Interviews (Updated 17.01.05)
Archiving here for myself so I can get rid of bookmarks and not have to scan through posts etc.



Peter in Q Magazine


Heroin and crack cocaine affect the body in many ways. The former promotes diarrhoea, insomnia, cramps in the limbs, anxiety and a painful condition addicts often refer to as "itchy blood". The latter brings on lung trauma and an aching, flu-like syndrome. When cocaine is smoked, it breaks down tooth enamel, causing teeth to rapidly rot.

Since many of these symptoms are internal, it's sometimes difficult to spot people who use these drugs. Pete Doherty, however, looks shocking. His eyes are watery pink. His voice has a husk. There are open sores around his lips. His teeth are ruined. He says he hasn't slept for five days since babyshambles finished a 26-date UK tour, one marked by no-shows and, in Aberdeen, fans arrested for rioting.

Babyshambles are Pete Doherty's new band, which he formed after falling out with, and eventually being expelled from, The Libertines. He would only be allowed back, said his friend and co-frontman Carl Barat, when he stopped using crack and heroin. This internal strife conspired to derail them on the eve of releasing a much-hyped second Libertines album, one that was expected to elevate them to rock's premier league.

Doherty also split with Libertines manager Alan McGee, after McGee personally paid for Doherty's short-lived attempts at rehab. He is now managed by James Mullord, who runs 1234, a small London record label.

Barat has referred to Babyshambles as Doherty's "denial band". An early incarnation was terrible. Today's version, against all expectations, are terrific. One song in particular, anthemic rocker Fuck Forever, is Doherty's first claim to greatness. Logic would dictate that Doherty was finished without the Libertines. Now it seems the reverse is likely.

But there's much about Doherty's situation that is deeply repellent. The audience on Babyshambles' tour elevate him to hero status. "Peter! Peter!" they chant. But why, or what, are they celebrating? At some shows, 15 people stand onstage, grinning and clapping along: friends, groupies, trendies, addicts, ambulance chasers. Backstage, before shows, a few smoke crack with Doherty.

Right now, just before we are due to meet, Doherty decides he is unhappy with a previous article I had written around the time of The Libertines' first album, one which featured a faithful transcript of Barat trying to keep things on an even keel, while his partner ranted and raved, amping up the grubby myth making (Doherty: Carlos was born in a kitchen sink... taken off his mother when he was five years old and taken into care because she was a junkie." "That's not true," sighed Barat).

So Doherty blows out the interview. Phone calls are made by his PR, and he agrees to meet up the next day. he suggests I wait by a Texaco garage opposite a terrible estate in East London.

Eventually he turns up riding a red Vespa, Mullord on the back. It seems Mullord lives on the estate, which is Doherty's preferred location to talk.

His flat is split-level. There's a bedroom on the top floor, which Mullord blocks as we walk past. Downstairs, in the kitchen, Doherty asks for "a livener". Mullord produces a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. It's 11.30am. When he speaks, Dohert often talks nonsense, a mix of trademark Albion-ese, the singer's own poetic language, and exhaustion. "I'm so tired, man," he says. " The original idea, get some kip, to be on the ball for the interview. So much for that. I'm like a bag of potatoes."

We persevere for a bit.

What's the difference between Babyshambles and The Libertines?

Well I suppose the key difference, and you might not notice it at first, is that, if you look closely... I'm not in The Libertines.

How about musically?

Well... yeah. I don't play music with The Libertines. [Thinks] What do you think's going to happen?

I think that The Libertines can't carry on without you and that, in most people's eyes, Babyshambles will replace them.

I wouldn't like to continue playing live unless this band were better than The Libertines. Better than anything I'd done before. Ever.

How do you feel about the album The Libertines now?

I feel a bit disgusted and disturbed by the way someone, other than myself, has done the artwork, the inlay, and how my songs haven't been credited. They should change their name and do their own songs. Carl's going round saying he wrote The Likely Lads. He knows that's not true.

So you're saying you wrote that song?

No. We wrote it together. On the record it says Barat. [Actually, the writing credits were left off The Libertines, unlike Up The Bracket, which credits "All songs Doherty/Barat". The matter of who wrote what is currently being looked at by lawyers] It was always 50/50. That was the idea. Until I turned on the telly one day and saw them doing Don't Look Back Into The Sun and then I knew it wasn't The Libertines.

But contractually, haven't The Libertines got to tour to promote the album?

McGee's got them on a conveyor belt. We would only have signed a deal that allows freedom. As individuals. As men. As Libertines. But maybe that's the attitude that gets you kicked out of The Libertines. It is, actually. Of course it is.

Carl has been very open about wanting you back, even if it's just as a friend...

He won't let me play, though. Why does he have to feel bad about stuff and miss me? Why does it have to be that way? Anyway, it seems I've been summoned now. Apparently, Carl wants to talk to me. He was sending texts to a number that didn't even exist. For fuck's sake, man.

Would you even like to rejoin The Libertines?

You must be out of your mind. You can't be in a band people who've done that to you, man. I give them my fucking songs and they kick me out of the band? There's eight or nine songs I should have done as Babyshambles. I was duped over those songs.

He won't let you play because he's trying to help you. By not kicking drugs, aren't you letting him, and everyone to whom The Libertines are so important, down?

If they are so important to all these people, they should take time to listen to the lyrics. It's an explosion, right? With the songs... romantic and the low moments and the highs... It was pretty much a cry from the darkness, a lot of it. Why carry on celebrating that? Times for Heroes should have been the last single.

You shouldn't have made a second album?

We haven't made a second album. No, we haven't. That's not my album. I've been packaged by it and advertised by it and had strategies weaved around by it. It's nothing to do with me. [Disgusted] The cover with me looking like a very handsome boy's junkie mate? Come on, man. It's not The Libertines.

You've given interviews to The Mirror in exchange for cash which you've then used to buy drugs. Do you regret being so open in the press?

I've never been open with the press. Or I would be assassinated. It's not what people would want to hear. They wouldn't even be able to hear. Their earmuffs would blow up. Fucking cunts.

Intermittently, as we are talking, Doherty will disappear up to the bedroom. At points he makes no sense at all, so I turn the tape recorder off. He tells a convoluted libelous story about Alan McGee and drugs, but realising this hasn't been recorded, he turns the tape on again and repeats it word for word, as though he had it perfectly prepared.

