Paris Bataclan

Attainment is never so great as desire. Years ago, when Oasis wrote 'Rock'n'Roll Star', they were mired in a grey, working-class existence, articulating their dream of escape. Being a rock star was the modern myth that could deliver them into immortality, set them on shoulder level with their heroes, allow them to bellow a mighty 'Fuck you' to all the forces that held them down. They got exactly what they wished for. And we all know how dangerous that can be.

Having a battle to fight makes you more quick-witted, less complacent. When there's nothing left to gain, the passion ebbs away, the forces of creativity are blunted. So whereas Oasis once asked, with zeitgeist-defining nihilism,"Is it worth the aggravation to find yourself a job when there's nothing worth working for?", they later found themselves wondering if it was worth the effort to make an inspired record when they already had all the cash, fame, ladies and drugs they wanted. Oasis were secure, and they got lazy.

Hence, the inability to recapture the alchemy of that first LP, the slide into apathy that resulted in 'Be Here Now', and the infrastructure erosion that cost them two members. 'Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants', which should have been their defiant reclamation, has failed to elicit great enthusiasm from critics and profoundly underwhelmed America. Noel himself admits there are shit songs on it. Fans have stood by them this far - but how much longer? Oasis are at crisis point: either they retrace their steps back to a time when music meant more to them than something to do between shopping and having babies, and recapture their faith in its redemptive power - or they simply fade away.

Tonight, clearly, they've made their choice. Liam - spurred on by the adoration emanating from the (primarily British) crowd - has that old attitude, that feisty, mean glint in his eye and that swagger in his step. He shadow-boxes, stares down the audience, and even when he turns his back during overlong guitar interludes he is a silent, formidable presence. Gem Archer and Andy Bell are enthusiastic buttresses, bobbing their heads and tapping their feet, exuding genuine involvement. Certainly, Oasis look better with these two in their ranks, even if they don't sound much different.

The new songs, too, make more sense live. 'Who Feels Love' has an overarching, euphoric glide; 'Go Let It Out' - though merely a feeble facsimile of finer moments - cuts through the venue like a whip; and 'Gas Panic!' crystallises their isolation with seething malevolence. It's difficult to imagine these songs sounding as vibrant as, say, 'Supersonic' a few years down the line, however - and inevitably it's the older material that detonates with the greater force. As they career through a snarling 'Cigarettes & Alcohol' and a sublimely blustering 'Supersonic', it confirms that Oasis are at their best when they are playing dirty, greasy rock'n'roll music. They should never have tried to be The Beatles, but stuck to being Slade or T Rex instead.

Prudently, they edit their weakest moments - touching little from 'Be Here Now', skimming '(What's The Story) Morning Glory?' and finishing with the still-potent promise of 'Live Forever' - a reminder of how truly aspirational Oasis once were.

They vowed to take us with them into the rock'n'roll dream, to stand beside us in unified defiance of the banal - then they buckled, lost the plot, and had to make the apology: "Please don't put your life in the hands of a rock'n'roll band/Who'll throw it all away". Now, with the injection of new blood, and with something to fight against - namely, their own obsolescence - Oasis have a chance to restoke a dimming flame. They've blown their chance to make a great riposte on record, so they're going to have to play a few more shows like this to prove there's still hope. After all, it was never the ideas they lost (there were never many of those) - it was the passion.

Where did it all go wrong? It didn't. It all went too right.