Oasis always knew it deserved to be huge, and back home in Britain, it was from the start. It’s a rock ’n’ roll institution there, with the inconsolably volatile, eternally bickering brothers at the heart of the band, Liam and Noel Gallagher, aging (if not quite mellowing) into sage but profane pop culture elders. In America, however, Oasis never really broke big. Until now.

If you told me a couple of years ago that in 2025, a reunited Oasis was going to sell out stadium shows in the United States, I would assume you were one of my former (male) Gen X co-workers from Spin magazine going through a midlife crisis.

Not that I wouldn’t be rooting for it. I love Oasis. As a ’90s kid obsessed with the aggressive oddness of Tori Amos and Björk, and the moody insularity of Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain, the natural swagger of Liam and Noel Gallagher always felt thrilling and oddly subversive.

It was possible to say you wanted to be bigger than the Beatles, and then literally try to do that?

It was possible to announce that you wanted to be the biggest rock star in the world, as Liam did, and then actually become one of the biggest rock stars in the world?

It was possible to declare your desires and then unabashedly, publicly, willfully pursue them?

Last summer, when the band announced a global tour, 15 years after its acrimonious breakup, all five stadium gigs in the United States sold out within hours. That’s roughly half a million tickets purchased to see a band who never had a No. 1 single or No. 1 album in America and who, at its lowest point in the early 2000s, was often struggling to fill 2,000- to 3,000-seat theaters here. “Wonderwall,” which peaked at No. 8 on the U.S. charts in 1996, was its only U.S. Top 10 hit.

What happened? How is Oasis filling two nights at venues last sold out by Beyoncé? What does this band have that America suddenly needs?