"We played in Barcelona last night. Anyone looking for any cheap cigarettes can come an' see us afterwards" mutters CAZALS' cheeky chappie frontman Phil Cazal. Blimey, we always thought the support band's lot wasn't a happy one, but clearly it has its' fringe benefits. In this case, you get to visit two separate countries in two days and top up the coffers with a bit of black market dealing. Sweet.
So, not for the last time tonight, Cazals appear as typically loveable East End rogues. They are a right bunch of duckers and divers, even down to Phil's appearance: a bizarre cross between Tim Roth and Mickey Pearce from 'Only Fools & Horses' if ever there was. Not that he doesn't talk a good fight, mind. Cazals website (www.cazals.co.uk ) suggests the band are on a mission to save East London from "identikit poseurs". All very laudable, though quite how dressing like you wanna be in the Ordinary Boys (Fred Perry's, Rickenbacker basses, Spats for gawdsakes!) and sounding like a Whitechapel equivalent of The Futureheads is gonna blow away the competition I'm still unsure. Still, Cazals have plenty of front, have a couple of fair to middling stop-start anthems in waiting like "Poor Innocent Boys" and get away with a daft cover of (wait for it) Spandau Ballet's "To Cut A Long Story Short". You gotta love 'em, ain't ya?
Besides, they don't outstay their welcome, which in this pressure cooker atmosphere of crowd-surfing and random swelling chants of "Pe-ter! Pe-ter!" long before Messrs. Doherty, Walden, McConnell and Ficek have even begun to think of making an appearance, is probably a wise move. Still, however rabid the crowd are getting, they remain patient enough to indulge a semi-spontaneous solo set from Doherty mucker and recent co-defendant ALAN WASS, who comes onstage bearing merely a black Telecaster and a curious, mushroom-shaped hat which seriously dwarfs his head. He's tiny, scrawny and clad in the obligatory black leather bomber jacket and treats us to three Lee Mavers-ish tunes. Hardly revelatory, but not particularly unpleasant either, his mini-set nonetheless serves to whip the crowd into something now approaching hysteria.
By the time BABYSHAMBLES finally emerge from the wings as the clock hits 10PM, the atmosphere can only be described as 'highly charged'. However faithful this crowd have remained, Peter Doherty's reputation nonetheless precedes, and as the time drags on it's difficult not to start wondering, but no, he's here, looking better than he has for some time, and clearly up for a scrap, artistically at least. He's dressed neatly in white Fred Perry polo shirt and jeans and has had a haircut. He dives straight into the adulation, openly flouts Ireland's indoor non-smoking law and controls the stage from the off with a series of moves ranging from mounting the monitors to that curious, reverse Napoleonic thing he does by delivering songs with one arm folded behind his back. Whatever your feelings may be towards him, up close he is entirely captivating, and charismatically, one of the most interesting performers to have muddied our waters for some time.
It's a strange situation Doherty finds himself in, too. While the minutiae of his life and demons have been scrutinised to the nth degree in the tabloids, Babyshambles have barely begun to prove themselves as a credible outfit on a wider scale, and prior to this Irish jaunt, they have been locked away with legendary ex-Clash guitarist Mick Jones making their first album: the seclusion partly enforced because of Doherty's Sword of Damocles court case. With curfews now lifted, this is the ideal opportunity for Pete to prove his worth away from the celeb-hungry London media.
And, brilliantly, it's an opportunity he grabs hungrily with both hands. The set kicks viscerally into life with the snarly, anthemic gob of phlegm that is "Pipe Down" and from there on, Babyshambles continually prove they are - when all the smokescreens blow away - entirely worth their salt artistically.
It's a stonking set. Songs like "My Darling Clementine" and "The Man Who Came To Stay" are fast, furious and unforgiving. The latter, especially, is dispatched viciously, with metallic screes from guitarist Patrick Walden, feral growls from Doherty and the McConnell/ Ficek rhythm section expertly keeping it all on the rails. Both prove Babyshambles can rock hard and effectively and that each member is equally crucial to the plot. Walden is a classic, volatile lead guitarist and has both the skill and fire of a young Bernard Butler and the desire to experiment of Thurston Moore; bassist McConnell is unflappable and ehthusiastic and the way his twangy Fender jazz bass cuts through the guitar swarf is becoming a 'Shambles hallmark, while new drummer Ficek is clearly a fine acquisition. He's wholly dependable, packs reserves of power and ability and serves as the steadying influence this heady outfit clearly crave on occasion.
|
But however essential all three are to the plot, it's inevitably Doherty who will bask in the attention. And, for those who witnessed the (sorry) shambolic spectacle of the band's pre-Xmas shows and are willing things to work out for this most troubled of performers, this will have been one of the most heartening displays they'll have seen from their hero for some time. Not that he has to work all that hard, mind: tokens of besotted esteem rain down from the off and by the time second tune "My Darling Clementine" has revved into life, Doherty's already clad in a red guardsman's jacket that - along with floppy hats, cigs, flowers and drinks - has been flung towards the stage. But there's no doubt he knows just how to expertly work a crowd either. For all the hyperactivity and spontaneous leaping into the front row, every move still elicits maximum reaction and to watch it at close quarters is truly fascinating.
Crucially, though, on this evidence it seems only too clear that while Babyshambles can talk the talk, they can also walk the walk. There are several killer tracks lurking within a largely high quality set, and for all the viscerality of tunes like "Do You Know Me" and the menacingly gritty swagger of "Black Boy Lane", it's often when they slow it down a little that they cast the most lasting spells. To this end, try the subtle, reggae-ish lilt of "Stix And Stones", the melancholic'n'memorable "In Love With A Feeling" and - perhaps best of all - the backstabbing "Gang Of Gin", where the band pull out all the stops and touch base with ska, reggae, indie pop and molten hardcore in a way that would even give magpies like The Coral a run for their silver.
In time-honoured tradition, they save the best for last, too. The advance reports that mooted new single "Fuck Forever" is a Doherty classic sound accurate to these ears. It's poised guitar pop at its' best and with that great dichotomy of a chorus "Fuck forever - if you don't mind" and perhaps the ultimate line in Doherty lore ("I can't choose between death or glory") it's certainly making like it could be up there with "Can't Stand Me Now" in the near future.
And that, seemingly, is it. The house lights come up, the PA crackles into life and W&H slowly retreat to the bar, only for the band to slowly re-emerge. McConnell's bare-chested and Ficek is rocking the country squire look in a flat cap. He sets up into the malevolent Bo Diddley rhythms of "Wolfman" and the band slam into the song's crunching, savage rockabilly. It's all going swimmingly when a suddenly pissed-off Doherty dives into the crowd stage right. He's followed by Wass and a couple more. It's a heartstopper, but within second he's back onstage and the danger has passed. The song dissolves into a chaotic finale, and what has been an electrifying evening ends on the sort of knife edge that seems to have become the norm in Peter Doherty's turbulent life.
Nonetheless, one fracas can't spoil a summer, and somehow Peter Doherty minus drama just doesn't compute. Besides, even this fails to mar what has been a triumphant return for arguably rock's most adversity-prone band and their most controversial of frontmen. Once again that voyage to his beloved Arcadia appears to be on course at last. One can only hope the skipper doesn't mutiny this time around.
|
