'If I have seen farther than others, it is because I was standing on the shoulders of giants' – Sir Isaac Newton.
At least Noel's honest about his amazing plagiaristic styles in attempting to illustrating the 'genius' behind Oasis and 'Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants'.
This is the fourth Oasis studio album and finds the band not only stuck in a musical quagmire, but their public personas stumbling around in a state of belligerent stupidity, tabloid heaven and day-by-day 'exclusives'.
Setting the rock 'n' roll zeitgeist may have been an Oasis sleep-walk in the mid-nineties, but things have changed dramatically since those halcyon Maine Road triumphs.
You take on the establishment - in this case populist music - and win, as Oasis did, then you deserve the high. And didn't they revel in it, driving onwards and upwards in a cocaine-fuelled rocket, which as 'Be Here Now' showed, was actually powered by ropey amphetamines.
Trouble is, it seems everyone – the public, the music press, the band, their bosses and their employees - wanted it too much and now the reality seems too sick to swallow. There is no zeitgeist anymore and if there were, Oasis would surely not front it.
'Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants' has been cited as a transitional work, as the band move from one phase - an acrimonious fragmentation - and into a new era.
This may well be the case, but genius rises above band turmoil, record company implosion and reeling from a duff release. And there is a noticeable lack of genius on this album.
Judging by opener, the swaggering, revolving instrumental soundclash of 'Fuckin' In The Bushes', Oasis could have been on the verge of producing a record of controlled verve and sporadic experimentation.
But the surging synth washes and bludgeoning riffing, backed by snatches of vigorous comment from 1970's Isle Of Wight festival, are as dislocated and vibrant as this record gets.
Segueing into 'Go Let It Out', the omens are still promising, as a power-surge of adrenalin, climactic shifts and a zerox of rock 'n' roll dynamism is given the full Oasis magic. The triumphant build explodes near the close, as a whistle shrills across the speakers and Liam's vocals become increasingly heroic.
But such flooring highs aren't experienced again and are instead elbowed aside by bleary-eyed uncertainty, self-doubt and random spasms towards where the light could be and where the floor falls.
Blank stares surely polluted recordings, as Bonehead and Guigsy – who plays on virtually none of the record – were isolated alongside the booze, making the sessions as moribund and predictable as some of this album.
'Who Feels Love?' for example, despite its rich psychedelia, seeps of insecurity - 'now you understand, that this is not the promised land' - and tedious Beatles lifts.
While Liam's first ever songwriting attempt is a stellar effort, in its fragile belief and his profound delivery, 'Little James', is a virtual nursery rhyme, held-up by one of the albums many mellotron waves, Abbey Road licks and complete 'Hey Jude' pathos.
Bombastically, where Oasis have triumphed so righteously in the past, they rock well, matching the soaring outro of 'Go Let It Out' with the ringing ballistics and growling ebullience of 'Put Yer Money Where Yer mouth Is' and faux-punk of 'I Can See A Liar'.
But beyond this bluster is a tame creative force – 'Sunday Morning Call' is a miserable experience, while the aforementioned pair, particularly 'I Can See A Liar' are criminally throwaway, half-arsed and unmemorable.
Instead, melancholic reflection, unease and paranoia triumph - as best evidenced on 'Gas Panic!', a seeping then explosive blend of twitching fear and unease, as Noel exorcises the cocaine ghosts with scuttling percussion, whooshing synth rushes and claustrophobic guitar stings
But these elements simply amplify how fallible Oasis have become: the party is over, the guests have gone and the morning after just keeps rearing its glum, tired face, again and again.
The truth is that while this record creeps effortlessly, it steadfastly is unable to touch the highs of yore or even consider trouncing previous expectations.
And while Noel sums it up beautifully on the appropriately titled 'Where Did It All Go Wrong', the track is little more than a Paul Weller boreathon.
Where did it all go wrong? Oasis lost their urgency and zeal, believed their own press and got stuck up their own arses. And we got bored. A full recovery is still a long way from completion.
