Bit Late in the Day, but anyway... Last Weekend
This may all feel a bit like last week's news... cause it was, but my internet's been down so I've been a bit out of the loop and wanted to put this up just in case anyone's interested.
2003 Revisited...
Sleepless in Whitechapel
Friday May 15
A Libertines reunion? Not all that long ago, it was unimaginable. The realm of ‘What ifs…’ But if someone had asked me to describe how I’d like it to be, it would’ve been virtually identical to last Friday night in Whitechapel. Short notice, small-sweaty venue, support acts straight out of 2003, an enthusiastic, happy crowd, a good cause and minimal fuss. I couldn’t have conceived of circumstances that would wind back the clock as effectively as the benefit-memorial for Johnny Rhythm, nor could I have imagined a more appropriate line up.
It had to be the Rhythm Factory. A space that dances with the ghosts of young Libertines, a venue so closely associated with the band that the blue and white lettering on the back wall is etched into countless Youtube videos and photographs. The nostalgic tone of the evening attracted old school punters and old school bands. The Unstrung reunited for the event, The Paddingtons made the journey from Hull. The night was originally announced as Doherty solo, and then the word spread that it would be ‘Shambles. Big Dave, Patrick Walden’s band joined the support line-up. There were even whispers that there could be more…
At ten pm the queue to get into the Rhythm Factory was static. The place was heaving and we chatted to friends - people gathering to reminisce about the good old days - different from the normal Doherty/Shambles RF set of lairy lads. And somehow, the whole evening seemed to weave its own magic, time - in every sense - stood still. The faces were a bit older than standard weekend fare in Whitechapel. The mood was mellow. The endless waiting slipped by painlessly and the bands played tunes from the days when no one had got used to the ‘noughties’. ‘When we last played here, we were little kids. Now we’re big kids.’ Josh Hubbard of The Paddingtons announced to the crowd. Fittingly, Vis the Spoon hosted the evening.
The magic extended to the performers. The Paddingtons, a chronically under rated band, played a blinding set, mingling old and new material with all the ferocious punk spirit they could muster. Singer Tom Atkin snarled out lyrics, chucked his mic stand about and balanced on monitors. Drummer Grant Dobbs lashed out the backbeat in zebra striped leggings and little else, while the three guitarists steamed with energy. Other bands watched from the wings, and even an appearance from a trilby-ed Peter Doherty didn’t detract from the Padds. The set ended with a cover of ‘Molly’s Lips’ with Gary Powell on drums and Drew McConnell on bass. The crowd went wild. By this point it was pretty clear that something momentous was going to happen.
I must confess to losing all sense of time (and probably space) during the evening. All I know is that when Shambles came on, it was late. Half two, maybe. I couldn’t possibly look at the time on my phone because that would have required getting a hand into my pocket, and there was no way I could have possibly wriggled an arm down between my body and the barrier.
Babyshambles were on fire. They started with ‘I Wish’, and played ‘Kilamangiro’, ‘Baddie’s Boogie’ and ‘Albion’, amongst other things. Carl Barat watched from the wings, craning to get a good view, and singing along at points. The set was short and sharp and tight. A quick garrotte to the throat to top off the Padds gut-punch. The crowd was dripping with sweat and winded. But the night was far from over.
After ‘Albion’, Peter announced a short intermission, only to have his words cut off by the flying figure of Carl bounding onto stage. No intermission, then. And suddenly there was a flurry of people helping rearrange things. Helping Carl with Mik’s guitar. Bringing Gary to the drumkit. And then, before you could catch your breath, were the opening notes of ‘What A Waster’. The Libertines, or a close relation, were on stage. Only John Hassall was absent, his spot filled by an impressively discrete Drew McConnell.
It was a very odd thing. That such a huge event should seem so very easy. Like falling off a log. You’d have thought that they’d last done it yesterday, not five years ago. It was remarkable how natural it seemed. This had none of the formal, tentative quality of the Hackney Empire reunion two years ago. This was hot and fast and furious. A soaring collection of songs played as they were meant to be. They’d come home. And it looked like they were having as good a time as the audience.
For the record, they played six songs. ‘Waster’ was followed by ‘Up the Bracket’, ‘What Katie Did’, ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’, ‘Time for Heroes’, and after a moment of hesitation, ‘Death on the Stairs’.
The set raced by. And for the record, the music was good. Very good indeed. Not that anyone would have cared much, but it sounded great. They sounded great. The event might have had the aura of nostalgia, but this was no shadow-of-the-past show, the music was fresh and vital. Everyone seemed to be in a shared bubble of happiness. Other performers carried out tech-duties, watched from the side, helped deal with stage invaders. For some present, it was a natural turn of the wheel, things slotting back into place, revisiting the magic that made the band special. For others, it was a first, an eye opener, since no matter how many recordings you watch or listen to; no matter how many times you’ve seen all those on stage in other guises; no matter how frequently you’ve heard the songs played live; this was different. The performances were different. Unlike anything else. Anything else, that is, except The Libertines circa 2003.
