So many of those who have doggedly followed the highs and the lows of this rock'n'roll tornado – waited hours for 'secret' gigs and acoustic shows in squats, trawled the net for half-finished musical doodles - have been heard begging the unconverted that, "it's all about the next album." So, why is it that a band, which, on the face of it, appears to be a pretty messy approximation of Brit punk colliding with the yearning lyricism of the indie tradition, is able to inspire this relentless belief?
It has to said, in recent months you'd have to be nigh on delusional to believe that this album was destined to be that oft-cited classic. Pete Doherty's increasingly troubling (but increasing nonetheless) public appearances have offered the spectacle of a dead man walking, singing just, but usually appearing to be carried through shows by his ever-vigilant co-frontman, Carl Barat. The writing was on wall when the band played the Rhythm Factory to celebrate the anniversary of their most active fan site, thelibertines.org. It seemed that Barat couldn't be doing much more to struggle through the new material with Doherty if he was actually guiding his bandmate's hand to the chords and leading him through the sheet music. Now it appears that the band – after Doherty's three failed attempts at rehab and countless appeals to the gutter press and world at large for attention – have decided that The Libertines isn't good for anyone.
As hard a conclusion as it is to reach, they've done the right thing. But, it's worth remembering that for the bystanders, even at its lowest, there have been a million reasons to believe in this so frequently magical band. Foremost amongst them is the utter sincerity of the music. A sonic honesty so rare in an age of focus group tested anthems, pre-polished for delivery to the supermarkets, that cynics have mistaken it for marketing guile. The truth is that, as desperately as they crave our attention, it's writing songs and playing them, recording them with all their filthy glory intact and the emotional detritus of their genesis strewn throughout every chord, that really matters.
There's also the timing. Not since Blur and Oasis fell foul of marketing warfare and creativity curtailing chemicals has UK music seen a band whose sheer energy is enough to bring the kids with guitars out of their bedrooms and onto the stage. And, with a few clear exceptions, it looks as though we'll be getting more than Menswear in the months to come.
What a shame then that this album proves to be little more than a "snapshot", as Barat himself has put it, of The Libertines' tremendous potential. Frequently Doherty's vocals are slurred and disconnected, his playing sloppier than ever. Resultantly, long gestating live favourite "Last Post On The Bugle" is rendered a disappointment, "Don't Be Shy" little more than a cute distraction, "The Ha Ha Wall" and "The Saga" both infuriatingly botched and already proving better in performance without his assistance. The record's triumphs are more straightforwardly energised tracks, the kind of thing they knock out so well onstage: "Tomblands", "Campaign Of Hate", "Road To Ruin" and, of course, "Can't Stand Me Now" and its endearing companion piece "What Became Of The Likely Lads".
The aging compositions "The Man Who Would Be King" and "Music When The Lights Go Out" - the latter dates back to the band's original demo - sit at the centre of the record and, in some ways, are illustrative of its frustrating compromise. They offer the clearest link back to the romance, lyricism and friendship that was at the heart of their debut. "The Man Who Would Be King" is particularly fine, surely the album highlight. But, those familiar with its original demo version glimpsed a more ephemeral and tender rendition that, arguably, captures the thin wild mercury sound that creeps into the best of Doherty's yearning song craft. Happily the ghost of that magic remains in this altogether more fully realised song.
But elswhere, everywhere you look on this record there is a sense of magic escaped, accompanied by the ever-tantalising presence of a great band just beneath the surface. It's not enough to say that "The Libertines" is a fascinating document of a band in meltdown, just look at the circus that surrounds Doherty if you want to find the audience that's licking its lips for that kind of thing. The shutdown of an individual and passing away of the music is what's wrong here. And how can we celebrate that when it's so obviously what ails the band upon which we'd pinned such high hopes?
