Babyshambles

Only a few hours late – somebody buy the guy a watch and make sure he doesn't smoke it up – and Babyshambles fall onto the stage, with the rabid frenzy of the front row now reaching foaming point. After some initial seration from the rhythm section, Mr. Doherty stumbles onto stage, leather hat and jacket in check and cigarette firmly clenched between teeth. Now opinions about this man are usually teetering on a knife-edge: Religious worship lies on one side, venomous abhorrence makes up t’other. Suffice to say, if The Libertines aren’t your bag, then your chances of getting along with Babyshambles are to put it mildly, f**ked from the start. Not so much because of the similarities in their music (although there are many) but because of Doherty himself. Tonight, his usually slurred incoherence is replaced with a surprising finesse. You still get the feeling that at any minute a hacking cough will erupt down the microphone, but the entirety of the set is delivered without a single spitoon of phlegm being carted off the stage.

The band are tight and the songs – punk, ska, ramshackling nonsense – are played to rumbling perfection, but all eyes are on the singer swinging from the rafters. Chants of "Lib-er-tines! Lib-er-tines!” are soon quashed with a swift finger on the lips from Pete and the fanatical pocket of fans at the front continue to belt out every word – their version of ‘What Katie Did’ being the only nod towards Pete’s ‘other’ project. There is something about this lad, yet on the eve of 'The Libertines' hitting the top stop, you can't help but wonder why such a frustratingly intergral part of the trials and tribulations that the record is built upon, is falling around The Rhythm Factory with a different band. He's a musician so he's got to play, yet surely this is just a case of biding time, so for f**ks sake smash the pipe, bin the foil and get back to causing a stir with Carl.

Photo courtesy of Andrew Kendall