Some other things happen. His manager leaves the flat to collect some keys. Doherty finds a skipping rope and starts skipping. he asks me if I have any cocaine. He plays The Libertines album and sings along. He asks me if I will call singer Lisa Moorish, by whom he has a child. He decides he wants to cancel his afternoon of interviews and take their song to the zoo. He asks me if I want any cocaine. Eventually, while he is trying to make a joint, he falls asleep at the kitchen table. I try to help him upstairs to bed, but he's having none of it. "I've got to stay up and guard the fort," he mumbles. His manager comes back and I go.

We try to reschedule the interview fours times during the next week. Once, 20 minutes after we are due to meet, Mullord sends a text message to Doherty's PR: FORGET INTERVIEW.

Eventually we reconvene at the office of 1234 Records in Hoxton. Doherty looks brighter. His rascally grin is back. "You had a night's sleep?" asks Rob, a friend who comes by to drop off a guitar. He says he has, and Rob kisses him on the head. The previous night, Doherty had played a show at The Groucho Club, where, according to The Sun, he "wrecked" a piece of art worth £100,000. Since we last met, he has given an interview to Xfm, saying he's making a Christmas single with Carl Barat, though the pair haven't spoken for months.

Name something you wish you could learn at the click of your fingers.

[Immediately] Russian. Cos I know I'm going to end up in St Petersburg. It was weird, I was on the dole and I got to go to Russia to do this performance poetry thing, at their millennium festival. You know when you go to the Job Centre, and they look on the computer? Cos I was quite happy just claiming the dole money, I said "poet" knowing there'd be nothing for me. And he tapped it in and went, "Oh, I think we're in luck."

When did you first discover your power?

When I was a little kid and I chewed the vacuum cleaner cable. That's why I've got this grey hair [an impressive clump on the right side of his head]. I don't remember things cos of what happened then and subsequent hospitalisations and shit. Between the ages of two and 11 is a blank.

What three words would your friends use to describe you?

Honest. Mixed-up. Liar.

Tell me a secret you've never told anyone before.

That I've never told anyone...? Carl's girlfriend's in love with me.

Where's the strangest place you've had sex?

On the 11.15 to Dover.

How good are Babyshambles?

Good enough to make me want to not take crack. There's never been a band good enough to make me give up crack. Babyshambles are better than crack. Otherwise I wouldn't be doing it. I've be too busy taking crack.

When did you last take crack?

Long time. [Starts singing The Streets' Don't Mug Yourself] "Hold it down, boy, your head's getting blurred..." That's what my dealer said to me. "Put the pipe down. I'm not selling to you any more. Hold it down, you're going to make it." That instills me with joy, that. It makes me want to sit down and talk with you.

How fortunate that you've discovered the UK's only drug dealer with a conscience.

Well he's gone back to university. He's knocked it on the head, pretty much. We've kind of got a little pact together. He nearly went down for a long time. He nearly lost everything. And I nearly lost everything. My parents, my son, my life. I don't really want to be making a mockery out of everything we came to believe in. Something Mick Jones told me, it's about self-control. You can't play Russian Roulette with yourself. With needles. Stop all that.

You've always said you would never use needles.

Yesterday I did. A little bit. To get myself straight. You've got to understand that the amount I was taking... when you come off it, it's poison, effectively. It's difficult. And anyone who knows anything about it wouldn't believe me if I said, "Oh I've knocked it on the head." But I don't want to do it any more. This is it.

What thoughts will keep you on the straight and narrow?

The view from the straight and narrow path. But sometimes you want to get up on that cragged edge and see things properly and see how they really are. But then you get vertigo.

Presumably, it'll be easier now you're not on tour.

[Jokingly bewildered] Am I not on tour?

Carl is back from touring with The Libertines now.

Yeah, it'd be nice to see him.

And this Christmas single...?

Oh, man. That would be great. We always wanted to. If he's up for it. It would be a Babyshambles and Libertines single. That would confuse people. Not least me. We could dress up Dickensian. [Joking] With his head in the stocks.

Will there be a happy ending?

2005: up the 'Shambles. Join the queue. But I don't know if The Libertines would want to carry on. I can't see why that's want to prolong the agony. For them. For the British public.


Pete Doherty is bright, tricky, funny, talented, evasive, selfish, confused and positively indignant that his old bandmates have dealt him a terrible injustice. Can there be a happy ending? Only if he succeeds where Carl Barat and Alan McGee's tough love failed. Magazines calling him "the coolest man in rock" don't help. Sycophants egging him on the side of the stage don't help. A good night's sleep... well, it's a start.











Peter in Clash Magazine


BABYSHAMBLES

The crowd is beginning to get impatient. Tonight's gig was supposed to be an early starter so it could be finished in time for the venue's weekly rock 'n' roll club night. But as it is, three support bands have leisurely been and gone from the stage, there is no sign yet of the headliners and time is ticking on. One fan begins to chant; another joins in and soon after the room resounds to the terrace mantra of "Sham-bles Sham-bles! Sham-bles!" Worried faces question whether they will show, whispers of last night's riot in Aberdeen bet they won't turn up again tonight. Clash is standing backstage as Babyshambles exit the safe confines of their tourbus and enter the stage door. Patrick, Drew and Gemma rush on stage to a deafening response, half ecstasy and half relief. Teasing the crowd with his absence, Pete Doherty stands next to Clash, relishing the last few seconds of relative sanity, lighting a tight roll-up, before descending the few stairs into sheer madness! "Peeeeeeeeeete!"






Around four hours earlier, Clash is waiting patiently in the downstairs lounge of the Babyshambles tour bus. Pete is upstairs, putting down onto tape another glorious song that has just arrived to him; someone is banging drums. Drew, keeping us company downstairs as his clean laundry is returned, tells us yesterday's trip to Aberdeen included a visit to a music store, where a hefty bill was run up on a variety of instruments. I wonder where on the bus they keep it all, then I ask politely if I can have a banana.

Moments later, like a grievous angel cast from heaven, Dot Allison appears at the foot of the stairs, signaling the demo is complete for now and that we can head upstairs if we so wish. Head we do, thus finding ourselves at the door of the upstairs lounge and it's hanging off its hinges. It gets pushed open by an arm and as we look up from the extended limb we see it belongs to Pete Doherty, the man we have come to interrogate. He invites Clash in. We try to act cool as hell, trying not to gush like schoolgirls as we encounter a hero; someone that has faultlessly inspired us with his music and someone whose very presence is enough to make a dead man dance. But then Clash kicks over a can of coffee. Our cover blown, I glance around the tiny cabin to find that yesterday's purchases have all been crammed into this makeshift studio - we are kept company by a number of guitars and a banjo. I push aside a tiny snare drum to rest my bones.

