Babyshambles
Greenock Town Hall
It began, appropriately, with coke. Hours after his supermodel girlfriend lost lucrative contracts for allegedly snorting the stuff, Pete Doherty swaggered on to the stage in a child-size black leather jacket and trademark trilby, stared defiantly at his captivated audience and started showering them with it.
OK, so it wasn't the white, powdered variety he was freely distributing. Instead, it was cans of a popular soft drink he was chucking at them. He drank his vodka neat from the bottle, but his intention was clear. From the off, the man teetering on the edge of becoming the world's most obstreperous pop star missed no opportunity to stick two fingers up to the 'filthy fucking tabloids' which have turned him into public enemy number one.
Having followed his litany of crimes and misdemeanours from said red-tops with the jadedness of someone old enough to have seen it all many times before, I went to this rescheduled Babyshambles gig more out of duty than desire.
But, like any soap opera, it took only one action-packed episode to get me hooked. Beer showers, stage invasions, singers swilling liquor rather than sipping mineral water, deeply troubled but immensely talented singer/songwriters. Ah yes, this is what rock'n'roll is all about.
The band are, as if anyone needs reminding, one that comes with a bit of baggage. Leaving aside the fact that Doherty's first band, the Libertines, were the most feted in Britain before they imploded, there's still the self-affirmed heroin problem, the stormy relationship with Kate Moss, his eccentric duet at Live8 with Elton John that exacerbated the stereotype of him as a spaced-out wastrel and countless public fracas and non-appearances.
Which explains why at least some of those in the crowd tonight are not primarily here to listen to the music. Instead, they're here simply to experience being in Doherty's singular presence. And, of course, to witness chaos. It is sad but true that there is a morbid fascination with seeing in the flesh someone on the edge of self-destruction. This flawed, charismatic singer, with his headlong, devil-may-care attitude, is mesmerising.
Tonight, he rewards his audience with a surprisingly lucid performance, albeit one still tinged with arrogance and recklessness. When he swaggers on stage, he's hardly the picture of the frail, gaunt junkie the tabloids have delighted in painting recently. He looks better than he has in a long time, with the ghostly, pale pallor replaced with a look of renewed vigour.
Opener 'Pipe Down' is a bit lacklustre, but, technically, it's pretty coherent. A riotous version of 'Killamangiro' jolts the audience and Doherty into action and the place comes alive; the crowd chants along, Doherty orbits the stage and the obligatory crowd surfers invade it.
Two songs in, Doherty decides to attack the photographers in the pit with his microphone stand, thrusting it violently in their faces. 'If you hate the fucking tabloids, clap your hands,' he chants. Those snappers who don't run for cover are treated to a can of beer poured over their heads.
Doherty makes only one reference to Moss during the set: 'That was called "The Loyalty Song". It's quite an appropriate title, really.' He then hurls his microphone down in a fit of rage. A few songs later, he has another go at the tabloids. 'They make you sick,' he declares, before leaning forward and throwing up.
There's the stop/start, anthemic 'Fuck Forever', the vitriolic 'Gang of Gin' and the muscular, rockabilly grunge of 'Wolfman'. Despite not yet having released an album, everyone in the crowd already knows every word to every song. No matter your opinion of Doherty - a mess, a genius, both - Babyshambles tonight are muscular, tight and thrilling, with ferocious energy and elegant lyricism.
During 'Fuck Forever', he asks: 'How do you choose between death and glory?' It is a question currently dogging his every move. If he can reacquaint himself with the rails, he may even find the answer to it.
