The Unrelenting Genius of Pete Doherty and Babyshambles

Back to blogging. It's been a while since I've written anything, but then I have no desire to force out words over music that doesn't get my pulse racing, and it has indeed been a while since an album has emerged from the murky, unreliable undercurrent of the 21st century music industry and, to my utmost pleasure, unapologetically smashed me around the face. As I stroll through life, I often try to make sense of myself via the medium of song. If I find life particularly taxing at any given moment, the chances are that I'm lacking the solace; the private empathetic and inspirational weapon that I inject into my ear drums and utilise as a survival technique to deal with anything that comes my way. Fortunately for me then that Babyshambles' latest offering; Sequel to the Prequel, came about just at the crucial moment that I could use Mr Doherty's special brand of gentlemanly, intellectual punk-poetry to wistfully strut around to.

Sequel to the Prequel has it all. It generously delivers everything that we've learnt to expect from a Babyshambles album; great riffs, tattoo-ably brilliant lyrics, raw attitude and the kind of swagger that, with a few exceptions, we have not really been treated to since the heady rock n' roll golden ages of yesteryear. With this album comes the poignant reminder that music like this does not come along every day, and when listening to Sequel to the Prequel for the first time, it was a joyous end to a musical drought that I didn't even realise was raging. Pete Doherty has once again proven himself to be the ring master of it all; a remorseless hunter of hedonism and a loveable rogue with a lifeblood of creativity pulsing through every (other) vein. Time and time again the world has been guilty of questioning whether he has taken things too far this time; 'has the genius dried up?' a thousand ignorant journalists ask in futile rhetoric, and the answer is of course; no. His lifestyle breeds inspiration and creativity, and thankfully his unique talent to act as the satellite for these moonstruck thoughts and experiences means that we all get to revel in his exploits.

The album is fantastic. There's not a great deal to say apart from; listen to it yourself. Listen to it as you walk through the crisp autumn air, listen to it on buses, play it unreasonably loud from park benches, listen to it in the dark, put it on when you're lying in bed alone, put it on when you're lying in bed together. It's got it all. The ballsy opener of Fireman is an old school punk anthem, unexpected and sloppy but in that unique and loveable Babyshambles way. While the lead single Nothing Comes to Nothing isn't them at their best, it still has it's own merit and is a prime example of Pete's hopeless romantic side, full of longing and self-contradiction; 'nothing ever comes to nothing without my baby/nothing's ever good for nothing with that lady'. 

Personally, it's track three and onward that has elbowed this album into becoming a permanent tool in my enduring arsenal.  Every song that follows has it's own excellent cocktail to bring to the party; often reminiscent of their older works but in a great way; a way that quenches your thirst and adds to the hunger for more Babyshambles, not in a way that so many bands have done recently by churning out what sounds like an alternative take on their one (off) masterpiece. Songs like New Park and Maybeline are so undeniably born of this band and yet so satisfyingly fresh that twenty-five or so listens later I'm still getting kicks off every note. The obligatory 'Shambles interlude - Sequel to the Prequel - actually manifests into a full on piece of artistry which left me feeling a fool for dismissing it as another Pentonville. 

While it's hard not to discuss every song, I shall attempt not to in respect of my own loathing for those awful reviews which dissect albums like insects in a Petrie dish instead of appreciating them as they were intended; a fifty-ish minute experience built for your sensual pleasure. A special mention must go out to my three favourite tracks however (at least, my three favourites at this incredibly specific moment at 8.49pm on Monday 16th September 2013); Dr No where the band once again bring their unique reggae inspired sound to the forefront, Penguins which contains some of the most outstandingly simple and yet undeniably perfect lyrics I've heard for a long while; 'I really don't like your boyfriend's face/and I'm going to try and take his place', and finally; Minefield. I would go as far as to rate Minefield as the best song of 2013. Seriously. The guitar is so deeply sexual, the lyrics so penetrating, the eruption of the song so volcanic - all I want to do when I listen to this song is lose my shit in a sweaty club, safe in the knowledge that nothing outside of that moment in space and time will ever matter. 

Listen to it. 

When one reaches the end of the deluxe version to find a typically endearing Doherty cover of the Velvet Underground's After Hours, it is hard to want any more from life. After Hours has, for many years, been a fantastic song, and while the lyrics are so dreamily spot-on, encapsulating a feeling and a moment in time that is all so perfect - this version injects a little more joy to the occasion, not leaving you feeling quite so dirty about never wanting to see the day again. Although still a little dirty, obviously. 

