The Libertines - New York Irving Plaza - 20/8/03
4/5
By: Nicole Spector
Even before their debut album 'Up the Bracket' was released, The Libertines had an aura of publicity and corruption - an aura of groupies. The first time your reporter saw them in London, I chatted with a row of girls slouched indifferently against a backstage wall. Noting they were none of The Libs' appointed girlfriends, I asked how they knew the boys. They squinted blankly out of their puffy, off-shoulder sweaters and said: 'We're with the Libertines.' I asked what they did, and they said flatly: 'No, we're with The Libertines.' Then they asked me if I liked their sweaters.
So it isn't surprising, as their profile richens and music spreads, that The Libertines have acquired a much heavier cloud of girls - along with a storm of giddy press. Headmen Pete Doherty and Carl Barat's hyper-acknowledged somersaults in and out of duo-ship along with the fabled dirty, dirty habits - and not to mention the recent burglary - have fueled much of the curiosity aimed at The 'Tines. But take away the biographic commotion and you've still got quite a racket in your hands - a bustle of some of the most energetic, devious, and melodic songs in rock 'n' roll.
We catch them tonight in New York, after a flood of bad luck (cancelled shows, missing May dates, and the major East Coast lights-out, during which The Libs were scheduled to play). It's a time when the band's drama is ringing in the crowd's ears, as Pete has cartwheeled, tumbled, damn right fallen out of the band. Erm, temporarily... But in spite of his absence, The Libertines deliver triumphantly.
They take the stage without a word and crash into 'Horror Show' - a speedy, plugging number that gets the crowd instantly bouncing. They plunge into one tight, sonic juggernaut after another. Despite having songs you can sing along to without knowing the words (people do that, right?), the lyrics are worth knowing, filled with British quirks and schizophrenic perceptions of hazy riddles. Tonight though, pounding out of Carl's lips, they are a bit difficult and a bit monotoned, and even a bit unnecessary, as the audience is elated by the vigorous electricity of the music alone. But the lyrics are, with the exception of a swaggerly 'F**k it's alright' somewhere near the end, the only vocals of the evening. Just as on the album, each track wallops into the next, with hardly a second's pause.
They play sixteen songs, everything off the album except for the twiddling, no-name last track and 'Radio America'. The shirt-stripped, cigarette-huffing encore features 'What A Waster' and a glittering guitar-riff brings hands clapping, and the boys launch into their final gem 'I Get Along'. All in all, the set is snappy, metered - capable of shifting smoothly from punk frantics to tuneful nostalgia in a single song. It's as if they're dancing fast and drunk from room to room without bumping into anything. The audience, however, proves to be not so poised; I've never had so many drinks spilled on me at a show.
In a time when 'the' in a band's title is as much a curse as a blessing (depending upon how you look at it), The Libertines distinguish themselves prominently as a band not to be caught in the midst of a zeitgeist. They're wild, smashing rhymers who've magically strung together exceptional music tastes and sensibilities to form songs that catch in your head and spirit.
So is it bad timing, bad visas, bad power grid, what? Why does New York keep missing out on a band who defines themselves dramatically as the worthiest rock and roll gig around today? Why is Pete this f**ked up, this soon? It seems to be the rock and roll myth itself that plagues them. But like all great bands, regardless of the star they're born under (in this case, volatile and shooting); they keep at it toughly and with pernicious promise. It doesn't look like this band is on the verge of disappearing or that they've remotely tuckered out, but their lyric: 'If you've lost your faith and love in music, the end won't be long/Because if it's gone for you I too may lose it/ and that would be wrong' comes into mind as a sort of reminding sentiment. And now that we've hit this wistful note of precious quoting, I must add: 'I've got a little secret for' ya': It was this band and their blazing London album-launch party nearly a year ago that led me to rockfeedback in the first place. How lucky, and how timely.
Artists in this article: The Libertines
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