Sitting down with Pete, I was immediately struck by how quiet and humble he was (hell, he'd just mopped the floor with his towel to clean up our mess.) This unassuming young man listened intently as Clash admitted their great love for The Libertines and their dismay at the treatment that Pete has faced by most fractions of the media. He looked genuinely touched as we outlined our intentions for this interview: to avoid any tabloid-like revelations, scandals or rumours, and for the first time reveal the man behind the music and the myths.

Being born an army child means never really planting roots, and so a young Pete found himself moving with his family from town to town and country to country throughout his formative years. Although born up near Newcastle, up the the age of about 14 he wasn't in England. The nature of the army barracks meant that there wasn't always necesarily someone of his own age to play with, so for the most Pete tended to play alone. If he wasn't kicking a football against a wall, he was immersing himself into the worlds of Tony Hancock, Chas and Dave, and films of the 50s and 60s. Does he think these were the little bits of England he took with him? "Always. There's always been a real sense of Englishness and probably nationalism. From an early age I had a fascination with the language and accents. I was a fanatical QPR fan as well, even though it was quite difficult seeing them play! (Laughs) But by the time I'd got back to England I was off with my little scarf everywhere following them. That was my passion. I think, in a way, I wanted to get back to what my mum and dad had been trying to escape from, you know what I mean? They wanted to get out of inner cities and I just had this fantasy of like inner city bohemia. So as soon as I could, I was like a greyhound out a trap as soon as I left home."

Another world that kept young Pete fascinated was that of poetry and literature. As I bring up the subject, I eye between us on the table is a book of Emily Dickinson poems. I ask, were you a voracious reader? "I was indeed," he replies. "In fact, that's the word I would have used if you hadn't first. My voracity encompassed Emily Dickinson. [Picks up book] It's like your favorite record, The Specials or The Las or The Smiths; you can put the needle on the groove anywhere and you know you're in for a treat." [Picks a page at random and quotes}

I fear a Man of frugal Speech -
I fear a Silent Man -
Haranguer - I can overtake -
Or Babbler - entertain -
But He who weigheth - While the Rest -
Expend their furthest pound -
Of this Man - I am wary -
I fear that He is Grand -

Actually, that's quite apt, because I kinda babble on and on and on, but your silent man in the corner, he's the one to watch."

Pete's love for poetry inadvertently let to his first world tour - first (and only) stop: Scandinavia. "Yeah. I was on New Deal at the time. When you go into the job center, you have to put down your profession cos that's how they scan their computers for what you'll do. So I thought, 'Well, I'll put down 'Poet.' There's no way on earth they'll have anything for me.' And they're like, 'What job did you say you do?' I said, 'Poet is my profession; first and second choice because it's the only thing I can do. I've got clinical melancholy.' She said, 'Ooh, I don't think we've got anything for you," and I was like, [feigns disappointment] "Oh damn!" Then she goes, "Oh, hold on Mr. Doherty, there's an opening." It was like working as part of a workshop; we'd do things in schools in South London, and yeah, we went abroad. It was a strange experience. There was 17 of us and I was the only white kid on it as well. My stuff is very introverted and pretending to be mysterious and even then it was even more pompous than it is now. Whereas their stuff was all, [adopts Rasta poet tone] "Wot the bloody! Sho' deal..."

I laugh, but I'm actually saddened. Here is the secret history of Pete Doherty: the shaping of the artist he was to become, and one that not many know about. It pisses me off that after devouring many art forms over the years and filtering them through his own talents onto two (dare I say it) classic albums, all that's written of Pete is his appetite for chemicals, and I tell Pete this, and ask if he feels the same. "I like to think, and I do believe - maybe it's wrong - but I do believe with all my heart that someone who's gonna pick up on the lyrics and be interested or inspired by them, like straightaway [clicks fingers] that's gonna nullify anything else anyone would ever say about me or the music. Because the lyrics are very honest about lots of things that are talked about in interviews. They're quite clear as well in how I feel about it. Yeah, of course, it does piss me off, but you can't....Yeah, you CAN pretend that you don't care what people write, because it's just on a page and what do they know anyway. But they're human, and I'm very interested anyway in the initiated mechanisms of individuals; meeting someone for an interview, them giving a certain portrait of themselves and a feeling, then you read it and you've been stitched up. You sit and talk about your hopes and your band's music and they say, "Yeah, that's great. We're really gonna cover your band." Then you read The Mirror and it's like, "1000 pound a day on crack and heroin." So the five minutes you spent talking about drugs is the article."

Moving swiftly ont then to the subject of music. Everybody who loves music can remember when the bastard first came and slapped them across the face and opened up a whole new world of possibilities to them, their Year Zero of music. Pete has two. "Well, probably buying [The Smiths] 'I Started Something I Couldn't Finish' on 7". One summer I was at my Nan's, I was about 15. Didn't even know what Smiths covers were like, it just caught my eye. 50p from a Cancer Research shop; I just had it. Took it home, whacked it on and that was it. [Sings] "The lanes were silent..." That was it. From then on, I was away and things kinda came full circle by the time I was 20 or 21; a couple of years ago. This is the second Year Zero, yeah? Because you've got the Roman calendar and you've got the Christian calendar, haven't you? I was working on a building site, right, on Portobello Road and it was like, "Oi, Doherty." They used to call me a Plastic Paddy. Well, I am. "You're a Plastic Paddy." "I'm not. I don't even want to be Irish." "Get down that hole or I'll stick my thumb up your bumhole." It was like lunchtime. "Go and get the papers." I got a couple of Suns, a couple of Daily Stars, a Sport, and I bought a copy of Sleazenation. I used to go up to the top, up on the winch and just sit and read. I opened it up and there was this picture, and I thought, "Hang on, that's me with me mates," but it wasn't. It was a band called The Strokes, who were just coming over for the first time, and that was it. I thought, "Hang on, something's wrong." Then, I was working in a bar a couple of weeks later and they came in. I didn't know they were a band but I sold them some drugs and I thought, you know, "Give us some tickets." Then, the night we saw them, me and Carl, we went to see them at Heaven, it was amazing. It really gave us a kick up the arse." The Strokes, I tell him, were like that for everybody. He concurs, calling them a "rallying cry" and we both agree they were the biggest and the best thing for kids since Oasis. "Yeah, looking around it was like kids in Reeboks and tracksuits fuckin' getting into it. It was like working class kids going mental to guitars. I didn't think that would happen again." That's how you measure a band's importance, I state, matter-of-factly. If you can get a 15-year-old guy to pick up a guitar then that's power. "Yeah, that's the ultimate, really," Pete adds. "When people say, "Oh Pete, you make me want to play guitar," that's the dream. Just keep it going, because that's our culture really."

