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Rating: Foreword: how can you seriously review a concert that wasn’t serious, perhaps even in the intentions of those who played it? End of the foreword.
Practically, by now in Paris, I either stay home or go to Babyshambles concerts. I had even forgotten that there was one tonight. The event that prompted my presence at Pete's much-anticipated Paris "gig" was my significant conversation with my Swiss colleague at lunch:
S.C.: "So what did you do last Saturday?"
ME: "I went out and got a ticket for the Babyshambles, February 4th, so I don't regret missing the one on January 14th"
S.C.: "look, January 14th is today"
ME: "Oh really?"
Now, seeing two Doherty concerts in less than a month could earn me extradition from France and admission to a mental health recovery facility in Florence, but in the end, in the name of old times, crack Romanticism, and especially considering I never spent a euro for all the music Pete has produced over the years, I still decided to give it a try. And so I went to the concert without a ticket, equipped with an appropriate soundtrack of Beatles, Larrikin Love, and Consumist on my mp3 player.
After a brief negotiation with a tout (there's nothing to do, even with a Strokes pin and regulation jacket they recognize you as Italian from a mile away, damn it!), I enter. The Olympia is cheerfully populated by the entire indie universe that cannot be absent in such occasions: hordes of 18-year-olds dressed as dandies, a few remaining intellectual types, an entire army of squirties, the inevitable Pete lookalike, and the usual 10-12-year-old kids at most, with leather jackets and shambolic caps. I note, however, reassured, that I am neither the oldest nor the baldest in the room. The support band are called Second Sex: average age 17, French, screaming lyrics and music halfway between Jet and the Hives. Bearable. Then 'Shambles arrive, eerily on time.
First of all, it is necessary for me, as I have honestly been doing my hard work as a guitarist since I was 14, to make serious, professional considerations on the guitar sounds: Whithnall's Rickenbacker had “sbrè-sbrè” sounds, Pete's Epiphone had “sdrè-sdrè” sounds.
And now in no particular order:
Why is Whitnall always defined as “the lead guitarist” in reviews? He only plays rhythm (when you hear it), while Pete does all the "solos," and yes, they were amusing. I didn’t count the mess-ups, but instead, I counted the notes he nailed: 10. The setlist included a good part of "Shotter's Nation," plus something from D.I.A. (obviously, "Fuck Forever" grand finale), the classic Libs cover (“What Katie Did”) and incredible new songs! Yeah!
Pete stopped the first song (“Carry Up The Morning”) after 10 seconds because he couldn’t hear Whitnall's guitar. They turned it up. Did they redo the song? No, they started "Delivery!" Pete stops that one too: he still can't hear Whitnall's guitar well. They turn it up again. They redo "Delivery." The guitar still can't be heard, only Pete's can. Later, during the concert, Pete's Vox stops working, and Whitnall passes him his guitar (plugged into a Marshall), which, played by Pete, can be heard. Ergo, it was Whitnall who was a letdown. After all, from someone who is (not seems, IS) a cross between the Nutcracker and Bubu (complete with hat), one cannot expect them to also play with flair.
Pete's punk moments: numerous. He even broke a couple of microphones, just like that. Shouts? Yes. Yells? Of course. Whines? Certainly!
At this point, many might wonder why I still rated this... performance a 3. Answer: because even if Pete is in evident decline, in his best moments he always has something to say. From "Back from the Dead" to the sloppy fun of "I Wish", he remains one of the few who blends mindless humor (often unintentional) with teenage melancholy (though easily extendable into one’s forties), all seasoned with music that swings between "pleasant" and "brilliant," at least as far as I'm concerned. He hasn't completely lost his essence and effectiveness, even though he's now a bit of a slave to his own clichés, both musical (the intentionally quirky and slurred style, partly rooted in tradition, partly chaotic and offbeat) and "behavioral," clichés he himself is a bit too indulgent towards. The sloppy breaks, the random notes and chords, can be entertaining details if present occasionally (go ahead, purists and Vai fans, unleash), but if perpetuated to excess, they become tedious, especially if the quality of the songs, as has happened over the years, slowly but inevitably declines. In his (and their) defense, I must still say that they played a complete setlist, the rhythm section always holds up well (not to say it holds the fort), and they certainly didn't hold back.
...The concert is over. A spectator shouts insults at Pete, calling for the Second Sex. Pete approaches the microphone and replies, “It's always easy when you're not on stage.” And I, who still care about him, can't help but feel a sort of pathetic twinge of the heart, watching him stagger away.
My very personal conclusion: Pete and the Babyshambles remain, with all their evident flaws, one of the few bands I still find effective/entertaining. But, for the love of God, put Barat back next to him. Reform the Libertines, before it's too late. Maybe it already is.
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