Over the past half decade, Pete Doherty has been on a redemption arc that would have seemed highly improbable 10, 15 or any number of years since his early days as indie’s most polarising troubled poet - quill in one hand, crack pipe in the other. Now off the hard stuff and relocated to rural France with a young family, even his recent tenure back in the arms of The Libertines has become almost wholesome. Cast an eye over their massive Pyramid Stage crowd at Glastonbury this year and you’ll have found families, kids on shoulders, and jolly groups of mates; the sort of merry all-ages gathering fit for a beloved musical institution rather than a man who must have singlehandedly paid the British paparazzi’s mortgages for the best part of the ‘00s.
Against all odds, Doherty is thriving. But Babyshambles… well, Babyshambles were always different. The singer’s post-Libertines outfit - formed as a direct riposte for being kicked out of the band due to his escalating drug problems - their story was always steeped in something darker. Upon announcing their reunion, Doherty stated that, for years, himself and guitarist Mik Whitnall had been forcibly kept apart for fear that even being in the same room would derail both their sobriety journeys upon impact. The band’s first guitarist Patrick Walden passed away earlier this year after a troubled history of his own; tonight, his image adorns the backing screen - a touching tribute but also a reminder that the story could have ended very differently for some of the other musicians on stage too.
This sense of, if not an entirely happy ending, then a far healthier one fills Brixton Academy with an extra level of meaning as the reunion bus rolls into London. “This is the all-new reliable, dependable, sober Babyshambles,” Doherty declares after a full-venue singalong of Albion. It seems as though he’s telling the truth, too. The band are tight; bassist Drew McConnell, a well-oiled machine having spent the last years playing arenas with Liam Gallagher, stalks the stage providing the more wired foil to Doherty’s wandering minstrel (complete with cane in hand). Tonight’s setlist, meanwhile, cements the fact that the ‘Shambles were always a lot more musically competent and exciting than either their name or the shadier ends of the tabloid press might have suggested.
A one-two of Killamangiro and Delivery turns the crowd into a surging moshpit from the off, while There She Goes, with its Lovecats-esque skulk, shows that Doherty can still hit the notes in his own slightly ramshackle way. Roughly timed to celebrate the 20th anniversary of debut album Down In Albion, its tracks still careen with the energy and antagonism of their younger, more unsettled selves. 8 Dead Boys bursts out of the stage, Whitnall’s guitar kicking the energy up a gear, while A’rebours shows they always had a way around a pop hook too.
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If Doherty is a more stable presence these days, then he’s still a long way away from Chris Martin. “These are troubled times…” he begins, re-emerging for the encore, before stopping himself: “No, I wasn’t gonna say that. Er, who here’s got a dog? Who’s got a dog they trust?” As the end approaches, he takes it upon himself to try and flog the rest of the dates. “There’s still tickets! Leamington Spa’s gonna be fucking banging…” Suffice to say, there is no Leamington Spa show. It’s the singer at his best - funny, charming, mischievous - without any of the baggage that used to overshadow all those excellent qualities.
They finish with a pair of their finest battle cries: Pipedown and its frustrated howl at the world’s treatment of Walden (“He was supposed to be here tonight,” Doherty notes as the dates of his life come onto the screen) and a final euphoric Fuck Forever. Still one of the greatest songs to come from their generation’s indie purple patch, at the time it was the ultimate nihilistic lash out. Back in the game and proving that there was always more to them than just chaos, now Forever doesn’t seem so bad.
