The chronicle of an evening with the Gallagher brothers

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It starts on Saturday afternoon. Twenty- to seventy-year-olds emerge from the subway in a stadium-like atmosphere, almost all wearing Adidas jerseys, some very nice ones costing over a hundred pounds. First-class nostalgia, the kind that brings joy rather than sadness, has to be paid for, and at a high price.

5:30 PM, Wembley Central. Someone is eating from a hideous cardboard box that says "exquisite Louisiana chicken." Everyone else is drinking, but how much do the English drink? They send us in an orderly fashion to the turnstiles; no one has a paper ticket, everyone has them on their phones. Inside the stadium, they sort us out. We proceed in an orderly and happy manner; there are stands selling fried chicken, fried cod, and French fries. Then there's a more elegant corner, with the sign "champagne," but it's empty. 6:30 PM. No more procrastination, we sit down, and at 7 PM we start. Richard Ashcroft, the brilliant one from The Verve, is on. Two minutes later, they change their minds and go to queue for beer. They return with a carton of four large glasses.

7 PM. Richard Ashcroft is incredibly well preserved, with a powerful voice and the face of a rock star like Mick Jagger. We all know the lyrics, even if we haven't heard them in years. Memory is a strange thing: it decides what to keep, and you don't control anything. Before the last song, "Bitter Sweet Symphony," Ashcroft says, "And now I feel sorry for everyone else, but I'm about to sing the most beautiful song in the world." Perhaps he's right, and in the line "I can change, I can change, I can change," a setting sun, a very Italian, bright sun, slips between the roof and the top tier of the stadium, illuminating all of Wembley. Everyone is winning their own World Cup tonight, and against whom, only you know. Back to the future. People who feel sensitive to the great metaphors of life through the things that happen—forcedly interpreted to extract meaning (me)—with this light and this music feel a powerful hope for a better world.

8:10 PM. We're almost there. We smile at each other across the table and understand each other. Who knows what language we don't speak, but we're content here on earth, never alone again, and pierced by the sun's rays. 8:15 PM. The opening credits begin, all old tweets and whirlwind newspaper headlines about the reunion. The visuals, the accompaniment to the images on the screens, are '90s, a little pop, a little Labour-suburban-difficult from the last century, black and white and grainy images. Those who know about graphics say it was cheap and cheap. Don't believe them. 8:40 PM. Liam Gallagher arrives, stands in the middle, and speaks. Everyone laughs; those who don't speak English only understand "fucking."

8:45 PM. They're about to sing the first of those stadium-shaking hits, "Some Might Say," and Liam orders: "Now you turn around, hug each other, and start jumping." And we turn around, hug each other, and start jumping. The glasses fall. It's a lake of beer, we sing and jump, hugging each other, "Some Might Say the Sunshine Follows Thunder." What is this feeling in the air? I recognize it: happiness.

9 PM. Noel Gallagher's first smile on "Slide Away." Liam is more relaxed, they love him and he knows it very well; he's being acclaimed. He looks handsome in that black parka. He has style, he has character, he's got everyone on his side. Every now and then, a few "LIAM, LIAM"s erupt from the stands. 9:50 PM. The greatest hits are about to arrive, and the Brothers split up. To each his own glory. "Don't Look Back in Anger" and "Masterplan" for Noel. What masterpieces. Noel has a black T-shirt, jeans, a bit of a paunch, and that crooked face and hair that goes in six directions. His brother says he looks like a balloon with crumbled Wheetabix on it.

10 PM. Liam returns, and the stadium sings "Wonderwall" and "Champagne Supernova" with pinpoint accuracy. Ninety thousand people sing along, but they can't hear their own voices, and even worse: we can't hear each other's thoughts anymore.

10:15 PM. The concert ends with the final notes, which sing: "I don't know why, why, why, why, why." Then the music slows, and the lights go down. Liam leaves immediately after a brief hug to his brother.

10:20 PM. Noel stays. He takes off his guitar like a kid who's just been given a very expensive one for Christmas, and puts it on its stand before saying goodbye, giving it a little caress. Do they know that this other one is the good brother? It's this other one who compromises. Do they know that in the midst of things that are going well for two, there's always someone who decides to make them work? Have they read Shakespeare?

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