When they finished, it still wasn’t over. It was hard to believe there could be any follow-on that wouldn’t be an anti-climax. But this was a night of surprises, and as Pat Walden joined Babyshambles on stage, the band lashed out the perfect finale… ‘Pipedown’ and ‘Fuck Forever’. No matter that Walden’s borrowed guitar seemed doomed, strings broken, strap disengaged, sound too quiet. He took his place with enthusiasm and yet another barrier was smashed in a wave of firsts. As Walden moved with the music, bending, twisting, lying on the stage, the time machine dial whirred and band and audience let rip for the end of the set.
Afterwards people chatted on the pavement in the pre-dawn chill. Hugging, kissing and smiling. It had happened and it’d been amazing. As we staggered to our beds in the full light of day at something like seven am, it seemed as if reality had shifted a little bit overnight.
Saturday May 16
I was almost reluctant to go back to the Rhythm Factory for a Doherty solo show the next day. Not just because four hours sleep simply isn’t enough, but also because I didn’t want to break the spell of the previous night. Didn’t want to come back to earth with a resounding thump.
But arrangements had been made, and friends waiting, so I trundled down the road hoping my stamina would hold out. Arriving late, we got drinks and went into the venue where a band was playing in one of the RF’s marathon support sets. Alan Wass and The General. Playing together in a band that was a new, and yet familiar incarnation for them both. ‘Terrible Pain’, a reggae beat, and yup, it was business as usual.
Three, or maybe four bands later. Two in the morning. ‘Peter is on his way,’ we were assured, ‘he’ll be half an hour.’ That sinking feeling… was a no-show going to be our reality check after the euphoria of the previous night?
But no. A bare fifteen minutes later, a text from a friend not having the obligatory fag break said, ‘get in here’, and almost as soon as we’d found places in the packed room, Peter was onstage. Looking good and seeming mellow. Confidently dealing with an over-eager crowd that seemed ready to disintegrate into a brawl any second. And miraculously, people settled down and listened to a long set of old and new, responding enthusiastically to material from Grace/Wastelands and unreleased material from days gone by. I was particularly pleased to hear ‘Whole World is Our Playground’ and ‘Smashing’, but, in truth, I lost track of everything he played. Joined for a while by Mik Whitnall, the set was everything it should have been. A complete contrast to the night before - quite rightly - and Peter reminding us how captivating a solo performer he can be. Intimate, relaxed, and sweet-voiced. Down to earth didn’t seem such a bad place after all.
Monday morning and my head was still reeling. A weekend starting on Thursday with the Paddingtons at the Rhythm Factory and ending Sunday night in a North London pub listening to Kieran Leonard weave poetry around gentle melodies. Thinking about work and real life on Monday brought me back to earth with a whimper not a bang. Frankly, I’d rather remain in never never land.
2003 Revisited...
Sleepless in Whitechapel
Friday May 15
A Libertines reunion? Not all that long ago, it was unimaginable. The realm of ‘What ifs…’ But if someone had asked me to describe how I’d like it to be, it would’ve been virtually identical to last Friday night in Whitechapel. Short notice, small-sweaty venue, support acts straight out of 2003, an enthusiastic, happy crowd, a good cause and minimal fuss. I couldn’t have conceived of circumstances that would wind back the clock as effectively as the benefit-memorial for Johnny Rhythm, nor could I have imagined a more appropriate line up.
It had to be the Rhythm Factory. A space that dances with the ghosts of young Libertines, a venue so closely associated with the band that the blue and white lettering on the back wall is etched into countless Youtube videos and photographs. The nostalgic tone of the evening attracted old school punters and old school bands. The Unstrung reunited for the event, The Paddingtons made the journey from Hull. The night was originally announced as Doherty solo, and then the word spread that it would be ‘Shambles. Big Dave, Patrick Walden’s band joined the support line-up. There were even whispers that there could be more…
At ten pm the queue to get into the Rhythm Factory was static. The place was heaving and we chatted to friends - people gathering to reminisce about the good old days - different from the normal Doherty/Shambles RF set of lairy lads. And somehow, the whole evening seemed to weave its own magic, time - in every sense - stood still. The faces were a bit older than standard weekend fare in Whitechapel. The mood was mellow. The endless waiting slipped by painlessly and the bands played tunes from the days when no one had got used to the ‘noughties’. ‘When we last played here, we were little kids. Now we’re big kids.’ Josh Hubbard of The Paddingtons announced to the crowd. Fittingly, Vis the Spoon hosted the evening.
The magic extended to the performers. The Paddingtons, a chronically under rated band, played a blinding set, mingling old and new material with all the ferocious punk spirit they could muster. Singer Tom Atkin snarled out lyrics, chucked his mic stand about and balanced on monitors. Drummer Grant Dobbs lashed out the backbeat in zebra striped leggings and little else, while the three guitarists steamed with energy. Other bands watched from the wings, and even an appearance from a trilby-ed Peter Doherty didn’t detract from the Padds. The set ended with a cover of ‘Molly’s Lips’ with Gary Powell on drums and Drew McConnell on bass. The crowd went wild. By this point it was pretty clear that something momentous was going to happen.
