Oasis Redux: Noel Gallagher’s Manchester Coronation Ignites BRIT Awards Drama

Olivia Bennett, 2/5/2026Noel Gallagher's homecoming as Songwriter of the Year at the 2026 BRIT Awards embodies a nostalgic revival of British music, celebrating the grit of Manchester's indie scene. As Oasis returns to live performance, Gallagher's legacy continues to resonate, promising an electrifying night filled with anthems and culture.

Manchester’s got history written into the bricks: brick dust, Britpop, and a bite that always lingers. Shifting the BRITs up north isn’t just another admin shuffle, not really; it’s a return to the cradle of grit-and-glamour UK pop, as though the awards machinery realized it needed to plug itself back into a proper power socket. With Co-op Live Arena now the ceremony’s stage, this feels closer to pilgrimage than mere logistics. The occasion? Gallagher, crowned not by fan polls but by a panel immune to public Stan-nado, reminding everyone that a guitar, a pen, and three chords can still rattle a stadium.

It’s no stretch to say the Gallaghers and The BRITs have danced this waltz before, and rarely with perfect choreography. There was the 1995 breakthrough that signaled the Britpop ascendancy—rough, rowdy, and fueled by enough bravado to outshine the bunting—followed by not-so-friendly fisticuffs with the Blur camp, and the sort of offhand insults that made every PR manager in London reach for their aspirin. 1996’s infamous duel beneath a flutter of Union Jacks almost deserves its own Netflix doc.

Then, of course, came that 2010 moment. Oasis, dissolved but omnipresent, declared the keepers of British Album of 30 Years with (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, only to watch the gold-plated statue soar (literally) into the crowd, courtesy of Liam’s theatrical disdain. Peter Kay’s “knobhead” quip still echoes through internet highlight reels—proof, if any was needed, that in the UK, rock’n’roll intrigue and irreverence go together like gin and dry sarcasm.

In the time since, silence—or at least, something near it. No Gallaghers on stage, no mugs raised in victorious toasts. If the peace seemed fragile, well, perhaps it’s finally solidifying. Even as late as 2015, Noel was content to lob gentle grenades, declaring the awards “rigged” with all the straight-faced, tongue-in-cheek insouciance fans expect: sucking the marrow from the industry but never quite bowing to its rituals. The show, after all, must go on—even when the participants roll their eyes at the curtains.

Timing, though, is everything. Gallagher’s moment in the Manchester spotlight now dovetails with Oasis’s thundering return to live performance, the Live ‘25 reunion. Critics and fans—not always the same crowd, let’s admit—watched with raised eyebrows as the estranged brothers shared both stage and probably a glare or twelve. Continental leapfrogging followed: London, Osaka, São Paulo, a victory lap long enough to leave even the most casual listener belting “Don’t Look Back in Anger” behind the wheel months later. And ever the architect, Noel remains the single pen behind the chords that strung together *Definitely Maybe*, *Morning Glory*, and *Be Here Now*. Those records never left the UK’s bloodstream; lately, they’re back at the top—charts can be cyclical, but nostalgia sells.

Sure, the Songwriter of the Year title places Gallagher alongside chart-horses like Sheeran and Kid Harpoon, or the genre-bending RAYE and Charli XCX. But there’s an undeniable difference: where some write for TikTok virality, Gallagher’s lyrics are campfire hymns for a generation that prefers their hope with a pint and their heartbreak with stadium reverb.

Meanwhile, the rest of the entertainment orbit spins just as feverishly. Megan Thee Stallion—yes, that Megan—has swapped the recording booth for a sitcom set, taking on the role of Denise, a newly single mother in NBC’s *The Fall and Rise of Reggie Dinkins*. If that feels like an improbable casting move, consider her foil: Daniel Radcliffe, whose post-Potter choices have confounded and delighted in equal measure. Robert Carlock, that quietly subversive genius behind countless TV comedies, says Radcliffe jumped aboard with the glee of a man on borrowed time. And Tracy Morgan? As only he can, Morgan summed up the team’s chemistry: “Me and him are from two different worlds. And we had chemistry automatically.” The studio audience won’t be the only ones laughing.

Even Netflix, not to be outdone, has triggered its own mini culture quake. *Bridgerton* fans, eyes trained on every casting announcement, nearly choked on their tea when Lady Araminta Gun was unmasked as Katie Leung—yes, the original Cho Chang. Some groaned, “I’m too young for Cho Chang to be a mum,” while others simply stared, recalculating the relentless march of time. Lessons in pop culture: reinvention is as constant as reruns, and cyclical angst comes free with every new season.

Back to awards: this BRITs cycle see Olivia Dean and Lola Young setting the tone, with Sam Fender—always the energetic outsider—close behind, and Harry Styles appearing poised for another homecoming (rumors swirl; managers keep mum). Hollywood and its offspring, in all their bejeweled glory, keep circling fame and reinvention like it’s a cosmic relay.

So it goes: stars burst onto the scene, fade, then find new dimensions—or, in the Gallaghers’ case, stroll back in when the time feels right, Mancunian swagger unbowed. Manchester, with its never-quite-dried-out pavements and unspent energy, feels less like a backdrop and more a protagonist. As confetti flutters and old anthems echo in the rafters, one could argue the Songwriter of the Year isn’t just an award; for Gallagher, and for the city clapping him home, it’s a coronation.

Because sometimes, the more things change, the more we queue outside, pint in hand, humming those choruses all over again—waiting for the next chorus of applause or perhaps another burst of controversy. With any luck, 2025 will keep supplying both.

