisability, “Live Forever” broadened its emotional range. When the album came out, it went straight to number one on the British charts. The commercial figures are only part of the picture: “Definitely Maybe” took rock for what it was, playing it with more conviction than most others were mustering at the time. Simple songs, built to be easy to sing and hard to forget.

The shape of an icon

The album opens with “Rock'n'Roll Star”, a statement of identity fired straight at the world with no filter whatsoever. Liam is barely 20, yet he sings as if convinced he deserves everything before he's even got it. The lyrics revolve around the idea of breaking out of the ordinary and claiming more space, without compromise. There's also a certain anger toward anyone who stays still or settles for an unremarkable life. In short, it's the opening manifesto of Oasis: wanting to become someone, whatever the cost.
The move into “Shakermaker” brings everything back to a more concrete imagery that would become typical of the band. It starts from a nod to the tough, pure old days of Mr. Sifter's, the Manchester record shop where the band's members spent their time and shaped their musical taste. The Gallaghers piece together scattered childhood and teenage memories, full of objects, brand names and odd details that seem to spill out of a jumbled memory. It's a sequence of flashes tied to that world. You can feel the upbringing in the suburb of Burnage, where even a place like that becomes central. What lingers is that sense of simple, everyday life, made up of small things that really matter. It's the lighter, more nostalgic side of the record, but also one of its most personal.
With “Live Forever”, Oasis zero in on a clear idea: refusing to accept a life already written for you, and trying to leave something behind for those who come after. Liam Gallagher expresses this with blunt conviction, built entirely around “You and I are gonna live forever”, a simple yet evocative line. The point is wanting to really matter, even starting from an ordinary reality, without feeling doomed to disappear. In the early '90s, while others in the United States were singing of unease and withdrawal, along came one of the first songs with a different kind of drive — more open, more resilient. It's the need to find a place in the world and hold on to it, without letting yourself be dragged down. There's total trust in another person in there, but also a stubbornness that makes it believable. In the end it remains a truly iconic song, one of those that define an era and that still say something decades later.
With “Up In The Sky”, we're dealing with an idea that's simple but sharp: anyone who places themselves above others ends up losing touch with the very reality they claim to observe. The lyrics hammer away at that very distance, at a gaze that, from up high, can no longer see anything clearly. Musically, it's a track built on a fast, driving pace that never opens up into “liberating” choruses, but keeps pushing forward without a clean break. It's one of the less crucial songs on the record, but that's precisely what reinforces the sense of internal continuity running through “Definitely Maybe”.

Then comes “Columbia”, the point where the album shifts gear. It opens on a guitar riff as hypnotic as a mantra, drives straight ahead, and the more it insists, the more it burrows into your head. It's a continuous build-up, with no complicated architecture. Liam spits out lines as if he were down the pub rather than in the studio. The kind of stuff you sing along to without thinking twice! So rather than following the song by just listening to it… you live it directly. It carries all that Manchester air, but grittier, more street: bucket hat pulled down, Adidas top and worn-out Gazelles, pint in hand.
With the ever-present “Supersonic” you understand ground zero, the very beginning, the exact moment you can already sense which direction the English band is about to take within the musical universe. It came together almost by chance in the studio, written by Noel Gallagher in a few hours while waiting for another rehearsal session to wrap up: and indeed, you can feel all the spontaneity of that moment. Liam comes in with that brazen self-assurance that would become his calling card: “I need to be myself, I can't be no one else” is the manifesto he'd carry with him forever. The lyrics are a collage of images, characters and lines tossed off almost at random, yet they build a precise identity without following a linear story. There's that typically English knack for mixing the everyday with the street and the imagination all at once. It's perhaps the track that, more than any other, brings together the attitude, the writing and the sheer presence of the Manchester lads. And indeed it remains one of the most recognisable debuts of '90s rock, the one from which everything truly began.
“Bring It On Down” is a direct outburst. The track races along, keeping the energy high throughout, almost as if performed live, never letting up. The lyrics are made of short, tense lines that suggest a clash rather than a story. Within “Definitely Maybe” it's the roughest moment, the one that brings everything back down to earth and leaves nothing but the impact of a raw, gritty rock'n'roll feeling.