Pete Doherty first met Carl Barat back in 1996 (there have been various versions of their meetings, but Pete did not answer further than the date when asked when they first met.) The Barat/Doherty songwriting partnership has been a cataclysmic meeting of minds, the latest figureheads in the great British legacy of creative duos, which stretches back past Brown/Squire and Morrissey/Marr to Jagger/Richards and Lennon/McCartney. The later probably encapsulated best all the prerequisites for a successful working relationship: two best friends with contradictory character traits bonded over a common love for music. McCartney was typically the optimistic one ("It's getting better all the time"), while Lennon would inject his pessimistic angle into his partner's songs ("It can't get no worse.") Did Pete choose - consciously or subconsciously - a writing partner because they were different? "It's funny you should say that. Take "I Get Along," which I wrote with Carl. He came up with the phrase [sings] "I get along, I get along..." and that's quite poppy and optimistic. Then I wrote the verses and the "Fuck 'em" bit and ti's like, I dunno...."You caught me in the middle, dazed on the carpet." I was saying, "I was really fucked up, you saw me there, blah blah blah, I don't know what to do," and then Carl goes, "I get along...." but it works the other way as well. I suppose the joy of it for the songwriter and the listener or the punter for whatever is the unpredictability of it. I mean, there isn't really a formula. I mean, sometimes it will happen and sometimes you'll sit down with guitars and something will be missing. You sort of look at each other. I'd say, "Come on, lets get on writing a tune," and Carl would say "Don't say that. Don't force it. How can you say that? It's gotta happen naturally." It normally started a row, you know what I mean?"

We continue to discuss songwriters. Lee Mavers is revealed as a favorite, then the virtues of those who penned for Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald are celebrated. He enjoys those melancholy songs, bluesy with a twist of humour and darkness. Running out of adjectives, Pete instead picks up an acoustic guitar ("my baby") and proceeds to demonstrate the beauty of Ella's "When I Get Low I Get High," to the accompaniment of my finger drumming. Towards the end, we are interrupted as Dot Allison pops in to say hello. "We've been writing songs together," says Pete. "Do you want to hear one?" How could we refuse? Pete begins with a few strummed chords; Dot plays a melody on her melodica before her delicate, breathy vocals introduce the verses. The graceful and light verses give way to a harder chorus, where Pete finally joins in, "I wanna hold your hand. I wanna be your man. I wanna be your dog. I wanna be adored" and between each line, Dot counters with "I wanna break your heart." It's a touching moment; one where we almost feel we're intruding in, but it's an honor to be treated to this exclusive performance, so our gratitude is demonstrated with applause.

The four-track machine in the corner has captured the spontaneous moments that have occurred within this compartment, but when it comes to larger, professional studios, I enquire how his methods differ. Is the studio a place to experiment, or does he enter with clear ideas on what he'll do? "With The Libertines, I had my songs and that was my salvation," he admits. "It was almost like a 9 to 5, the way it was like, come in at this time, eat at this time, leave at that time and work in between. Now it's different. That's not me at all; that's never been me. With Babyshambles, it's more working with people who realise it ain't 9 to 5. It's my life completely. There is no start and finish. Being in a studio should be free; I don't mean financially, I mean spiritually, physically. You're just free to experiment ideas. There is no regime. Yeah okay, you might be recording a single, in which case you get that done, but yeah, it's gotta be like a fella with a paintbrush, you know? Not like some anal graphic designer who's all rigid and..." He starts to mime rigidity. "For the benefit of the tape," he explains, "Peter is doing robotics!"

I tentatively broach the subject of Pete's time in prison, expecting it to be dismissed, but he is honest, open and frank about being inside. After burgling Barat's flat last summer, Pete was sentenced to six months in South London's Wandsworth Prison (also serving in HMP Standford Hill in Kent), though due to a successful appeal, was out a month later. "If you're held on remand or on bail or in the cells overnight or in the court," he begins, "it will rot your mind and you don't know what's happening. You don't know where you're going, why or where. But when you're actually in prison, you're there, right? You're reached the end of the line; it's a dead end. You know you're not going anywhere so you've just gotta get on with it. And there are lots and lots of people that are in the same boat as you who are in it for a lot longer. That was my main thought a lot of the time, "Fuckin' hell, I was lucky. I didn't get caught for this and that over the years, I'm doing a bit of time now.' But yeah, I think if I'd stayed in for too long or if I'd gone in again the other week [Pete was given a four month suspended custodial sentence in September after pleading guilty to possession of a knife], it would have done a LOT more damage than what it was the first time. Your mind is occupied by negative things anyway, by people around you. Like, individuals that you happen to be put in a cell with, someone who you really don't want to be in a cell with, you know what I mean? Nasty piece of work, fuckin' getting his dick out all the time and saying, "Is this normal, Pete?" You just end up fighting....and not winning! (Laughs)" The only positive thing Pete gained from his incarceration was the once a week access to the prison library, where he would stock up on five or six books at a time, inspiring his own writing and throwing himself into words. It felt, he said, like a lifeline.

Outside the walls of the jail, the 'Free Pete' campaign gathered momentum, the NME letters page filled with letters from Libertines fans, concerned for the health of their imprisoned champion. Their worries were alleviated when news of his release was broken. Pete remembers clearly the first things he did upon being let free. "Carl came and met me, so the first thing I did was look shocked, because I was shocked. I'd kinda prepared in my mind for a life out of The Libertines, and I didn't have any fuckin' reason to go back to Carl. I felt completely betrayed, but I looked at it fairly and seen how I hurt him. I didn't not want to face it, I just wanted to get on, and I had so many songs waiting. I was just like, 'Give me a guitar!" (Laughs) And he was there. He embraced me. That certainly was a moment. Then we went to a pub in town just off Baker Street, I won't say what it's called....mainly because I can't remember! And we got ROYALLY fuckin' trashed! (Laughs) We got thrown out in the end, the pair of us; six cigars in mouth..."

