Visions of Noel Gallagher by Mark Corcoran-Lettice

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“They just want to hear some fucking tunes, don’t they? They don’t want someone going on about a fucking dead lion or whatever.”

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She moved her thumb away from the screen and laid the phone back down. That wasn’t one of her better ones, she thought to herself. Who was that even meant to be an insult to? There was no way that was useable.

Rubbing her temples with the other hand, she went through the list of voice messages and memos she had been recording all afternoon, wondering if she might be able to cobble something together she could send off and just be rid of. Typically, Noel was one of the easier ones to write for – his interview style had been so well developed by his management back in the mid-nighties that everyone, from press to public to pop star himself, knew what he would deliver and took satisfaction in that. But if the inspiration isn’t flowing, if the deadline starts looming – well, even slagging off the right people gets hard then.

It was hardly a surprise that he was so divorced from the whole process of rock stardom now: no matter what your commitment, if people only want the same thing again and again (and if you’re only capable of the one bloody thing, she thought), at some point your taste for it must start to diminish. So if you’re in the position to farm out as much of it as possible to other people, why not? It kept her in a job at least.

It could be far worse anyway. At least she had a job that was vaguely creative, in some sense: most of her year had moved back home, took up jobs in shit bars, acted like they never wanted anything else anyway. She could work from home, didn’t have to deal with co-workers or office politics, and even if some of these firms still took reminder after reminder to get the money over, the pay was good. All she had to do was write up something plausible that these idiots could learn and reel off like parrots any time someone starts waving a dictaphone at them. (Plausible was important, she reminded herself: why she’d ever thought that quoting Cummings would work for Thicke…)

She tallied up the number of useable lines she could send through. She had seventeen down that seemed like they would fit: if she could just get to twenty, she could send that over to the PR to tide him over and just send a few more across over the weekend to finish the order. Three Noel Gallagher lines…come on, you’re more than capable of knocking that shit out in a couple of minutes, they you can log off.

A sip of tea, a light cough to clear the throat. She tapped at her phone again, and pressed record.

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“Sleaford Mods? Who the fuck wants to watch some fucking nutter and his stoned mate shout about the miners?”

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noel gallagher 1

NEW THREAD: ‘NOEL GALLAGHER’S HIGH FLYING BIRDS – Y/N?’

Did anyone check out the new Noel Gallagher album? I’m giving it a spin and yeah, it’s exactly what you expect. But discuss anyway.

― celbodyelectric, 11/08/15 18:44

lol. what’s even the point these days. dude keeps writing the same shitty song again and again for balding divorcees to feel good about. worse than phil fucking colling

― deathray, 11/08/15 18:47

^ As if deathray was ever going to say anything else.

You know, it’s not a bad album. I mean, it does what you expect, but can’t you say that about anyone? Nick Cave always just goes on about his dick and dead people in that same voice and you all seem to love that. Guy writes some nice songs, the lyrics don’t say much but it works.

― mini motel, 11/08/15 18:55

He needs to fuck off. Another boring cis het white man who thinks he deserves the world just for showing up.

― catcrayola, 11/08/15 18:57

Not a fan, but heard a couple of tracks in the pub the other night, there’s a few interesting touches here and there. Wish he’s done that album with Future Sound of London for real, always seems like he’s on the verge of something interesting if someone can push him away from all that beige.

― reinheart reinheart, 11/08/15 19:00

He’s not interesting, he’s a dick

― catcrayola, 11/08/15 19:03

Catcrayola, what did he to do you?

― reinheart reinheart, 11/08/15 19:14

He’s dreadful alright. Never had anything to say, always been there. It’s like he wants to own the world but has no idea what to do with it .

― sweetheart contract, 11/08/15 19:17

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[transcript from unreleased Noel Gallagher demo tape, circa 2013]

The music is based around a simple repetition of the Pachelbel’s Canon progression, resorting to a simple C-G loop for the bridge. Acoustic guitar and voice only.