For the 2026 BRIT Awards, Manchester’s legendary rain clouds may just hold off a little—if only to give the city’s favorite song-writing son the kind of homecoming worthy of British music folklore. There’s a nostalgia-laden poetry to it, isn’t there? The northern powerhouse opening its arms to Noel Gallagher as Songwriter of the Year, years after he first yanked England’s indie scene from the dingy pubs and onto the world stage with a ripped parka and an arsenal of anthems.Manchester’s got history written into the bricks: brick dust, Britpop, and a bite that always lingers. Shifting the BRITs up north isn’t just another admin shuffle, not really; it’s a return to the cradle of grit-and-glamour UK pop, as though the awards machinery realized it needed to plug itself back into a proper power socket. With Co-op Live Arena now the ceremony’s stage, this feels closer to pilgrimage than mere logistics. The occasion? Gallagher, crowned not by fan polls but by a panel immune to public Stan-nado, reminding everyone that a guitar, a pen, and three chords can still rattle a stadium.It’s no stretch to say the Gallaghers and The BRITs have danced this waltz before, and rarely with perfect choreography. There was the 1995 breakthrough that signaled the Britpop ascendancy—rough, rowdy, and fueled by enough bravado to outshine the bunting—followed by not-so-friendly fisticuffs with the Blur camp, and the sort of offhand insults that made every PR manager in London reach for their aspirin. 1996’s infamous duel beneath a flutter of Union Jacks almost deserves its own Netflix doc.Then, of course, came that 2010 moment. Oasis, dissolved but omnipresent, declared the keepers of British Album of 30 Years with (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, only to watch the gold-plated statue soar (literally) into the crowd, courtesy of Liam’s theatrical disdain. Peter Kay’s “knobhead” quip still echoes through internet highlight reels—proof, if any was needed, that in the UK, rock’n’roll intrigue and irreverence go together like gin and dry sarcasm.In the time since, silence—or at least, something near it. No Gallaghers on stage, no mugs raised in victorious toasts. If the peace seemed fragile, well, perhaps it’s finally solidifying. Even as late as 2015, Noel was content to lob gentle grenades, declaring the awards “rigged” with all the straight-faced, tongue-in-cheek insouciance fans expect: sucking the marrow from the industry but never quite bowing to its rituals. The show, after all, must go on—even when the participants roll their eyes at the curtains.Timing, though, is everything. Gallagher’s moment in the Manchester spotlight now dovetails with Oasis’s thundering return to live performance, the Live ‘25 reunion. Critics and fans—not always the same crowd, let’s admit—watched with raised eyebrows as the estranged brothers shared both stage and probably a glare or twelve. Continental leapfrogging followed: London, Osaka, São Paulo, a victory lap long enough to leave even the most casual listener belting “Don’t Look Back in Anger” behind the wheel months later. And ever the architect, Noel remains the single pen behind the chords that strung together *Definitely Maybe*, *Morning Glory*, and *Be Here Now*. Those records never left the UK’s bloodstream; lately, they’re back at the top—charts can be cyclical, but nostalgia sells.Sure, the Songwriter of the Year title places Gallagher alongside chart-horses like Sheeran and Kid Harpoon, or the genre-bending RAYE and Charli XCX. But there’s an undeniable difference: where some write for TikTok virality, Gallagher’s lyrics are campfire hymns for a generation that prefers their hope with a pint and their heartbreak with stadium reverb.Meanwhile, the rest of the entertainment orbit spins just as feverishly. Megan Thee Stallion—yes, that Megan—has swapped the recording booth for a sitcom set, taking on the role of Denise, a newly single mother in NBC’s *The Fall and Rise of Reggie Dinkins*. If that feels like an improbable casting move, consider her foil: Daniel Radcliffe, whose post-Potter choices have confounded and delighted in equal measure. Robert Carlock, that quietly subversive genius behind countless TV comedies, says Radcliffe jumped aboard with the glee of a man on borrowed time. And Tracy Morgan? As only he can, Morgan summed up the team’s chemistry: “Me and him are from two different worlds. And we had chemistry automatically.” The studio audience won’t be the only ones laughing.Even Netflix, not to be outdone, has triggered its own mini culture quake. *Bridgerton* fans, eyes trained on every casting announcement, nearly choked on their tea when Lady Araminta Gun was unmasked as Katie Leung—yes, the original Cho Chang. Some groaned, “I’m too young for Cho Chang to be a mum,” while others simply stared, recalculating the relentless march of time. Lessons in pop culture: reinvention is as constant as reruns, and cyclical angst comes free with every new season.Back to awards: this BRITs cycle see Olivia Dean and Lola Young setting the tone, with Sam Fender—always the energetic outsider—close behind, and Harry Styles appearing poised for another homecoming (rumors swirl; managers keep mum). Hollywood and its offspring, in all their bejeweled glory, keep circling fame and reinvention like it’s a cosmic relay.So it goes: stars burst onto the scene, fade, then find new dimensions—or, in the Gallaghers’ case, stroll back in when the time feels right, Mancunian swagger unbowed. Manchester, with its never-quite-dried-out pavements and unspent energy, feels less like a backdrop and more a protagonist. As confetti flutters and old anthems echo in the rafters, one could argue the Songwriter of the Year isn’t just an award; for Gallagher, and for the city clapping him home, it’s a coronation.Because sometimes, the more things change, the more we queue outside, pint in hand, humming those choruses all over again—waiting for the next chorus of applause or perhaps another burst of controversy. With any luck, 2025 will keep supplying both.