The Libertines
It’s always a wonder discovering the place where rock-stars live. Will the levels of tidiness/cleanliness match their personalities? Do the bedrooms serve more as giant love-palaces as opposed to places for ‘sleeping’? Is the milk out of date?
As you enter the East-London crash-pad for Carl Barat and Peter Doherty of The Libertines – the two singers and guitarists of the rising UK four-piece, if you hadn’t heard by now – an air of intellect is instead what greets the outsider as opposed to artefacts of sole hedonistic pursuits. Mountains of CDs, a myriad of vinyl, an explosion of books – it’s like your local library, only more interesting. However, there is one object of immense concern.
‘If you just open that fridge over there,’ breathes in Barat, ‘God – it’s like Hades, really. Come and have a look...’ To save you all from experiencing the pain incurred following this innocent invitation, we shall keep the mystery of what lurks behind The Libertines’ metallic fridge-door just that – a mystery.
Present this morning to tell us about the group’s history, and to reflect over how The Libertines have reached their current position, is Carl alone. He dons a dressing-gown and is barely awake, still exhausted from a prior night of recording – and then subsequent hard partying. With a fellow CD by Rough Trade label-mates The Moldy Peaches spinning in the background, we sit and discover the fascinating truth behind one of Britain’s most exciting new acts for the year ahead – and beyond...
What got you into music?
‘I started my interest by seeing a lot of music on the telly; oh dear – I really used to like Michael Jackson... We went on some school-trip and every kid had a tape of ‘Bad’ to play on the bus – they’d all brought theirs along; it was just ridiculous.’
‘There were a few years when I was completely isolated from all music really apart from this. But, for some reason, I had a science teacher who was really young; he didn’t take any shit, was obviously on the ball, and he kind of earmarked me. One day, he came up to me and he gave me a tape and it was of The Velvet Underground – it was like a Jedi thing, right of passage, and he had picked me.
‘That tape gave me a self-realisation, and made me see that you don’t have to be a puppet, you don’t have to play every note in tune – people care about the colour, the soul and the energy of the music. It was also around the time that I started playing guitar, and – then – I could only play about two notes. Rather than go through a book and trawl through ‘Michael Rowed The Boat Ashore’, I could just whack one note to The Velvet Underground – for the whole song. And it’d be in tune as well. Dang-de-dang-dang, dang-de-dang-dang... That, for me, was just a bit of a liberation, some f**king 60s thing for me, all on my own... ‘Venus In Furs’ – when I was a kid, that just washed over me like a big quilt... I did go through a kind of revolution at that age.’
How did you meet Peter and the others?
‘His sister was sharing a squat in London with me, and she told me about this little brother she had, because he was only a spring-chicken then, a novice. When she next saw him, she must have bigged me up in some way, because Pete was dying to meet me because he’d felt the call to arms...
‘Eventually, his sister said, ‘Yeah, my brother’s round and he’s in my room, but I’ve got to go to this lecture; can you just go and say hello and keep an eye on him?’ I went off to the room, had a peek through the door and he looked nothing like I thought he did – he was massive actually, and was wearing this nasty, plastic, squeaky-when-you-move, black jacket thing... And there was a most unholy smell – it was absolutely scandalous – that was in the room... It just spelt like pee. So, because of this jacket and the smell of pee, I thought, ‘Ah, I’m not having that – she never told me that she had an incontinent brother.’ So, I just left him be, sitting on the bed looking out the window...
‘Twenty minutes later, though I felt guilty, and thought, ‘Well, I better be here when she gets back,’ and I went in and said hello; it turned out that it wasn’t him who smelled at all – it was the smell of the Thames River coming in through the window. We then just kind of had a fight about something; he was antagonising me and I didn’t know any better back in those days. His thing was always to be intelligent and calm and say the most provocative things and watch people go into a whirlwind; of course, I fell for it. We then had a massive, great scrap. It was just rivalry – we were hearing the same voice, I suppose, and you never know who’s your ally in situations like that. It’s very difficult, because there’s so many muppets about; you never know who’s on your side.’
How did you become good friends?
‘We started writing songs together really; I played him my batch of half-baked potatoes, and he played me his... A few of them gelled together and made a few of our earliest songs. It was just natural the way it happened; we were blessed, and lucky.’
‘Blessed’, ‘lucky’ – do you believe in fate?
‘Sometimes I do, but sometimes I think I sound like a giffer. I do really have faith and belief; I know that we can sometimes say the wrong things, but we have been given a voice of some description. And, I really think it’d be sinful not to use it... Pete and I share a bond which is beyond words and playing football.’
What occurred next in terms of progressing the music’s development?
‘It’s always been a case of ditching everything, going as low as I can, in order to build it up – and that’s how we got this outfit on to the road: we just literally threw ourselves into eternity – that was our header at the time originally, that’s what we were saying... It was a gamble – just completely into the face of what it all is, live for that do-or-die mentality.
‘I gave up a job I had, because it was just destroying me, so I ended up without any money or a house – didn’t even have any drink, so I couldn’t hit the bottle either. I was really sofa-surfing, and sleeping rough as well, but I always had this thing with Pete, so I was never completely alone... Pete’s a real stalwart: he recognises when I start to turn towards the mediocrity I suppose. When Pete’s around, I definitely feel his presence; it’s like a different dimension.
