whatever dream

The final three minutes of Whatever are not only the pinnacle of Oasis, but the pinnacle of the whole nineties, in Britain.

Just listen to it.

It screams freedom, 

                              virtue, 

                              unbridled infinite white expanse of loping hoping ocean.

         

                  

                     It is, as Alex Niven would have it, that blind verve of middle-fingered dreams Noel Gallagher raised to the whole of the previous decade in 1993, without batting an eyelid. 

The artwork says it all. A road of green that stretches on out in to the distance forever, crumbling into the blue of utopian skies and shouting screaming screeching at you:

WE'RE STIILL HERE MARGARET!                                                                                                        

  WE HAVE DREAMS!  

WE WILL MAKE THEM!

Liam was probably pissed when he recorded his input here, not that it matters. He sounds like an angel,

and the line before the break thing, 

                     that middle bit which is shit but it makes the song what it is so oh well type-thing, 

                  'you're freeee...to be wherever youuu...wherever you please you can shoot the breeze if            
                   youuu want'

                  is delivered in some kind of heavenly tone: drenched in desperation and confidence            
                  at the very same time.             

                     The song is like a wave.           A bit like the '90s perhaps. 

It builds and builds and builds

                                                                               and then crashes into an almighty heap on the floor.

And from the rubble we hear a rumbling, the gentle frothing of kitchen-sink soup,

                               

                                       gathering, again, 

                                               gathering gathering reaching searching leaping into a field of gold,

                                       somewhere in heaven, 

                              where we're all sat, with everyone ever 

and the violins are playing a symphony from thin air 

And nothing else matters because everyone knows that everything is okay. No matter what they said to you, no matter what you did to them, everyone knows it's alright. 

And what is this final line but a secret love letter to Liam: the final reckoning, the infinite landscape of precious knowing you build with someone after a bit of time, an understanding that in the end, we're all spinning in fits of madness to absolutely no-where and that if we don't have each other, 

                             we have nothing.