A personal tale: Oasis – Live in Argentina.

“Don’t fall down! Don’t fall down!” The way the human body can be swung from place to place — all while trying to stay upright and carve out enough room to breathe — is wild. There we were, fourth row at an Oasis concert in the “VIP” section, surrounded by roughly twenty thousand moshers. Stuck in the middle, curled into whatever shape would fit the one-by-one-foot space any of us were given. It felt like those scenes in 300 or Game of Thrones where armies crash into each other — except instead of swinging weapons, it was a race to see who fainted or suffocated first.

We planned this trip to Buenos Aires about a year ago. Eight of us — family, all of us — decided that after Oasis announced a two-show stop, we had to fly out for the Argentine version. No U.S. date. Besides, we knew U.S. crowds were too tame to see one of our collective favorite bands from our youth. When we bought the tickets — show and flights — I was excited. I wanted to go because it was Argentina, with its famously wild crowds. Little did I know that I didn’t just want this trip — I needed it.

For years, friends in the U.S. teased me for liking Oasis. “Beatles knock-offs,” “unoriginal,” “cheesy”—I’ve heard it all. What they never understood is that music in other countries isn’t about comparison, snobbery, or being on trend. Abroad, music is about feeling. Community. Sitting in a local bar and playing artists you connect with. We lived in Ecuador for a while — big artists rarely tour there, so you appreciate them more. In the U.S., artists are always around, always touring, and people tend to underappreciate what’s right within reach.

So yeah — I love Oasis. Our years in Ecuador were soundtracked by them, along with The Strokes, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and others. Those songs played through defining moments. I remember listening to The Masterplan, both album and song every day, including the day we learned my brother — then just twenty — was going to be a father. Who knew that kid would grow up to appreciate the same bands? Having my nephew join us at this reunion show felt huge. I felt like one of those older folks trying to convince the younger ones what “good music” sounds like — but I got lucky. They listened. They embraced it. And now we stood side by side in the greatest place on Earth to see a show, where everyone feels what you feel.

2025 has probably been the hardest year of my life. It started in January when one of my dogs — she weighed two pounds, disabled since birth — passed away. I was in Norway when it happened. I had taken her to the vet before the trip just to be sure she’d be fine while I was gone a week. And then she died on day two. I felt like the worst person alive. How could I be away while she searched for me, while I wasn’t there to hold her at the end? In time, you rationalize: there’s no way to know, we gave her the best eleven years possible, peace eventually settles — but the guilt lingers. Even if only 1%, it’s still there.

Later in 2025, my family — immediate and extended — suffered a sudden, devastating loss. The kind that doesn’t just make you sad. The kind that shocks you. That drags you into dark places. Out of respect and love, I won’t say more. Just know that we miss him deeply.

And then 2025 hit again — this time through the teal-colored door of what used to be my home. The grief of separation. The agony of divorce. You feel helpless. Your best friend turns numb to you; you turn numb to yourself. You see them in every tiny detail of your day. You replay your faults. You rethink everything you could have done better. The need for silence you once relied on to work evaporates. Suddenly you want it all back: the constant interruptions, the sound of the dogs running around, the video game noise, the nightly “what’s for dinner?” chat. All the little things you took for granted, gone. The silence is deafening.

Enter Oasis — cheesy lyrics by two brothers who often seem to hate each other. And this trip to Argentina could not have come at a better time. I got to see my cousins, my nephew, my best friend (even though he’s family), and my younger brother. And together, with these “Beatles wannabes” as our soundtrack, walking through a beautiful city, they helped put me back together.

The whole seven-day trip was great, but the concert day was cathartic. The show started at exactly 8:30. A classic Gallagher entrance to “Fuckin’ In The Bushes” — the best entrance music ever made. You can argue that, but you’d be wrong. Eighty-foot screens lit up the night as the brothers walked out, waving and taking their places. The crowd erupted into absolute chaos, thousands pressed together so tightly it felt both wildly inappropriate and perfectly fitting. We all showed up. We all love Oasis. So let’s get as close as possible and scream our lungs out.

The pushing and shoving eventually pulled me out of the moment. I wasn’t singing anymore — I was being violently swayed. Left, front, back, right — jerked around with no escape. I was fine at first, and then suddenly my right leg dragged with the crowd and someone landed halfway on it. Panic surged. Was my leg about to snap under all that weight? I was somewhere between the fourth and eighth row now, sweating buckets, imagining my leg breaking while I was trapped in a sea of bodies. I started to panic that I’d fall and get stomped. I finally got my leg safely underneath me, but my mind kept racing. I started hyperventilating. I grabbed my brother and said, “I need to leave.” Without hesitation, he started guiding me out while I felt myself drifting toward fainting.

I don’t remember everything after that, but I remember a stranger grabbing my shoulder and saying things would get worse. And then strangers — doing the right thing — pushed back against the oncoming crowd just enough for us to escape. Rational behavior in an irrational environment. Proof that humans, sometimes, are incredible.

I kept trying to stop and watch the show every few steps. It was like every fiber of my being snapped back into place in an instant — like that scene in Snatch where Brad Pitt gets knocked out and starts drifting, until adrenaline kicks him violently back to life. There I was, drenched in sweat, seconds after this scare, suddenly back. My brother begging me to keep moving. My nephew hugging me, kissing the back of my sweaty head — who cares. My best friend running for water, forcing it into my hands. I was back just in time to hear all the tales of simple life bravado Noel penned once upon a time and the boy Liam sang. Lyrics that hit differently when life lines up in a certain way.

The lowest and highest moment of the night came when they played “Stand By Me” off Be Here Now. Those massive screens showed people growing up and growing old. The kind of montage that could send someone — especially someone recently realizing they might not have someone to stand by them — into a spiral. And at first, it did. Grief hit me in a moment meant to be joyful. I swallowed hard, fought back tears, let a couple escape. Liam sings, “So, what’s the matter with you?” as I think the same thing to myself. Then, while the song washed over me, an arm wrapped around me — my brother’s. Then my nephew kissed my head again. Then my best friend handed me more water. The song passed as they stood by me. The cheesiness of it all became literal. I wasn’t alone. This moment was the highlight of the entire trip for me. It was simple, short and all the powerful.

Music has always had this strange, unfair power over us. It finds the cracks we try to cover and pours itself in, whether we want it to or not. A single chord can drag you back ten years, or shove you forward when you think you can’t move. It stitches moments together — loss, joy, boredom, love, heartbreak — until your life becomes this nonlinear mixtape you didn’t consciously curate. And somehow, when everything feels scattered and heavy, music gathers all those loose fragments and reminds you that you’ve lived, you’ve felt, and you’re still here. That night, in Argentina, surrounded by thousands of strangers and a few loved ones, those songs weren’t just nostalgia, it was one of those “Good Ol’ Days,” happening and me realizing it in real time.

The crowded chaos, the singalongs, the kindness of strangers, seeing Noel slightly tear up when the crowd roared the “Sally” line back at him, the fireworks, the graphics, Liam being Liam, memories of youth flooding in, jumping arm-in-arm with family and strangers — everything added up to something massive. I’ve been to a ton of shows in my life, too many to count, but this one felt monumental. A once-in-a-lifetime moment. Oasis took fifteen years to reunite. I waited a full year with the ticket in hand. Life threw curveball after curveball this year. And somehow, the timing of all of this — every second of it — couldn’t have been more insane, or more necessary. Once again, Oasis playing a soundtrack to my silly life. Go figure.