One fateful day in 1996, Peter Doherty and Carlos Barat met in a Liverpool pub. Divided, they were mediocre songwriters without a clue. United, as Barat would describe, they were two one-legged men who, together, could stand up. Soon, the Libertines learned how to walk.
Doherty famously described the ethos of the Libertines to a Dutch journalist at 2002's Eurosonic Festival in Groningen, Netherlands: "We just always believed, quite in old-fashioned way, in songs. Complete faith. ... We didn't have religion. We had love affairs and drugs, but nothing really captured you completely and songs did that. I'd always lived inside songs and so had he. And then we created our own ones."
The stories of love, poverty, drugs and brotherhood accumulated over the years and became their debut album, "Up the Bracket." It was astounding and would propel the Libertines into stardom all over the United Kingdom and Europe.
Lyrically, they made the trivial sound romantic. Sonically, they had an inherent sloppiness - akin to the Sex Pistols - like they didn't know how to play their instruments. But, like the Pistols, they had a commanding grasp of melody to prove they did.
Eventually, Doherty became that of which he sang. He became a "waster." He no-showed gigs, and the Libs were forced to cancel high-profile appearances. Doherty got arrested for breaking into Barat's flat, and he went to rehab in Thailand, only to check himself out after three days. He continued to shoot heroin and smoke crack. Then he got arrested for having a switchblade - which is illegal in the U.K.
The Libertines became a soap opera and Doherty, the butt of jokes. But the songs were still remarkable. The band would break up, reform and reunite countless times. Notably, Doherty and Barat would reunite long enough to write and record a sophomore album. The subject matter is apparent: They wrote about themselves. Eventually, Barat's patience waned, and Doherty was replaced (again) by Anthony Rossamondo of Boston's the Damn Personals.
So Tuesday's pre-gig song selections at the 9:30 club by DJ Dave Rubin were fitting. While the crowd filled in, he played the usual - songs by Brit-pop luminaries Pulp and Blur. Then amid chatter and speculation about if Doherty would show up (he wouldn't), Rubin played more ominous songs, like "Coast to Coast" from Elliott Smith's posthumous record, "from a basement on a hill."
Smith and Doherty have a lot in common, actually. Doherty has a public drug addiction in both behavior and lyrics. Smith did too. Doherty's, though, is a little more public. The scrutinizing British press reports his every move. What's Doherty up to this week? Is he in jail, in rehab, staying with his mum, or guerilla-touring with his side-project, Babyshambles? Did he cause a riot because of a no-showed gig? The UK's weekly New Music Express will have the scoop. At least Smith was a little more tasteful about his habit. Unlike Doherty, Smith never showed up in the Vice Magazine photo issue smoking crack out of a lightbulb.
Then Rubin played the Manic Street Preachers, a band plagued by the disappearance and presumed death of unstable guitarist Richey Edwards. Like the Who and the Rolling Stones, they soldiered on despite the death of a founding member. And now the Libertines, like the Manics, soldier on.
The openers were Radio 4, a painfully marginal New York nu-wave band sporting all black and encouraging the audience to dance. Should everyone be excited because now they have a bongo player? The only non-cringe worthy moment of their set was when Libertines drummer Gary Powell sat in. Note to Radio 4: The crowd wasn't cheering for you. They were cheering because a) Powell came out and b) your set was over.
The Libertines, sans Doherty, came out and quickly got to business opening with B-side "The Delaney." The girls would scream for Barat's attention over the music while the boys would pogo and slam into each other like soccer hooligans.
At times, they delivered. Powell's drumming carried the show, and he's got the props to prove it. Morrissey handpicked him to play with the legendary New York Dolls at the Meltdown Festival. Powell performed a mighty drum solo prior to "Vertigo," and the only thing that could have made it better would have been a platform propelling him 20 feet into the air, a la Tommy Lee in M?tley CrÂe's prime. (Fun fact: Powell was born in New Jersey.)
At certain moments, Rossamondo successfully filled Doherty's shoes on the guitar. On songs like "Up the Bracket" and "Time for Heroes," Barat sang Doherty's lines perfectly. The casual fans wouldn't notice a void. Some critics wouldn't either. Last week, the San Francisco Examiner ran a show review that named Doherty as a performing member of the band - only to later run a retraction.
Other songs were disappointing. Specifically, when the band played the single "Can't Stand Me Now," a call-and-response duet about the troubled friendship of Pete and Carl. But when Carl sang Pete's line "you shut me up and blamed it on the brown," the moment seemed both inappropriate and erroneous. "What Became of the Likely Lads" and "Last Post on the Bugle" faltered the most.
The songs that were the most biographical to the band - most of this year's record, really - were the most lacking. But the crowd - particularly the screaming girls - ate it up, and it's clear that the Libertines can function without Pete and be a success. Is Barat conditioning the Libertines to be his own? It would appear so, given the T-shirts at the merch stand with solely his face on them, and his attempt to carry on as if nothing was wrong.
The encore was spot-on. During "I Get Along," the crowd bum-rushed the stage, singing into the microphone and dancing maniacally, much to security's dismay.
So what became of the likely lads? One got kicked out, and the other claimed the band as his own.