‘We’ve had some real fights, though. There have been times when we look at each other and just say, ‘Look at you – why am I even f**king bothering to talk to you?’ That normally happens, though on things like, ‘Pete, you’re always leaving f**king bin-bags out – what’s wrong with you, you f**king spaz!’ It’s just petty things... But we have had some nasty ones; when we lived on a squat in Camden Road once, he was doing his winding me up thing, because we were just frustrated, angry, bored, running down to record-labels and saying, ‘Honestly, we’re gonna make you so much money, please listen to this,’ and getting snubbed by their A&R men... It prompted us to write a song called ‘Death On The Stairs’.
‘Around that time, we just had this massive fight: he was acting like an arsehole – but he probably thought I was being one, too – and he was drinking some water from a bottle; because I’ve always hated slobbishness, as it seems so barbaric and unnecessary, after he wound me up, I was so angry at him that I just booted this bottle right out of his face. What followed was really evil...’
What locations were you living in during the course of the group’s growth?
‘Well, we were in that squat in North London – a real disgusting hole, with no door and a broken window, and we were sleeping on a single mattress – and we stole that from a student-house just up the road, but we got our comeuppance because it was full of f**king ticks or something, like these lice. So, we really suffered...’
How did bassist John come into the equation?
‘John came a little later actually (every man and dog has been in The Libertines); it was at the end of the Camden Road days about four years ago. He lived down the road and was in the same boat, really; we kind of recognised he was one of us, so John joined the band. Our drummer then was some fella called Zack, but he f**ked off to join some other band called Cactus Camel in the end; he was never prepared to die for it.
‘What I really remember was this funny gig we did in our basement of our next place which was the first and last gig of the era; Zack was on drums, and we had Scarborough Steve singing. We invited everyone virtually in Camden, all the faces, and everyone that hung out there. We lit loads of candles around, plugged everything in and started playing really mellow, everyone was enjoying it, there was a real party-vibe... And then the electricity-meter blew out, and it all went, ‘Ker-junk!’ There was complete silence, and then we had to say, ‘Erm, has anyone got a pound for the meter?’ But, the gig carried on, (smiles and puts on comedic voice) and we did a great show. That whole thing felt like the beginning of everything; it was like we were on-board the ship and just throwing the ropes, and it cast off...
‘Our original singer Steve’s a Libertine through and through; the first time I met Steve was in our squat, because he was in the one next door: I was a bit drunk, and he came in with a stagger and three girls, the dirty bugger. Me and Pete were gonna see if we could just poach a couple of them, but we failed, so we disliked him that night. But, in the morning, I looked out of our dirty broken window and I saw him hanging out his flares on the line, and he seemed pretty cool. After that then, he came in every morning at about 11 for a beer, because we had these big crates of beer from Germany, and – since he’d been in a lot of bands up north for some time – we had him as a frontman for a while.’
Whereabouts did you play all your shows?
‘We didn’t do gigs up and down the country; we just did ramshackle shit-holes, and even old people’s homes – or just to anyone that would have us. We’d have played anywhere just for the love of it – though I think we always will.
‘One funny thing that kept happening was that we’d be at a venue and people would be like, ‘When are you on?’ And we’d reply, ‘About five minutes,’ and they’d say, ‘Oh, well, isn’t that your singer?’ Then, we’d look down and find Steve lying on the floor, dribbling, and we’d have to kick him to get him up, and then he’d get really angry on-stage and kick the shit out of all our equipment, and start fighting with the bouncers.’
How did all your current material amass?
‘Apart from bits and bobs we stole from our old songs, all these tracks are the ones written after a split-up we went through with John – who then came back later on – and our old drummer, Mr Razzcox, who was 54 years old. We had a review in the ‘NME’ years ago from that period; I still half remember it: ‘We were suited and booted,’ and the best thing since ‘opium lollipops’ apparently.
‘Gary then soon joined the group on drums. He’s the engine of the band on-stage – a f**king motor; he’s really helped us stop being lamers and helped us become more professional and use rehearsal time properly. He’s got a really good vibe about him, and he’s quite guiding; there’s no jiggery-pokery with him.’
Now the group’s assembled, how do the current performances compare to old ones?
‘The spirit’s the same, but we’ve learnt to carry and hold ourselves up a bit better on-stage; practice makes perfect, we know what stupid f**k-ups not to make. In terms of technical stuff, although we’re the least technical people around, even that area of it’s tightened up.’
And what about that image of the band?
‘We wear what we wear, but, of course, you’ve got to dress up for the occasion... Wait a sec, what am I talking about – I’ve been wearing the same clothes for three years... I suppose we used to do gigs and put on army-jackets, and before that we all used to enjoy wearing suits, and Pete occasionally still wants to wear one, but you all need to wear them for it work effectively.’
Your music – what does it mean to you?
\'It’s the soundtrack of our lives – like that band with the big fella. It’s real music; and people know what real music is via what it does and just what it is... There’s something brewing: the tide’s coming, and there’s a spirit to it.’
Where next?
‘We want people to hear the songs. I just want to play them to people, too. I’d rather have longevity than an instant hit. It’s nice to have big tourbuses and lovely dressing-rooms and pictures in the paper or something – you certainly wouldn’t chuckle, but it’s not really what it’s all about; I’d like to have some kind of continuity, and to have the drive to keep it going.’
Carl pauses, reflecting on what’s been shared over the last hour. ‘There’s been a few gaps, but that’s kind of a good way of looking at it all...’
Yeah – but, however, despite all their occurrences to date, there is a great feeling around that this is just the beginning – so, stay tuned for the fuller picture... And to see if they ever get a new fridge.
ROUGH TRADE RECORDS: Observe the other stunning acts also on The Libs\' label, and hear music of the band.