Blur vs. Oasis
Near the end of an earlier post on religious versus science tests, BannedCast contributor Patrick Bateman interjected (rather gratuitously) a brief aside on the Blur vs. Oasis debate that has raged since the mid-1990s. For those who may not remember, the 1990s were a time when people knew who Harvey Danger was, and some people even cared. And of course, even by the late 90’s, TLC was still relevant, though their stardom had noticeably faded since its peak when Lisa Left Eye Lopes set fire to her boyfriend’s Atlanta mansion.
More importantly, however, the ’90s were also the time when a musical civil war waged throughout the alternative rock world, when friendships were strained and relationships were severed over the question of who was the better band: Blur or Oasis?
I myself once ended a relationship with a guy who answered this question incorrectly. That is, if vomiting into the center console of a one-night stand’s Subaru Forester the morning after an all-night bender during which I allowed myself to be penetrated in the parking lot of a Dave and Busters qualifies as “ending a relationship.”
The point is that it may or may not surprise you that I have some very strong opinions with respect to the Blur vs. Oasis debate, and I believe that how a person responds to the question of who is better provides the greatest single insight into the quality of their character. I further contend that the question of who is better should be administered to all of the important people in one’s life to better assess their credibility, including spouse, accountant, and gynecologist—especially when that gynecologist starts getting a little too preachy with respect to your Dave and Busters parking lot rendezvous lifestyle choices.
It is, after all, an irrefutable scientific fact that Blur is vastly superior to perennial mopers Oasis, and anyone believing otherwise should be promptly exiled to the remotest northern land mass via the cargo hold of a leaking oceanic freightliner because in an era flooded with Frank Ocean, Justin Bieber, Kanye West, and Imagine Dragons, the last thing this country needs is another slack-jawed mouth-breather incapable of distinguishing musical talent from the musical equivalent of douching with Tabasco.
This is because a shitty taste in music eventually impacts all of us: it influences what becomes the aural backdrop of our lives, including the music emanating from countless radios, Target in-store sound systems, and bah-mitzvah speakers across this once great nation of ours, assaulting us with the sort of music favored by people who garnish their Eggo waffles with Hershey’s syrup, their steaks with ketchup, and their breast milk with crushed-up Vicodin.
I say this because if you’ll recall, your ’90’s experience would have benefited from a lot more Blur and a lot less Oasis, which may have saved you from having to drink yourself into a near catatonic stupor in order to endure those off-campus frat parties where every hour, on the hour, like some demoniac circle of Hell redacted from Dante’s Inferno, some dude-bro who now sells memberships at LA Fitness and harbors a penchant for date-raping teenage runaways would commandeer the 5-disc CD changer and lead an impromptu singalong to “Champagne Supernova.”
Anyway, I think I may have lost the thread of this argument somewhere along the way, but that’s the price I pay for an unaddressed drinking problem and a lifetime of huffing paint in the parking lot of sports bars.
Suffice to say, Blur should be inducted into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame in front of a roaring bonfire consisting of every last remaining copy of Oasis’s “(What’s the Story) Morning Glory.” And I say “last remaining copy” because most people who emerged from their ecstasy-and-Zima-induced ’90s haze promptly incinerated their personal copies sometime around 2002, just before they jumped onto the Coldplay bandwagon.
We’ll discuss Coldplay fans in greater detail in an upcoming post. Right after the one about how much Breaking Bad sucks—because it does and I know you like it, but you’re fucking wrong.
