Libs in Toronto (October 2004)
The Libertines are one fine and memorable mess
by Adam Radwanski
Having more experience talking to politicians than musicians, it's been slightly disillusioning to learn the latter's media dealings are often even more polished than the former's. So as frustrating as an encounter with the shambolic Libertines can be, it's also a bit refreshing.
It's not that all of the headline-grabbing East Londoners exist in a full state of chaos. Drummer Gary Powell, for instance, is a delight - so engaging over the phone that he almost manages to dispel the stereotype of the bratty British rock star, even when he's explaining that the others don't mess with him because they know he can kick their asses.
The Libertines' dynamic, though, is built around their co-frontmen, Pete Doherty and Carl Barat. And while they've proven to be two of England's most gifted songwriters and performers, evoking enough memories of the Clash that Mick Jones was recruited to produce both of their dazzling albums, they've also proven two of its most erratic.
For now, Doherty has been removed from the equation entirely. Although the lyrics on the Libertines' eponymous sophomore disc read like a blow-by-blow account of his drug woes, his addictions are so severe that the band is touring without him. The last time this happened, he responded by burglarizing Barat's home; this time, he's opted to form his own band and tour the U.K.
That leaves Barat as The Responsible One, at least according to the British press. Encountering him in person, one realizes these things are all relative.
Barat breezes into Toronto's Opera House hours late for the interviews scheduled in advance of his band's sold-out show, still shaking off the effects of the night before. Accompanied by bassist John Hassall, he mumbles his way through most of a television interview before staggering away to exchange tongues with a comely brunette in the corner of the room, [I'm assuming that's Annalisa; didn't she follow them around on that tour?] leaving Hassall to fend for himself. Dragged back into the frame for a couple more questions, he finally escapes the camera's glare and reluctantly accompanies me onto his tour bus.
He knows he's a terrible interview, repeatedly apologizing for it. But that doesn't help much. Combine his thick accent with a bad hangover and a nasty case of the sniffles, and it's hard to have much idea what he's on about.
Not that it really matters much. For the first few minutes, Barat is mostly preoccupied with applying some sort of moisturizer to his face (someone gave it to him, he insists, though it looks as though someone would have done better to shove him under a showerhead); for the rest, he tunes in and out of questions as he tries to keep his eyes open. I leave with almost nothing decipherable on my tape, save for his explanation that he's carrying on with the tour to "try and be an example for our friends who've slipped by the wayside."
By the end, I'm half wishing that Powell would burst through the door and lay a beating on his bandmate. But as a ragged and rollicking set later that night proves, the band's lack of polish is what works for it. If the Libertines weren't a mess, they wouldn't be the Libertines - they'd just be another band that's pleasant to deal with and easy to forget.
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