Subsequent to the emotional reunion, friendships were restored and work began immediately on The Libertines' second album. Holed up in a west London studio, the band, along with The Clash's Mick Jones at the helm again, set to work in constructing what would eventually become known as "The Libertines." Reviewed in the last issue of Clash, the predominantly autobiographical affair shot straight to Number 1, and without delay had listeners reading into every line, verse and chorus. As our conversation steers towards the songs featured within, we're distracted by a high frequency buzzing that's probably been going on all night. Something electrical is filling the room with an irritating drone that has us unplugging everything in the hope that it stops before our brains explode. We turn the light dimmers to no avail; it just won't go away. We all sit down, doing our best to ignore the fact that something somewhere is laughing at our puny attempts at dismantling it. There was one song in particular that I wanted to ask Pete about, one song that stood out from the others for being a slower and predominantly acoustic track. As I press him for the history of "Music When the Lights Go Out," the bright bulb on the roof directly above Pete's head goes out.l This rather disturbing coincidence freaks Pete out for a second, his eyes wide in bewilderment and staring at us to find some reasoning behind what just happened. Seconds later, he shakes it off, and answers the question pending. "I was living in this basement with Carl. He came in that night when I'd finished writing it and straightaway he came up with the "bom bom bom bom bom," you know what I mean? It was perfect; he came up with that, that riff, but the song was mainly mine. It's a very old song. It used to be the staple song in our set. It used to be the ... well, not that we had a crowd, but the crowd favorite - the one man and his dog favorite. It's the one song that people who remember the early days would always say, "Aw, why don't you play 'Music When the Lights Go Out'." It's a beautiful song, I tell him, and wonder why - especially after 'For Lovers,' his single with Wolfman - he doesn't let his softer side show more in his music. "I thought 'Radio America' was alright," he responds. "We never really did that live though, because the rest of the guys, I dunno, I don't think they were that into it. But I managed to get it onto our first album, like by hook or by crook. I think I owed Carl a bit of money and he was going, "Where's that money you owe me?" And I'd sort of say, "Look...." No wait.... Hang on, HE owed ME money. I canceled the debt and he let me put 'Radio America' on the album. Typical fuckin' Libertines! (Laughs) Absolutely disgraceful."

It seemed like everything was going to be okay in Arcadia, but it seems like life in The Libertines is never going to be easy. Although Pete left the prison clean from drugs, by some time later he had fallen back into bad habits. Spells in The Priory and an unsuccessful trip to the Thrambakok Monastery in Thailand must have strained whatever relations were left, and for reasons known truly only within the band, Pete was out. In an interview with The Sun, Pete claimed there was still hope for the band yet. He said: "If (Carl) comes and grabs me by the hand, maybe we can reclaim he empire together. But for now I'm out of the band. Surely no one wants to see me trapped in this cage that is only making me miserable." As The Libertines toured the summer festivals again without Pete, he found himself concentrating on his side-project Babyshambles. The fruits of his labor with Babyshambles are beginning to blossom; this barn storming tour is kick-starting the flurry of activity that will lead first to new single 'Killamangiro' and eventually to their debut album, probably due early next year. "Why would you pay to see me in a cage?" Pete ponders on the single, challenging his celebrity and questioning the whole circus that reports his every move.

He appears very happy and his good humour has made the interview a delight. We were given no clues as to what was to become of the likely lads, nor any indication of what the future held for himself, but it was evident that this liberation had allowed Pete the opportunity to take control of his own destiny and creative direction. He knows that his fans only want to see him healthy and contented and to continue making the music that means so much to them. For Pete, there is no alternative to the latter. "If I wasn't doing music," he tells us, "it wouldn't be me, would it? I've always been into music. But maybe I would've concentrated more on writing, as in creative writing. I'd just immerse myself in my imagination. But like, starting to learn the guitar, getting together with Carl, writing songs, getting out there, getting Babyshambles together, I've been given the opportunity by life; the chance by fate, the kind lady. She showed me a bit of leg, didn't she? She's allowed me to, rather than sit in - which I'm not knocking - rather than sit in and reside in my imagination I can actually live out any of those things I dare fucking dream or fantasize about. I can live them out. Do you get me?"


Would it be possible for you to pick up a copy of Clash for me? I've looked around here and can't find it. I can paypal the cost of it to you, but would really like this article and the photos. Also bookmarking the thread at .org.uk because the interviewer is going to post the uncut Q&A at some point apparently.










Peter in The Evening Standing


As little as six months ago, things were looking bleak for Pete Doherty. The 25-year-old singer, recently name Cool Icon Of 2004 by NME and whose group the Libertines have been feted for continuing the classic English underdog tradition of the Clash and the Smiths, had failed to kick his addiction to crack and heroin during a rehab session in The Priory and was fired from his own band by songwriting partner Carl Barat. Determined to clean himself up, Doherty signed up for rehab at Thailand's notoriously strict Thamkrabok Monastery, but lasted for a mere three days, before absconding to Bangkok to resume his habit. Even though the Libertines would later score a No. 1 album, Doherty wasn't expected to see out the year.

"I don't want to die", Doherty says, taking occasional sips from a vodka and lemonade in Soho's Colony Room. "And I'll take every precaution to avoid death. Probably, for the way I am and my state of mind and the state of my life, it's best to avoid heroin. And it's certainly best to avoid crack cocaine. It's having the right people around me and the love of my family and the people I'm closest to."
And the strength to finally give up everything? "I've got that strength. I've got to find it yet, but I've got it. It's like having an untidy room. It's there somewhere"

At first, Doherty's naïve ability to find romance in the seediest parts of London life was central to his appeal. Like Colony Room legend Francis Bacon before them, the Libertines celebrated cultured hedonism, spinning yarns of an idealised England they called Arcadia and telling whatever lies necessary to further their own myth. Drugs, it appeared back then, were just part of the theatre. But when Doherty was arrested in 2003, and subsequently imprisoned for two months for burgling Barat's flat to fund his heroin addiction, the so-called Arcadian Dream suddenly seemed very rotten indeed.

A short spell in prison for drugs offences was said to cleaned out Doherty’s system, but he now admits that wasn't true. "I didn’t have any crack, but most other things were pushed under the cell door."

At this time, Nuneaton-born Doherty fell out with his parents, who have both served in the army. "My mum and dad disowned me. My mum was heartbroken and didn't understand it and my dad said I was everything he hated most about humanity. He said, if he had his way, he'd string crack dealers up from the nearest lamppost. But we've mended a few bridges. It takes time to heal and you realise you're fighting the wrong people for the wrong reasons."

Surprisingly, Doherty believes that his attitude started to change during his brief stint at Thamkrabok. "It was a wake-up call. It was getting stronger and learning how to deal with something that had overtaken me at the time. I discovered things about myself that I didn't like. It was part of the process of spewing up poison. One of the monks was convinced that the demons coming out of me were the scariest he'd seen. It frightened the f*** out of me. But it let me know that that dark energy is there and when I've developed as a human being I'll try and confront that dark side."

