Pete Doherty has undoubtedly found himself in more depressing environs over the last couple of years, but there is something uniquely miserable about a half-full arena venue. So it comes as a pleasant surprise to find the Brighton Centre nowhere near as empty as reports from other stops on the Babyshambles' tour had suggested it might be. The audience is so young that platoons of parents wait outside in estate cars and 4x4s.
Disparaging voices might suggest that this is because grown-ups gave up on Doherty some time ago, but they would be drowned out by the racket this audience make. Clearly, these are not people who have agonised over how an artist famed for Breaking Down the Barrier Between Performer and Audience will fare as a stadium rocker. Nor do they seem troubled that sweaty gigs in pubs and front rooms have given way to giant video screens that urge them to pre-order a live download of the forthcoming single and offer close-ups demonstrating the rejuvenating effects of hard drugs.
Listening to the audience bellowing along, word-perfect, you would think that the recent Shotter's Nation was the runaway success story of 2007, rather than an album that managed only five weeks in the charts. Indeed, bolstered by guitarist Mick Whitnall, Babyshambles are far from the lackadaisical live catastrophe they were in the past. Even in such cavernous surroundings, their scratchy, trebly sound seems urgent, rather than malnourished.
Doherty still has an undeniable magnetism on stage: no mean feat, given that he also has a huge plaster on his chin that gradually peels off to reveal a kind of open sore and a state of national emergency where his teeth used to be. At one point he stands alone, strumming a semi-acoustic guitar and singing Lost Art of Murder, a doleful eulogy to his failed relationship with Kate Moss, and it is affecting in a way that you wouldn't expect a self-pitying crack-head moaning that his supermodel girlfriend has had enough to be. Huddled together at the side of the stage, with Drew McConnell on double bass, they perform a lovely, warm version of Albion. Emboldened, someone throws a trainer, hitting Doherty in the chest. "Thanks for your support," he mumbles, only half-joking. Hurled footwear or not, these people have stuck by him: on tonight's evidence, he finally appears to be repaying their interest.
· At Wembley Arena, London (0870 060 0870), tonight. Then touring.