One of the record's centrepieces is “Cigarettes & Alcohol”, the moment when everything becomes immediate and instantly recognisable. The driving riff openly nods to T. Rex's “Get It On (Bang A Gong)”, reworked into something heavier, almost pounding. The lyrics capture a snapshot of early-'90s England: precarious jobs, identical days, few prospects. “All I need are cigarettes and alcohol” says it all in a handful of words, because in that context it sounds almost like an inevitable response, stripped down to the essentials, to a reality that offers little else. Indeed, it's one of the songs that best defines the bond between the band and the world they came from.
“Digsy's Dinner” arrives as something lighter, almost domestic. Liam Gallagher tells a simple scene, all food, home and everyday life, with that slightly off-kilter tone that makes it instantly recognisable, right down to that drawn-out “lasaaagnaaa” that sticks in the heads of the most die-hard “madferit” fans. The reference to Digsy, a real figure from the Manchester scene, gives the track an even more grounded feel. The lyrics move between mundane details and absurd images, without worrying too much about making precise sense. It stands as a snapshot of life, small but vivid, tied to that nostalgically “brit” world.

“Slide Away”, on the other hand, is simply one of those tracks that the purest fans rank above almost everything else. It's practically gospel for true Oasis believers. It's a love story lived to the full, with no distance, full of lines that sound like promises meant in earnest. The lyrics revolve around the need to stay together, not to let each other slip away, even when everything seems to be falling apart. The arrangement builds step by step, steadily widening the song's scope. Noel Gallagher carries this rise all the way up, without ever breaking it. In the finale the brothers' voices intertwine, and that “I don't know, I don't care, All I know is you can take me there” becomes an indelible moment, one of those lines belted out at full volume at every gig. It's one of the most beloved tracks because it stays with you, at once deeply personal and widely shared. For many, this is where the album hits one of its highest peaks.
The album closes with “Married With Children”, striking a more intimate, disillusioned tone. Noel sings of a worn-out relationship, full of daily irritations and words poorly held back. The lyrics are direct, almost sarcastic, packed with concrete details that make the scene feel real. It remains a coherent closing statement, deeply human and unfiltered.

The sound of belonging

“Definitely Maybe” slots straight into a very specific corner of early-'90s British culture. Rather than a simple debut, it's perceived as something that latches onto an already existing reality and gives it a recognisable shape. The songs speak in a direct language, with no filter, and that creates an immediate effect on whoever listens to them. Now just as much as then.
The key point is the kind of reality the album puts front and centre. Suburbs, friendships, work, nights down the pub, arguments, broken love affairs, personal ambition, everyday frustration. Everything is handled with no distance, as living material. It's precisely this immediacy that builds the bond with a part of the English public that recognises itself in that content without needing any translation.
Out of this grows something that goes beyond music. With “Definitely Maybe”, Oasis become a reference point beyond the record itself. The Gallaghers carry outward what's already inside the songs: the attitude, the way of moving, the language, even the way of presenting themselves all become readable and imitable. It creates a unique sense of belonging, perhaps never felt so strongly, one that runs through concrete details rather than abstract symbols.
For the English band, this album marks a point of full self-definition. The songs had already been tested live before reaching the studio, and that shows in their structure. It's what gives their debut work its tightness, a consistency that holds from start to finish. Their bond with the audience is born from precisely this stability. The songs work because they're true, because they don't demand complex interpretation, because they latch directly onto experiences that any English kid of the time could recognise. And that bond hasn't burned out at the peak of their glory; it carries on through time, across different generations of listeners. Within the story of Oasis, this is the point where everything aligns. Songwriting, sound, presence, relationship with the fans. Everything takes on a precise shape, one that would never radically change. Later albums would widen the scope, bulk up the sound, take the band to a bigger, more universal level. But the framework remains the one set down here, on this album from way back in 1994.

Oasis's return to the stage in 2025 brought everything back to an almost surreal dimension: those songs were once again being sung in front of a new audience, made up of young kids and millennials, but above all the children of those who lived through those years first-hand, back when the album had just come out and was simply part of everyday present. A handing-down of voices that never broke that bond, but renewed it instead. And it's in that balance that “Definitely Maybe” goes on living for those who listen to it: something that has stayed under the skin, because in those songs there was never any distance between what they told and what, for so many people, they truly came to mean.

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17/05/2026