The Libertines - 'Up The Bracket' (Rough Trade)
4/5
By: Toby L
If 2002 is the year that alt-music has experienced a well-endowed resuscitation, then along with it has come, surely, the finest batch of debut-albums for new acts in at least an age; The Coral, The Datsuns, The Music, The Polyphonic Spree and, now, The Libertines... Except, with the latter, the affair is mildly, and gloriously, less polished.
After all, what chances would there have been for slick production and fuller, bolstered-up arrangements anyway? With The Clash's formerly-riotous guitarist/singer Mick Jones behind the desk on technical-duties and the band's own two frontmen Carl Barat and Pete Doherty already a pair famous for their unabashed, unrivalled energy, the likelihood of a first LP-outing with both class and eloquence was always a distant cry away. Yet, if you're after a bit of rough and excitement, which you should be, and a dusty mantelpiece's worth of memorable songs, then the chances are that 'Up The Bracket' will define your record-collection for, at the bare minimum, the ensuing year.
From the strutting intro-swagger of 'Vertigo', a shamelessly rock 'n' roll ode within which Barat nonchalantly croons to a thrillingly arrogant effect, you know where you're heading towards - a blissful, occasionally sleazy set of melodic charms with a firm balance between the excessively up-tempo bar-rockers (the rousing 'Horror Show' and implausibly satisfying 'I Get Along') and hopelessly romantic ballads (the live-shambles of 'Radio America' and intoxicating 'We're in a class of our own, my love' sentiments of 'Time For Heroes'). It's this grip on focus, yet simultaneous looseness, which provides the group with their own unique appeal - and, reassuringly, a band unlikely to let you down by slipping in a tribal-dance remix as a secret-track in a bid to show a more 'creative' side.
Wonderfully, too, the f**kers have a sense of humour (or at least you hope they do), because, quite simply, 'The Boy Looked At Johnny' is damn near an arrestable offence - a distressing and irritably/sumptuously foolish sing-a-long, its infectious 'la-de-da' evoking the same grandiose heights of novelty-hit potential as last scene circa 1995 with Blur's atrocious 'Country House'. Obviously, as a result, it's brilliant. And proceedings only warm up further within the incendiary glamour and knees-up of 'Boys In The Band', a track so tunefully riff-happy and precocious, it'll soundtrack house-parties. Only the recent top-30 title-track itself manages to top it all, its grip on both classic guitars and lyrical-articulacy (honing in on Doherty and Barat's native East End) serving as the quintessential, modern London anthem.
So, with all this, not to mention the sheer 'House Of The Rising Sun' magic and nostalgia-diminishing hymn, 'The Good Old Days' and acoustic-driven slumber of 'Tell The King', The Libertines have conjured a soundtrack richly sparse enough to bark along to, get angry with and cry alongside. As such, and as aforementioned, its warmth and faultless concoction of human-emotiveness makes it easily one of the year's best, and a record you'll continually embrace when times test and personal-needs soar. Understated beauty, then - in all its raucous splendour.
Artists in this article: The Libertines
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