After returning from Thailand, Doherty was arrested for possessing a flick knife. At the hearing, it initially appeared he was retuning to jail. "I was going to jump out of the box and make a dash down the Mile End Road. And then I looked at my mum and I thought, "No, they'll catch me." In the end, he received a four-month suspended sentence. But the shock was enough. Did he really think he was headed for jail? "Yeah," the singer shudders. "Horror show."

Doherty still has some way to go when it comes to drugs, but he's trying. "It's like you're in love with someone," he says of his addiction. "You never really stop loving that person." And of crack specifically: 'It’s like a family member who's a bit troublesome but you love them anyway because you know they're all right. Even if the rest of the world can see the truth, i.e. they're not all right. But they're in you’re blood."

It's definitely been a rocky road. Doherty had to cancel a show in Aberdeen with his new band Babyshambles – who he views as being "one and the same" as the Libertines in terms of his songwriting – because of drugs. "I had an overdose on the bus," he admits. But things are looking up. Right now, he's clean. "I don’t take crack. I say that, I haven't taken it for the past 14 days. I know I won't take any tonight because I’m rehearsing and they [Babyshambles] won't stand for it." Another positive move is his involvement with the Strummerville charity, set up to help poor young musicians, "I can't put my hand on heart and say I won't have another pipe. But I think I've taken it as far as it will go."

Most importantly, he's grown up to realise he has the best reason to be clean now: his son. "I've got a one-year-old son, Astile, who I love," Doherty says. "I wanted to call him Peter because I thought I was going to cark it round about then. I thought keep the name Peter going. But she [mother Lisa Moorish] wasn't having any of it.” Has fatherhood changed him? “Not really. I don't have a close relationship with his mother. But my family's been amazing. I need to buck up my ideas there. But when I can claim to have any sort of control over my life, I'm going to take some responsibility for Astile. I love the little fella.” With a bit of luck, this father and son story will have a happy ending.











Peter in Hotpress

What a Bloddy Shambles

2004 was an extraordinary and chaotic year in the life of Pete Doherty. Having made the running as front man with The Libertines, he was sacked from the band. His heroin addiction public, he careened into all manner of potentially damaging conflicts. When he re-emerged recently with Babyshambles, the hope was that he might have begun to clean up his act. But when hotpress finally caught up with him in Dublin, on the final date of the band's tour of the UK and Ireland, we were witness to some truly bizarre and troubling scenes. [Frontline report: Steve Cummins]

Plus: Amid rumour and counter rumour concerning the future of the band, Libertines drummer Gary Powell offers a no holds barred view of the damage inflicted by Pete Doherty's heroin addiction on the career of a band that had the world at its feet. [Interview: Paul Nolan]



It’s an hour and a half since Babyshambles’ first Irish performance ended in a chaotic stage invasion. I’m standing in the rain trying to piece together how I’ve landed here, the side of the road by Dublin airport. Behind me the Babyshambles tour bus is starting its engine. As it pulls out onto the motorway heading north to Belfast where the band will board the ferry back to the UK, Pete Doherty pulls back the curtain and makes a gesture to say we’ll talk on the phone before giving me the thumbs up. I flag down a taxi.

As I clamber in, the rain begins to fall harder.

"It’s been a rough day hasn’t it," comes the voice from the front.

"Yeah," I say, "tell me about it." The wipers hum, and the headlights flash hypnotically by, inducing a sleepy feeling. I’m tired but at least I’m heading back towards some kind of normality. There’ll be time to consider the events of the day more thoroughly in the morning.

Over the course of the past year, Pete Doherty has become one of the most talked about drug addicts in rock and roll. His 2004 is a story you just couldn’t make up. It involves studio punch-ups, ejection from The Libertines, four failed rehab attempts, a fall out with best friend and Libertine Carl Barât, conviction for possession of a flick-knife, the destruction of a £100,000 piece of art, conspicuous crack cocaine and heroin addiction, drug overdoses, a number one album, four top ten singles, lyrics traded for drugs, interviews for cash (for drugs), impromptu gigs, a new band, mammoth tours, regular failure to show for gigs, riotous gigs, gigs that actually end in riots, an attempt to buy curtains for his tour bus in exchange for his passport and, most famously, a failed rehab attempt in Thailand, involving EastEnders’ Dot Cotton.

Such behaviour has seen him painted as something of a punk icon in sections of the media. The NME recently voted him "the coolest man in rock." His story has been splashed across the tabloids. The (UK) Sun even run a column called ‘Pete Watch’, charting the singer’s unpredictable behaviour.

His fans meanwhile, are fanatical and elevate him to hero status. They chant his name at shows and swarm around him at every opportunity. They are constantly forgiving of his crimes and misdemeanors. Often, when he fails to appear for shows, they are sympathetic of his "illness" and berate those who are critical of his unprofessionalism.

Sometimes, it’s easy to understand why they are so hostile to his detractors. As rock stars go, Doherty can be unusually inclusive and accessible. Free downloads are made available on his website and he often posts demos of new material, as well as live recordings. Fans are also regularly invited to impromptu gigs in London pubs and clubs. He even does gigs in his flat. Last August I attended one.

I sat in his front room drinking cheap lager as he performed for an hour or so. In conversation he was shy, softly spoken and often looked lost within himself. Whenever talk turned to The Libertines he became visibly upset. He wanted a reunion, he said. He had sent Barât numerous messages but had got no reply. He even sent one while we were there. If anything, I too felt sorry for him.

His drug dependency was even sadder to see. In his appearance, he bore all the hall marks of his addictions. His skin was pale to the point of ghostly. On his arms were marks where needles had entered. Twice during the gig a suspicious piece of tin foil fell from under his hat. It was the side to Doherty that nobody wanted to see.

Later that night he also displayed the kind of petulance and unpredictability that compelled Barât to sever ties with him. At 9 o’clock, he left the flat for a sold out show in nearby Camden, but never made it on stage. It emerged the following day that, after the venue door staff refused to admit one of his entourage, he stormed off, refusing to go ahead with the show. Two nights later he pulled another show. This time no explanation was given.

It is this kind of behaviour for which he has since become infamous. A first UK tour in October with new band Babyshambles included a show in Aberdeen which ended in a riot after the band failed to appear. It later emerged that Doherty had overdosed on his tour bus.

Doherty’s erratic behaviour, though, hasn’t affected his growing popularity. Babyshambles last single, ‘Killamangiro’, went into the UK?charts at number 8. Their recent week-long December tour of the UK and Ireland was a complete sell out. It was at the Dublin show I was due to meet him for the second time...