I must confess to losing all sense of time (and probably space) during the evening. All I know is that when Shambles came on, it was late. Half two, maybe. I couldn’t possibly look at the time on my phone because that would have required getting a hand into my pocket, and there was no way I could have possibly wriggled an arm down between my body and the barrier.
Babyshambles were on fire. They started with ‘I Wish’, and played ‘Kilamangiro’, ‘Baddie’s Boogie’ and ‘Albion’, amongst other things. Carl Barat watched from the wings, craning to get a good view, and singing along at points. The set was short and sharp and tight. A quick garrotte to the throat to top off the Padds gut-punch. The crowd was dripping with sweat and winded. But the night was far from over.
After ‘Albion’, Peter announced a short intermission, only to have his words cut off by the flying figure of Carl bounding onto stage. No intermission, then. And suddenly there was a flurry of people helping rearrange things. Helping Carl with Mik’s guitar. Bringing Gary to the drumkit. And then, before you could catch your breath, were the opening notes of ‘What A Waster’. The Libertines, or a close relation, were on stage. Only John Hassall was absent, his spot filled by an impressively discrete Drew McConnell.
It was a very odd thing. That such a huge event should seem so very easy. Like falling off a log. You’d have thought that they’d last done it yesterday, not five years ago. It was remarkable how natural it seemed. This had none of the formal, tentative quality of the Hackney Empire reunion two years ago. This was hot and fast and furious. A soaring collection of songs played as they were meant to be. They’d come home. And it looked like they were having as good a time as the audience.
For the record, they played six songs. ‘Waster’ was followed by ‘Up the Bracket’, ‘What Katie Did’, ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’, ‘Time for Heroes’, and after a moment of hesitation, ‘Death on the Stairs’.
The set raced by. And for the record, the music was good. Very good indeed. Not that anyone would have cared much, but it sounded great. They sounded great. The event might have had the aura of nostalgia, but this was no shadow-of-the-past show, the music was fresh and vital. Everyone seemed to be in a shared bubble of happiness. Other performers carried out tech-duties, watched from the side, helped deal with stage invaders. For some present, it was a natural turn of the wheel, things slotting back into place, revisiting the magic that made the band special. For others, it was a first, an eye opener, since no matter how many recordings you watch or listen to; no matter how many times you’ve seen all those on stage in other guises; no matter how frequently you’ve heard the songs played live; this was different. The performances were different. Unlike anything else. Anything else, that is, except The Libertines circa 2003.
When they finished, it still wasn’t over. It was hard to believe there could be any follow-on that wouldn’t be an anti-climax. But this was a night of surprises, and as Pat Walden joined Babyshambles on stage, the band lashed out the perfect finale… ‘Pipedown’ and ‘Fuck Forever’. No matter that Walden’s borrowed guitar seemed doomed, strings broken, strap disengaged, sound too quiet. He took his place with enthusiasm and yet another barrier was smashed in a wave of firsts. As Walden moved with the music, bending, twisting, lying on the stage, the time machine dial whirred and band and audience let rip for the end of the set.
Afterwards people chatted on the pavement in the pre-dawn chill. Hugging, kissing and smiling. It had happened and it’d been amazing. As we staggered to our beds in the full light of day at something like seven am, it seemed as if reality had shifted a little bit overnight.
Saturday May 16
I was almost reluctant to go back to the Rhythm Factory for a Doherty solo show the next day. Not just because four hours sleep simply isn’t enough, but also because I didn’t want to break the spell of the previous night. Didn’t want to come back to earth with a resounding thump.
But arrangements had been made, and friends waiting, so I trundled down the road hoping my stamina would hold out. Arriving late, we got drinks and went into the venue where a band was playing in one of the RF’s marathon support sets. Alan Wass and The General. Playing together in a band that was a new, and yet familiar incarnation for them both. ‘Terrible Pain’, a reggae beat, and yup, it was business as usual.
Three, or maybe four bands later. Two in the morning. ‘Peter is on his way,’ we were assured, ‘he’ll be half an hour.’ That sinking feeling… was a no-show going to be our reality check after the euphoria of the previous night?
But no. A bare fifteen minutes later, a text from a friend not having the obligatory fag break said, ‘get in here’, and almost as soon as we’d found places in the packed room, Peter was onstage. Looking good and seeming mellow. Confidently dealing with an over-eager crowd that seemed ready to disintegrate into a brawl any second. And miraculously, people settled down and listened to a long set of old and new, responding enthusiastically to material from Grace/Wastelands and unreleased material from days gone by. I was particularly pleased to hear ‘Whole World is Our Playground’ and ‘Smashing’, but, in truth, I lost track of everything he played. Joined for a while by Mik Whitnall, the set was everything it should have been. A complete contrast to the night before - quite rightly - and Peter reminding us how captivating a solo performer he can be. Intimate, relaxed, and sweet-voiced. Down to earth didn’t seem such a bad place after all.
Monday morning and my head was still reeling. A weekend starting on Thursday with the Paddingtons at the Rhythm Factory and ending Sunday night in a North London pub listening to Kieran Leonard weave poetry around gentle melodies. Thinking about work and real life on Monday brought me back to earth with a whimper not a bang. Frankly, I’d rather remain in never never land.