Why I'm unlearning the Beatles' toxic codependency to embrace Liam Gallagher's open hostility

Woodall, however, understands the cultural shift. By elevating Liam Gallagher—a man whose primary mode of communication is standing completely still in an oversized parka while glaring at the front row—he is championing a radical new framework for personal peace. Gallagher doesn’t want to hold your hand. He doesn't want to work it out. He wants you to stand there while he sneers at you, and if his brother looks at him wrong, he will end the tour. That is what setting a firm, non-negotiable boundary looks like.

I brought this up recently at a dinner party in Silver Lake—the kind of intimate gathering where we strictly ban seed oils and unresolved generational trauma. My guests, a curated mix of creative directors and mindful venture capitalists, immediately resonated with Woodall’s stance. We realized that for too long, we have been trying to 'Hey Jude' our way through life’s minor inconveniences, when what we really need is to 'Wonderwall' our interactions. Meaning: show up late, mumble incoherently, and demand absolute reverence.

The psychological community is already catching up to this necessary evolution in our collective coping strategies.

There is something deeply necessary about reclaiming open hostility as a form of mindfulness. Think about your daily interactions. When the barista at the artisanal coffee shop accidentally uses oat milk instead of macadamia, the McCartney approach demands a gentle, accommodating smile. But the Gallagher approach, newly endorsed by young Hollywood, invites us to simply hurl a tambourine at the espresso machine and storm out of the building. It’s about reclaiming our time.

This philosophy is equally vital for managing the broader civic crises we are forced to observe. Take the unhoused population currently ruining the sightlines from my Pilates studio. For years, I agonized over the 'Beatles' approach to this issue—attending city council meetings, performing the exhausting emotional labor of voting. But the Oasis method offers a radically freeing alternative: simply putting on a pair of tinted John Lennon glasses (ironically, the only good thing he produced), crossing your arms, and loudly declaring that the vibe is ruined before taking a private car to Malibu. It is a crucial act of self-preservation.

I have already begun to implement this Oasis mindset in my own professional life. Just this morning, my publicist emailed me a gentle reminder about a missed deadline. Instead of apologizing—a patriarchal reflex I am actively trying to unlearn—I replied only with "mad fer it" and blocked her number. The sense of profound, restorative calm that washed over me was immediate. By refusing to engage in the tedious back-and-forth of accountability, I had successfully romanticized my own unreliability.

Even the way Oasis handled their eventual breakup is a masterclass in conscious uncoupling. When the Beatles split, it was an agonizing, drawn-out affair involving lawyers, rooftop concerts, and decades of lingering passive-aggression. When Oasis ended, Liam allegedly swung a guitar at his brother Noel’s head in a Parisian dressing room and then immediately went home. No closure. No tedious therapy speak. Just immediate, violent finality. In an era where we are constantly told to process our feelings, there is incredible bravery in just breaking a stringed instrument and never speaking to your family again.

Leo Woodall has made his choice. He has looked at the relentless, suffocating optimism of the twentieth century and boldly requested a gin and tonic and a fistfight instead. I, for one, will be following his lead. The next time someone asks me to compromise, to soften my edges, or to simply be a pleasant person to be around, I will channel my inner Oasis frontman. I will put my hands behind my back, lean forward, and refuse to learn the lyrics to my own life.