Standing a fair distance from the stage, in the blistering heat, it’s hard to tell who the chunky looking fellow bouncing around on stage is. Pete? Apparently not. He’s some kind of roadie or guitar tech who’s stepped into the missing man’s shoes. Jesus, how can he wear that jumper?
Nobody knows just where Pete Doherty is. Some say mental and physical exhaustion – and The Libertines are everywhere at all times – others that he’s quit the band. One thing is for sure, The Libertines sound awful. Maybe it was where I was standing, on the fringe in amongst the unconscious casualties of war, but the only thing that reached my ears was the sound of Gibsons and Fenders being forced through a meat grinder.
The Libertines are a messy affair on record, but it’s a happy mess, at Glastonbury they don’t really rise above painful thrashing. Head Libertine Carl Barat strips to the waist, hammers at his guitar and garbles into the microphone. The Tech appears to love it, spinning around and pulling scissor kicks out of his bag of tricks. It all happens under the impenetrable screech of guitars. Carl sounded like he was strung out on morphine – ‘Horrow Show’, a slurred beast on record, was reduced to elongated vowel sounds.
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But it’s hard times for a band when you’re playing one of the biggest festivals in the world and your key member is AWOL. Kudos for The Libertines for trying not to let the fans down. The show must go on etc. But no amount of sweaty, pasty white torso was going to save them.
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