These days nothing is simple in Doherty’s world. Where previously he offered interviews for cash, he has now become much more evasive with the press. An hour before I’m due to meet him at The Village, I receive a call from his Irish PR to tell me he has cancelled all media commitments. He’s still asleep, I’m told. It’s the second time I’ve had an interview with him pulled at short notice.

I decide to call his manager, James Mullord, who I know, in an attempt to organise something later that day. At 4 o’clock I eventually get through to him. He sounds like he’s just woken up.

Belfast went well the previous night, Mullord tells me, and the group have just enjoyed the benefits of a long sleep. "Someone brought down a load of Termazipan," he says chirpily. "Everyone was out like a light. It was fuckin’ brilliant. No hassle, no trouble. Everyone got a good night, unlike Friday when there was fuckin’ fighting and arguments and mayhem." We make a date to meet at the venue, where the tour bus will be parked. I could talk to Doherty there.

Carl Barât refers to Babyshambles as Doherty’s "denial band". He claims that Doherty has surrounded himself with his junkie friends and that they make up the group’s entourage. As I sit on the group’s tour bus, waiting for Mullord, I can see what Barât was getting at. A lot of the characters who float in and out of the bus appear much the worse for wear. They share Doherty’s pale skin and glassy eyes.

Mullord is different. He wanders down the stairs, throwing out instructions. He appears organised within a disorganised world. He suggests we head into the venue. Doherty has gone AWOL but he expects him to appear for the sound check in twenty minutes time. He hopes the interview can be done then.

"We’ll have to be tactical about this," he says. "Peter can be funny about these. You know one minute he’ll do it, the next he won’t. I’ll try getting him at the right time. He’s quite unpredictable though."

When Doherty does show, he looks completely out of it. The sound check is a farce. Doherty does most of it while lying on the floor next to the drum kit. The sound engineer isn’t impressed. Drew O’Connell, the group’s bassist, becomes impatient.

"Have you got enough? Is the sound alright?" he asks.

"It would be," says the engineer, "if Pete could stop clipping the mic and would sing up but I doubt that’s going to happen." For reasons that seems pretty obvious, I’m told the interview won’t happen until after the show.

The gig itself is an absolute triumph. Doherty is in fine form. The band too is much better, and tighter, than might have been expected. The crowd go nuts. Constant streams of crowd surfers are pushed forward, Doherty reaching out a hand to each one. By the end of the night, it appears that nearly half of the crowd are on stage. A huge invasion occurs during ‘Wolfman’.

The security men don’t know what to do. It’s carnage. People are falling everywhere. Babyshambles drummer Gemma Clarke is going crazy at the fans falling on her drum kit. A roadie lifts a mic stand and waves it aggressively screaming, "The next cunt who falls on the equipment I’m going to fuckin’ hit them."

I have to say I’ve never seen anything like it before. The lights go up and the gig finishes.

Outside the crowd are refusing to go home. They mill around the tour bus. Screams of "Peter, Peter" ring out. I bump into O’Connell, who is signing autographs, and we jump onto the bus together. The chanting is getting louder. As we open the door, separating the driver’s cabin from the buses lounge area, I see Doherty right in front of me. He’s about to shoot up.

He’s sitting at a table with his top off. Wrapped around his left arm is a black rubber cord. It’s just above his ‘Libertine’ tattoo. The other end of the cord is held between his teeth. On the table in front of him is a needle. He gives me a look as if to say hello.


"You’d better wait out here with the driver," says O’Connell.

"OK," I say, shocked. He closes the door behind him.

I look out at the fans. They’re smiling, banging on the side of the bus. They’re still chanting. It all begins to feel a little uncomfortable.

Ten minutes later Doherty emerges. He’s looks animated, gazing out the front window. There’s still a large group of fans around. I move down the bus. A roadie wanders up to me and asks me for a note, offering me a couple of lines. I decline. I bump into Mullord. He’s doing his best to organise things. Doherty wanders up, looking for his guitar. He looks awful up close, deathly. He’s got frailer since I last saw him. His skin is yellowish around his eyes and his teeth are ruined. His eyes are watery and glazed.

He tells me to come up and watch the gig. At the front of the bus he begins to serenade the crowd outside, with Libertines songs. I stand behind him listening. Above my head I spot a small cabin with a dirty mattress and duvet in it. It looks like a squat. On top of the mattress are a number of burnt spoons and pieces of tin foil. There is a large pile of white powder in the corner nearest me.

Mullord pops his head in. He asks Doherty to do the interview. They have to leave soon. Guitarist Patrick Walden is also eager that Doherty sits down and talks. Eventually the bus begins to move and Doherty finishes his impromptu set.

As we pull away, leaving the fans scattered on the pavement, they ask me to stay on the bus until we get to the ferry. Doherty says he’ll do the interview at some stage on the way down. He’s giddy now. Constantly moving. I learn that they are going to the port of Larne, just outside Belfast, over a hundred miles away. Sense gets the better of me. It’s now or nothing, I say.

Our interview is brief. We have until the airport. Throughout Doherty constantly dodges questions, allowing others to do the talking. As he speaks he moves his head child-like, staring at whoever is speaking. He’s cartoonish in his movements.

"There was a lot of love in the air tonight," he says, "it’s been a hell of a start to the tour."

What does he make of The Libertines decision to split at the end of the year?

He becomes evasive.

"Libertines will always be around. The realm of infinity. They’ve been around for centuries and will for centuries more."

But what about the band, I say.

He pauses.

"I don’t know. I just feel so far removed from that dark age. I’d be a fool to sit around and mope. They’re not my friends. They’re not Libertines."

He’s insistent now.

"They’re not actually Libertines. How they can call themselves that is beyond me. It’s beyond me why anyone would be interested in them. It’s not their songs."

Walden interjects. He says that Pete instigated the whole Libertines thing; that they wouldn’t have happened were it not for him. Doherty says he’s with his real friends now. He is indignant that Carl Barât and the other members have done him a great injustice. He doesn’t know if they will speak again. "He’s involved in a quite fucked up celebrity schmoozing world," he says of Carl, "I don’t understand it. I’m just glad he showed his true colours when he did."

We are passing by the airport. I decide to get out. Doherty says he’d like to continue our conversation. We agree to speak on the phone over the coming days. I say my goodbyes and walk out into the early morning rain...

Over the next few days I try Mullord a number of times without any luck. It’s nearly a week later when I eventually get through to him and he fills me in on the news.

Two days earlier a gig in Blackpool ended in disaster. Doherty began nodding off on stage, forgetting lyrics. The band stormed off and, although he tried to carry on, playing acoustic guitars, eventually he was literally dragged off the stage. Mullord says he was relieved to hear he’d only taken sleeping pills and not "the hard stuff".


