In recent weeks the incredible tale of The Libertines has taken a turn yet more incredible than any of its many twists and turns thus far. After being excommunicated for getting screwed up on crack and burgling his bandmate's flat, co-frontman (and undeniably essential Libertines ingredient) Pete Doherty emerged from Wandsworth prison to be reunited with said burgled bandmate, Carl. A string of low-key but frenzied gigs have ensued, culminating in tonight's triumphant and shambolic performance in honour of their indefatigable sponsors, Rough Trade Records.
First there's the brother-sister blues of The Fiery Furnaces, which is rescued from the horrors of over familiarity implied by that description courtesy of a healthy dose of art-school posturing and Troplicalian disregard for traditional song structure. Frontwoman Eleanor Friedberger is perfectly in control of her unruly songs and looks like just the person to inject some unpredictability into the sturdy traditionalism of the current scene. Meanwhile, The Hidden Cameras frontman Joel Gibb looks like he was bullied at high school. Unfortunately with Bernard Butler and a string section all bustling for space on the tiny stage his delicate loser's symphonies don't really come off.
Most of this crowd, at least the ones not sporting well-cultivated facial hair, are here for the not-such-a-'surprise guest'. A fact amplified when Adam Green lets Carl Barat invade his stage for a rendition of 'What A Waster' and the ensuing sing-a-long threatens to see Green chased out of the venue with burning torches if he dares to come between the crowd and their band for much longer. Shame because Green can be just that bit more than a humorous diversion.
But we're anxious for a mainline of real punk rock excitement. God knows we've suffered enough boil-in-the-bag punk bands in recent months and their oh so nonchalant, posturing live shows. We don't care for their obsessive studio rituals; songs painstakingly pieced together from bits of cloth picked up in East Village thrift stores. We want something messy, dense and running with the jittered energy of London. Life-affirming music: stupid and brilliant.
And here it is in all its flawed, ragged glory, reunited onstage in something that you can only hope isn't a giant conspiracy, cooked up by a label 25 years long in the tooth and a media starved of Brit bands that you can't introduce to your little sister. And it's like what you imagine those first Clash gigs were like. Like the 'real' taste that inspired the synthetic marketed 'punk' celebrated by a nation of 14-year-old would-be-skaters in caps turned backwards. Of course it's dependent on bands that went before it. (The Clash are here, not just in the person of Mick Jones, but in the spirit of Don Letts' brilliant warm-up set of earth-quaking, FX-tweaked dub reggae). Crucially, it is also utterly idiosyncratic.
All Pete Doherty needed to do was turn up for frenzy to ensue and frenzy duly obliges. He's curiously detached from proceedings as the band careers through 'Horrorshow', 'Up The Bracket' and a fantastic 'Don't Look Back Into The Sun', troubled by the row of bouncers that create a human wall across Neighbourhood's tiny stage. Usually the preserve of middle-aged Polite House, the venue's staff are shell-shocked by the spectacle playing out before them. An awful student band and its devoted mass all throwing themselves about to an almighty racket.
It's a shame that The Libertines do stupid things. Like smoke crack. Like allow star fuc*ers onstage to shout along to the songs and NME photographers to invade their every waking hour and obsessively document their most cliched rock'n'roll antics. A shame because The Libertines have got a truckload of brilliant songs. Because they could just be the band that it's so thrilling to see them promising to be and just, just falling tantalisingly short of the mark.
