STANDING ON THE SHOULDER OF GIANTS (Big Brother)

Oasis still act like stars, but their new record is a primitive, monochrome mess.

For has-beens apparent, Oasis still possess remarkable powers of intimidation, but in the build-up to 'Standing on the Shoulder of Giants' they've cunningly switched tactics. Old Oasis were audacious, monolithic, menacing enough to terrorise critics into recanting lukewarm reviews and fool thousands of dustman-rock micro-talents into thinking they too could be bigger than the Beatles if they only told themselves so often enough. New Oasis, however, are repentant, tragic, nearly humble: they're still domineering alpha males, but they've discovered a new weapon called remorse.

Oasis are now at the stage when they can overhaul their public profile (from self-satisfied wasters in 1997 to lovable, rehabilitated rogues in 2000) without so much as picking up a plectrum, which either makes them very lucky or very clever or both. Lucky, because their former title of Biggest British Rock Band is currently being contested by groups with the collective charisma of a carbon rod. Clever, because Oasis at play have eclipsed Oasis at work. And both, because what we need right now are proper rock celebrities, and the Gallaghers, despite their newly acquired meekness, still have their forked-tail star power intact.

Oasis's press office have been reluctant to distribute early copies of 'Standing on the Shoulder of Giants', and you can see their point. Beginning with the departure of bassist Guigsy and guitarist Bonehead, then the disintegration of Creation Records, the publicity machine had a useful kick start. If everything could stop now, in fact, three and a half weeks before the album's release date - if we could just moon over their Manfred Mann reverse mullets, watch Liam flicking fag ash on Mick Jagger's head (as he did at the Q awards) and read Noel's drug confessions, without having to listen to their stubbornly unimaginative music - that would be perfect. But, alas, unfortunately, somewhere between the Met Bar and the Mansion, Oasis still have to make records a serious drag, by the sounds of their fourth album, for all concerned.

There's a story currently doing the rounds about a moment during these sessions, where Noel, fiddling around on his acoustic, asks Liam what kind of music he wants for the lyrics he's written. "Beatles, our kid," Liam requests. "All right - no problem," replies Noel. Is the Oasis songwriting formula still so crude? Beatles, our kid, with maybe a bit of Who or Jam thrown in if we're feeling adventurous? If anything, the methodology behind 'Standing on the Shoulder of Giants' is even more primitive, with the main source of theft here being not the Beatles, but Old Oasis.

Even at their best, Oasis always hid their lack of ingenuity behind a wall of Liam attitude and workmanlike Noel riffage, but the wall is crumbling here, giving way to snapshots of blank stares and four studio walls closing in on a band running out of ideas. "Who Feels Love" and "Gas Panic" have some agreeable shades of George Harrison's eastern emulsion, but the general picture this album paints in your head, like 'Be Here Now', comes in monotone. Somewhat appropriately, the best song, "Fuckin' in the Bushes", which swaggers around a Led Zep riff, Spencer Davis's keyboard and a Millennium drum loop, is the one that says nothing.

When Oasis do attempt a "message", it's done strictly by numbers, as profound as an afterthought to waxing the Aston Martin and inviting Johnny Depp round to dinner. When Noel asks, "When you buy your friends, do you keep the receipts?" on the pedestrian tear-jerker "Where Did it all Go Wrong", it's hard to work out whether he's moaning about his celeb mates, himself, or just nothing in particular. But he does it again on "Sunday Morning Call", proving that Oasis are as well-suited to champagne regret as Barbra Streisand is to working-class crotch-rock.

The ultimate sing-the-first-thing-that-comes-into-yer-'ead felony, though, is "Little James", Liam's tribute to the stepson he inherited from Simple Minds' Jim Kerr: "I'm singing this song, for you and yer mam, and that's all," whines an unusually impotent Liam, and you can't help wondering: "Well, in that case, why did you decide to let it out of your mansion and inflict it on us?" The harmony, meanwhile, is 'Hey Jude's afterbirth.

More than the echoey, tactless production, more than the forklift-truck-driver melodies, the most frustrating thing about 'Standing on the Shoulder of Giants' is its lack of vision. Oasis shoved their way to the top by writing about hunger and longing, then, on 'Be Here Now', found that upon arriving at their destination they had nothing left to say. They've had two-and-a-half years in the most exclusive resorts, the tastiest country retreats, and the most hedonistic company north of Hades to find something else, and they've failed. And while they're not the first to do that, 'Standing on the Shoulder of Giants' should at least be the album where they spectacularly fall apart, or where, like their heroes, they reach deep inside their head and find new worlds to write about - but it has neither the energy to be the first nor the imagination to be the latter.

This, sadly, is the New Oasis: card-carrying survivors. Interesting rock stars, uninspiring rock musicians.

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c 2000 Andrew Turner

aturner@interalpha.co.uk

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