at a glance...

Hometown: London, England
First Recordings: 2002

Personnel:
Peter Doherty: vocals, guitars
Carl Barat: guitars, vocals
John Hassall: bass
Gary Powell: drums

Notes:
East End kids Peter Doherty and Carl Barat had been knocking around London trying to morph into a great band since 1996; sometime around 2001 (joined by Hassall and Powell) it happened. Fronted by a two-singer, two-songwriter, two-guitarist, two-nutter attack, The Libs attracted lots of attention with their spirited, sloppy, and communal gigs everywhere from scene-to-be The Rhythm Factory to their own flat and random car parks (a practice that would soon become a trend known as "guerilla gigging,") Bernard Butler jumped onboard to produce debut double-A "What a Waster"/"I Get Along" and soon spiritual father Mick Jones was at the board for their debut album. By The Libertines's release in 2002 The Libertines were already a bigger story than their music, and within a year would be a genuine tabloid phenomenon thanks to Doherty's open heroin and crack problems, frequent disappearances/reappearances, and, by the release of 2004's self-titled follow-up, the unclear status of the future of the band.

It is the curse of the perpetually young to mistake romance for love. Like eternal teenagers, The Libertines wax lyrical about love: for their music, for each other, for their fans. But while they've spun the most romantic tale in recent pop history, it might be worth asking their long-suffering rhythm section, or the fans forced to watch the shorthanded band onstage, how loved they feel. You suspect grown-up concepts of love remain slightly out of reach.

If it's romance you're looking for, though, look no further than The Libertines, a captivating, dramatic, deeply flawed collection of unresolved love letters between one hopeless romantic (Carl Barat) and his estranged but still significant other (Peter Doherty). Like all teenage romances, The Libertines is a mess: rushed, unfinished, and blighted by half-hearted performances masquerading as tear-stained (and/or drug-addled) laments. It is also, in its open-curtain, raw-nerved, emotional transparency, the most compelling soap opera ever put to tape, and I can't put it down.

All of which would make The Libertines the musical equivalent of reality television if it weren't for their precocious lyricism and musical nous. If Jack White is a 60-year-old soul writing a teenager's diary, Barat and Doherty's adolescent hearts power a remarkably mature songwriting team. The Libertines is filled with the kind of couplets that cry out for quoting … but that seem to lose their power when removed from their melodic context. And that's the mark of a great lyric: when the impact of what is being sung is completely integrated into how it's being sung. Even now, in the pomp of their disintegration, Barat and Doherty have delivered a handful of songs worthy of pop's greatest writers.

They've also delivered a few stinkers. "Road to Ruin" and "The Saga" are over-literal turns that abandon lyricism for therapist-speak, and the results are deadly dull. "Narcissist" sports a duff tune to match its cringeworthy lyric, and should have been left on a demo cassette somewhere. Much better are goofy set-pieces like "What Katie Did" (psychedelic doo-wop), "Don't Be Shy" (hysterically off-key new-wave funk), and "Campaign of Hate" (hand-cranked punk-boogie). The Libs can be a terrifically original band in their element, sloppy riffing and wayward vocals swinging from the scaffolding of their short-attention-span arrangements.

Mick Jones' ever-minimalist production means the performances aren't just warts'n'all, they're pretty much all warts. If you thought Up the Bracket was rough … lower your expectations. Maybe Jones was trying to capture spontaneity - but given that he could only get Barat and Doherty in the same room for seven days (and only then with bodyguards present), you suspect extra takes were not an option.

Small beer though, for an album with cornerstones as solid as this one. "Can't Stand Me Now" is the first, its impassioned parley set atop heart-rending chord changes. It's the best dramatic overture in the history of punk rock, and it's the point where dispassionate criticism leaves the building. From here on this is a page-turner.

"The Man Who Would Be King," throws Barat and Doherty into a doomy, frantic sea shanty as they turn their backs to each other and gripe into the gloaming. The bitterness turns plaintive on the gorgeous "Music When the Lights Go Out," probably The Libertines' finest song to date: direct, emotive, and timelessly romantic. Apparently written largely by Barat but sung by Doherty, it's the song you're most likely to come back to when their tale has grown old.

Those who like to read the last page first should skip ahead to final track "What Became of the Likely Lads?" The lyric chronicles their story's end, but the melancholy melody and boisterous arrangement betray The Libertines' continued joy in telling it. Most poignant are Doherty's turns at the mic - his voice sounds paper-thin, pipe-scorched, and you wonder if he could have managed even one more take.

Like any pulp fiction, you'll come back to the best bits again and again. Frankly, they had me hooked at the cover. Shot after the "Freedom Gig" in 2003 (celebrating Doherty's release from prison for burgling Barat's flat!), it's a touched-up closeup of Barat and Doherty showing off their homemade 'Libertine' tattoos, Barat pouting for the lens, Doherty shrinking coquettishly from it. They look like they were just caught mid-kiss, which they might well have been. It is, frankly, enough to make a heterosexual male ask some hard questions of himself.

And that's the magic of The Libertines. It really isn't just about the music, and thank God for that. Theirs is a beautiful, ridiculous, twisted, dangerous, utterly fabricated world, the kind of total escape that pop music throws up all too infrequently. It may not be love, but it's a great romance, and what a job they've done with the soundtrack.