The following night they are due to play the Astoria in London. It’s the last gig of the tour. Doherty, I’m told, will hopefully speak to me at around 8 o’clock that evening. I call but Mullord’s phone is off. The following day I read that Doherty failed to show and that the gig ended in a riot. The bands equipment was smashed and the stage ripped apart. There are photos on some sites of fans leaving covered in blood. It’s horrendous. That same night, Carl Barât ended The Libertines in Paris. In contrast the gig is said to have been a huge success.

In Pete Doherty’s world, right now there is no one to say stop. His apparently self-destructive behaviour has become acceptable to his fans, and to those around him. They seem vicariously involved in his downward slide. He is almost constantly on tour, constantly surrounded by drugs, and rarely has a (scheduled) day off. Classically, it looks as if Pete Doherty is becoming a victim of his own success.

He tells me he would have given up music for a while if Babyshambles hadn’t been so good. Unfortunately, you might say, they are terrific.

I wish it wasn’t so. The way things are going; I cannot imagine there will be a happy ending.

The Libertines: The Show Must Go On:

To say that 2004 was a tumultuous year for the Libertines would be something of an understatement. The ongoing psycho-drama between the three remaining members and Pete Doherty has become the soap opera du jour in the major music publications in Britain, with the ongoing fallout from the Babyshambles frontman’s departure still making headlines some six months after his erstwhile band mates finally asked him to leave.

It goes without saying that the build-up to Doherty’s parting of ways with the band was a lurid catalogue of, often literally, criminal excess. Whether it was breaking into his band mate Carl Barat’s flat and making off with some choice goods to finance his well-publicised crack habit, selling his passport for similar reasons, or even the disappointingly prosaic misdemeanour of driving without insurance, Doherty seemed hell-bent on self-destruction.

Since Doherty left and began his haphazard attempts to kick-start the appropriately named Babyshambles, The Libertines have regrouped, re-focused and attempted to establish themselves as a credible force minus their wayward talisman. With guitarist Anthony Rossamando filling in for Doherty, the band came through their tricky initial assignments at Reading and Leeds with flying colours, then headed off on a five-month world tour, the reviews for which have been hugely enthusiastic.

Overall, The Libertines would appear to have experienced a very bittersweet twelve months.

"Well, psychologically, it’s been a very difficult year for the band," explains Gary Powell, the band’s laid-back and immensely likeable drummer. "It’s been a lot of fun touring, because we managed to get Anthony Rossamando to come back and play with us again. We really like Anthony as an individual; he just gels perfectly with us on both a personal and musical level. So, we’ve had great fun gigging over the past year, but it’s definitely been a bit of a grind at times, because every so often we just hear stories of woe with regard to Pete and what have you, and that’s been really hard for us all to handle.

"But the flip side is that we’ve all grown as individuals, not just musically, but also in terms of our ability to deal emotionally with what’s going on around us. I think we’ve become a lot more adept at handling different people and different scenarios because of what we’ve come through. But, you know, it’s still pretty tough."

What’s the current state of play with the band?

"Well, Carl’s going to have an operation on his eye this month, after which he’s gonna have some rest and recuperation time. John’s the lead singer in a band called Yeti, so he’ll be playing with them while we’re taking a bit of break from the band. At this stage, we’ve been on the road for five months straight, so we all need to take a breather and catch up with some other stuff.

"Then we’ll probably be heading into the studio at the end of this month or mid-to-late February, just to goof around with some ideas and see where it takes us. There’s nothing set in stone in terms of recording, although our management has made some tentative plans for more touring this year, but I would stress they are tentative. But things are pretty much in motion for us for 2005."

There was report on the NME website in December that when Gary, John and Carl regroup later this month, it might not be under the name The Libertines…

"Well, even if it is something else, people will still look at us and see The Libertines," reasons Gary. "We’ll have three of the same members in the band, and I’d imagine the sound and the vibe will be essentially the same…so I think it’s more a case of The Libertines are dead, long live The Libertines."

What are Gary’s feelings toward Doherty at this point?

"I’d just wish he’d get his act together, I really do," he sighs. "I mean, I know he’s doing his Babyshambles thing at the moment, which is really good, ’cos he seemed to be approaching it properly and trying to do the best he can musically. We’ve heard mixed reports with reference to his shows; some people have said it’s absolutely brilliant, but we’ve played shows with Peter where things have been completely shambolic and on the verge of falling apart, and you’ve got to remember, we are musicians – we started playing together because of a love of music.

"My idea of a good show is where we all play to the best of our abilities and we really communicate what we’re feeling. So when we used to play these ridiculously chaotic shows, and it didn’t really feel so great for us, and people were still saying it was possibly the best gig they’d ever seen, that actually made me question their motivation for coming the see the concert in the first place. I mean, are you going to see a band you really like play good music, or are you going to see a freakshow?"

Unfortunately, Doherty really doesn’t seem to be in great shape at the moment. Are the band fearful for him?

"We are always fearful for him, and Peter knows that we really want him to sort himself out," says Gary. "But he really has to want to do it for himself. I read some of that interview he did with Q recently, but I only saw the stuff he was saying about us. You know, ‘I’m not in The Libertines, I’d never play with that band again’, all that type of stuff. That was really quite hurtful. Because we’ve gone through a lot as friends, and as band-members, and for him to be so dismissive of us, to push us aside in a single sentence, like we meant absolutely nothing to him - that really stung, so I didn’t actually read the rest of the article.

"But I also know that Peter is hurt himself, and he’s probably lashing out at the one thing he knows he can lash out at, which is us guys. He’s not going to have a go at anyone else, cos I don’t think he particularly cares about anyone else. He’ll always take his frustrations out on us, ’cos he knows that we care about him. And I’m sure he knows that we still care about him."

From a performance point of view, how has the dynamic in the group changed since Doherty left?

"It’s more stable, although we still do have the odd moment of mayhem," replies Gary. "Like in Montreal a while back, I just decided at the end of the show that I was going to trash the drumkit. And I didn’t just trash the drumkit, we all trashed the drumkit. Whereas before, when something happened onstage, it was usually because Peter was doing something for his own gratification. Peter wasn’t actually acting on behalf of the band, Peter was acting on behalf of Peter."

Whether or not Doherty finally staggers back to the straight and narrow remains to be seen. For The Libertines, however, life goes on. What are Gary’s hopes for 2005?

"Just to get things on an even keel, and for us to realise our potential as a band," he states. "And to enjoy the shows. You better have a Guinness waiting for me when we play our next show in Ireland!"