In conclusion, there is no disappointment to be found within the rich, expansive lands of Sequel to the Prequel. There are wonders and surprises to be found in every song, with every listen. Like all the best lyricists, Pete's words are layered in such a way that you can find a new favourite line for each hour of the day, and then some. In my wildest desires a more perfect soundtrack to these uncertain autumn months could not have fallen into my hands, and the fact that it was delivered by the majestic Doherty - a man who once told me I had powerful eyes as he smoked my menthol cigarette in a dark Camden doorway - makes it all the more delicious. I now anticipate the arrival of this audio in it's most attractive twelve inch physical format, when I shall revel in discovering it all over again.

Turn off those lights. Here's Minefield;

Nostalgic Mumblings of a Homesick Time-Traveller

Whilst finishing up the last few pages of ‘John’ by Cynthia Lennon, the latest in a long line of books that I have read in the hope that people’s words and memories can successfully – if temporarily – transport me back to the glorious 1960s, I reached the conclusion that; I am old. While this may not be true if one is measuring the abstract concept of time in the conventional way, as by that dubious yardstick I would be deemed a mere twenty-three years old, I am talking more in the musical sense.

Nostalgia is a weird, wonderful, troubling and powerful thing, and a curse that I struggle with a lot. There are times where I have found myself almost crippled by the desire to exist at a time when people, society, music and attitudes were more similar to my own interests and ideals. Of course, whether such a time ever really existed is uncertain, and I’m not denying that much of my personal torment has been caused by peering through the glorious rose-tinted glasses of hindsight.

I noted the other day, as I was reading through various definitions and tales of nostalgia in attempt to sooth my own raging bout, that the first synonym that appeared for nostalgic was homesick. I like this. This allows me to believe that I am actually from another time and that I should be turning twenty-four not in 2012, but in 1969, having spent the previous five years of my adult life submerged in the colourful, liberating, experimental and optimistic cultural waves that were crashing around everyone like a tsunami of awakening. However, by some misfortune, I have ended up far away from home in the complicated, digitalised world of the 21^st Century, struggling to find the portal which will deliver me safely back to the part of myself which cavorts and frolics there as we speak.

I’m sure I am not the only one who has been lost to the complex voids of time travel, and if my geographical navigational skills are anything to go by, it is hardly surprising that I find myself so far from home, a bit confused and entirely unsure as to what I came here for in the first place.

There is a great deal of evidence to support the strength of my age-related epiphany, not least to be found in the music that I listen to and repeatedly praise and obsess about on a daily basis. While the majority of my musical intake comes courtesy of a record collection, my hope being that somewhere between the needle and the vinyl there will be room for me to slip back to the homeland, even by other more 21^st Century means of listening to music the majority would be pre-1995. This therefore leads me to believe that I have the listening habits of someone between the ages of thirty-five and seventy.

This is why I feel old before my time. I spend my days thinking to myself that all this popular music is rubbish, just insignificant churning shod; noise pumped out to the useless farting masses. Now, obviously music is subjective, and if it brings joy to people/morons then there's not much I can do about it. I'd never wish shit music didn't exist. It can be a useful tool in determining whether someone is a vibrant, interesting person or y'know; a JLS fan.

Now, obviously I am not saying that good, new music doesn’t exist, and indeed it can be found in abundance if one only looks under the right mossy rock. Nor do I not love many things about my life and the wonderful people I have met here in 2012. Where possible, I deal with my homesickness by spending time with other people who may also feel like they too have been born in a time that is not entirely their own, strong in the knowledge that if we all want it badly enough time can be transcended. Besides, it is only through our acceptance of time as a concrete a notion which suggests that we cannot in fact choose to exist in any moment we so desire. Time is irrelevant after all, not linear.

In the meantime, I continue to submerge myself in words written by those lucky people who know for certain that they existed at the time to which I feel such a connection. Cynthia Lennon, Pamela Des Barres, Patti Boyd, Mick Rock, Pauline Butcher, Nick Kent, Elliot Tiber and Cameron Crowe – thank you for providing the mind raft for such a vivid and sensual journey back through time.

Fortunately for me, alongside the realisation that I am old comes the brilliant awareness that I am also incredibly young. While the homesickness for a previous age lingers within me, rearing its head sometimes more powerfully than others, I am confident that at some point I will find myself back at the moment in which I belong. And in the meantime, I might as well enjoy the holiday for all it’s worth.

A song to transport you...