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For years, fans of the rock and the roll had been working from a deficit. See, unlike hip-hop heads, they simply didn’t have a flat-out lunatic to call their very own. Oh, sure, they had the usual cavalcade of sad sacks, loudmouths, and all-around fuck-ups. But hell if those ass-clowns weren’t just so damn predictable. Scott Weiland? A ninth-generation Jim Morrison, who himself was little more than a wannabe 19th-century French poet minus even a ghost of talent (although, to his credit, he did own one sweet pair of leather pants). Courtney Love? Rent Sunset Boulevard. For our money, Gloria Swanson did a far better job with the has-been crack-up shtick. (And at 53, she looked a whole lot better, too.)
Right around 2001, just as rap-rock was entering its merciful death throes, if you listened carefully, you could hear the cry of the rock fan: “Where is our Ol’ Dirty Bastard, dammit?!” “When do we get our big-red-nosed Martian/man-child freakazoid with the PCP temperament and no regard whatsoever for law, be it God’s, man’s, or Mother Nature’s?” And then, not a year later, as if in answer to their prayers, came The Libertines, a U.K. quartet whom NME had, naturally, named “the best new band in Britain.” And with good reason: The group’s debut album, Up The Bracket, was England’s answer to The Strokes’ Is This It?—
only better. Produced by Clash/Big Audio Dynamite alum Mick Jones, the disc was fast, loose, and trashy in all the right ways, crunchy guitars, spare backbeat, and big, fat, juicy hooks injected with 40 years of everything that’s made British rock better rock: British Invasion, Britpop, mod, punk, pub rock, et al.
All of a sudden, few bands possessed more promise than The Libertines. Then came the answer to our cries-for-crazy in the form of drooling, stumbling group frontman Pete Doherty. Folks, the following is merely a short list of Doherty’s big-red-nose brand of cuckoo, and, by extension, precisely what was missing from the otherwise dreary lives of rock fans:
- June 2003: Doherty decides to skip out on his band’s European tour, forming another group, which he imaginatively names The Libertines before settling on the prophetic Babyshambles.
- July 2003: The Libertines embark on their European tour with a replacement guitarist—
a perfect opportunity for Doherty to break into the apartment of bandmate Carl Barat and swipe his harmonica, computer, and guitar.
- August 2003: Doherty pleads guilty to the crime, admitting that he’s fighting addictions to not merely heroin, but also crack cocaine.
- September 2003: Doherty is sentenced to six months in jail; he serves two months, thanks to an appeal and time off for good behavior.
- November 2003: Doherty plays two shows in his own apartment. For whom, we’re not entirely sure.
- May 2004: Doherty tours England’s many wonderful rehab facilities, causing The Libertines to cancel wee shows, such as Morrissey’s Meltdown and the Isle Of Wight Festivals.
- June 2004: Fresh out of rehab, Doherty is stopped by police for a minor traffic violation. Only, there’s the little matter of the switchblade in his possession, which he purchased after hotfooting it from a rehab clinic located in a Buddhist monastery in Thailand. (Don’t ask.)
- August 2004: The Libertines tour without Doherty, saying he can rejoin the band when he gets his shit together.
- September 2004: Doherty tours with Babyshambles and presumably smokes a whole lot of crack.
The above is merely an abridged version of the freak show that is Pete Doherty. Still, the man knows how to write a damn fine rock song, and maybe that’s what keeps us riveted to The Libertines’ unfolding story. (Well, that . . . and we can’t seem to take our eyes off of train wrecks.) The next chapter is now upon us: the band’s self-titled sophomore release, once again produced by Mick Jones. First and foremost, The Libertines is a cautionary tale about elevating a band to the dizzying heights of giants like The Clash, The Jam, and The Kinks too quickly. Being that the British press does this just about every other Tuesday, the case of The Libertines isn’t particularly unusual. What is unusual is that, this time out, the critics really seem to mean it; there’s something innately alluring about such a fine group that teeters so precariously between rock ’n’ roll glory and utter destruction.
The Libertines is a cautionary tale, because the album is good—
as opposed to great—
revealing a band in strange sort of limbo. The effortless, sloppy charm that defined Up The Bracket is evident here only in glimmers, and when it shows up, it fails to be anything more than effortless and sloppy, boozy vocals and trashy guitar doing little to hoist the album out of the mundane. Still, tracks such as the first single, “Can’t Stand Me Now,” and “Campaign Of Hate” offer flashbacks to the offhanded brilliance of the first go-round and are the effort’s most exciting moments. Which is not to say they’re the most rewarding.
That distinction goes to “The Man Who Would Be King,” “The Saga,” and “Last Post On The Bugle,” songs in which Doherty’s drug problems seem to have brought him and cosongwriter Barat closer, forcing them to reflect more honestly and bravely on their circumstances. That said, their darkest moments are their most ambitious stabs at songcraft and their most sweeping successes. This goes for “Tombland” and “Road To Ruin” too. Basically, the group’s lives have made them more interesting, richly textured men; when they write from the gut (“You dig my bed/I dig my grave”), they’re every bit as good as they’re cracked up to be.
Only when they force their elegantly wasted image do they stumble and fall (and it ain’t elegant either). The rave-up “The Narcissist” and the fall-down drunk “Don’t Be Shy,” for instance, come off as soulless homage to an era that’s already passed the band by. Basically, ironically, their most upbeat numbers—
those intended to keep the album moving along briskly—
are their weakest and do wonders to undo a collection that could’ve been so much more if The Libertines had simply cut a true, complete reflection of where they are as individuals. As it is, their hot-off-the-presses platter sounds half-baked/occasionally brilliant instead of the work of a band facing adversity and emerging with something inspired, which, by the by, is what great bands do.
Word to the wise (and the British press as well): Let’s take our good, sweet time before foisting greatness upon bands that are simply not prepared for such accolades. If they truly are great, they’ll find their way in due time. Will The Libertines find their way? Maybe; maybe not. Only time will tell. In the meantime, they’ve given us a good album, plus the red-nosed ass-clown we’ve been yearning for. Ol’ Dirty, eat your heart out.
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| —Michael Kaplan |
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