VERSE ONE

If they say all the world’s a stage

Then I must have played them all

To people of every type and age

Except maybe some blokes from Nepal

CHORUS

I’ve got so much fucking money

I don’t have a clue what to do with it all

I’ve got so much fucking money

I can’t believe that I really have it all

VERSE TWO

Absolutely everybody loves me, it’s true

And even the ones who don’t must know

That it’s just them being jealous and blue

Of me rolling in all that dough

CHORUS

BRIDGE

I really just can’t believe it

I bet even God’s not this loaded

I just know that I really must have it

Because this bank account’s grown so bloated

CHORUS X 2

Demo continues on the chorus theme for five minutes, but with the lyrics becoming increasingly frantic and agitated and hard to pick out on the tape. Several shouts of “boil the poor” and “Gordon the fucking gopher!” are audible.

noel gallagher 2

[…] at that point, there was not a soul who would have predicted the turn that history would take, that we would live to see these savage wounds that have so quickly been inflicted upon humanity. These dark, potentially final days we live in would have been dismissed as crazed fantasy, a terrible delusion.

Never before has mankind faced such a threat to its existence. It comes to us not through war, nor disaster. It is not famine, disease or climate change that we must fight against. It is a greater, stranger, darker foe than any of these. It is a foe that seeks to destabilise existence itself, to destroy all life not through any method we have ever seen before. This is a psychic threat that we face, one that will tear at our understanding of existence and leave nothing left.

My fellow Americans, I stand before you humbled. As your President, I have been unable to forsee, to understand or to prevent any of these events which are now occurring. Never have the leaders of the world, alongside their people, worked together as one like we do now. But we are still no closer to an answer or a plan of action. All our efforts to find the madman responsible for the deeds have failed.

We do not know if or how humanity will survive this current crisis. Whatever befalls us, we must stand together against our fate. May God have mercy on our souls.

The faces made no sound, and yet – amidst that tangled collision of warped flesh, that blasphemous array of anatomical confusion where the boundaries of form and physicality seemed bent, yielded to some great and terrifying will, sometimes inside that array you still alight on those heads not yet submerged within the tidal wave of grotesquery an expression marked upon the visage falling somewhere between total agony and unimaginable ecstasy. Their mouths appeared as if caught mid-scream, and yet there was nothing to be heard from those in the pit.

What sound could be heard was the crunching and squashing of the human body, the low, incessant chant of the hooded figures observing from the back of the chamber, the hum and buzz of animal life. The air was fetid, putrid, subsumed with a mute despair. Across the walls and ceilings, there were etchings, scribblings and unreadable writings scattered like a secret philosophy of the damned, numerous diagrams of unfathomable, surely impossible deeds, all of it stained in blood, excrement, dirt, tears, cum, piss, pus, and other accumulated functions.

There were huge, tattered, miscoloured Union Jacks hung from the rafters, as if they were flags recovered from some alternative, fascistic reality. There were a handful of accomplices, assistants and witnesses glancing but not truly looking at the proceedings, standing statue still. Some of them had been musicians, road crew, managers in a previous life, but now they were marshalled as part of this sinister scheme. Flies poured forth from the mouth of The Weller Abomination. Decay was everywhere.

There, at the entrance to the chamber, stood the master himself, gazing down from his gold podium. No expression could be easily determined: a quizzical, sceptical look remained in his eyes, as if even he was appalled and shocked by the schemes he was now instigating, black masses of sex and death performed so as to erode the fabric of sanity and existence itself. He was the instigator of destruction, a once-man whose power and boredom slowly gave way to new desires, to unspeakable ambitions to topple civilisation, to bring about a Hades on this world. Traces of his former self were still visible – the thick eyebrows, the cocksure stance, the traces of watered-down mod in his attire – but that person had rotted from the inside, had been taken over by his creature of the most debased desires and dreams.

This was his greatest work to date, his most maniacal corruption of life thus far. He could sense time and space unspooling, the universe itself shivering in disgust at this barbarous assault on truth. Those in the pit continued to merge and break way, to congeal and flow, all of them now identifiable more as one singular being, a hive mass that has thrown of the shackles of mental and physical individualism and chosen to devolve down to the primordial soup. Yes, this was a real triumph. A small jolt of pride briefly flickered through him, the pride he once felt when he was accepted and beloved by the people of his country, not this being now devoted to destroying that same island.

He looked down at his creation, and at last he spoke upon it.

“Now that is fucking proper.”

Follow Mark on Twitter: @merepseudmcl

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