I have done battle with the Libertines three times over the past 19 years. Only I havenât, not really. Two of the interviews were with Pete Doherty for projects away from the band that made him famous: Babyshambles and the Puta Madres. The first was in a mangy London hotel bedroom in 2005 â he was sitting on a motorbike, revving it up, when he was awake. Much of the time he was asleep. He was 26, surrounded by drugs paraphernalia, and had daubed âROUGH TRADEâ on the wall in his own blood. Last time we met, four years ago, he was in better nick and more sociable. That said, he was still smoking crack, threw a punch that just missed me, kissed my forehead by way of apology, and took me to his wreck of a house where he tried to flog me his possessions. He still had something about him: a wasted brilliance and surprising charm that he failed to hide, despite his best efforts.
As for his soul brother and sparring partner Carl Barât, I met him in 2006 when he was also recovering from the Libertines. Barât had just formed Dirty Pretty Things and the band was releasing its first album. He was quiet, likable, and profoundly depressed. Barât talked a lot about âEvil Carlâ, the self-destructive side of him that had a downer on life. In a different way, you worried as much for the future of Barât as for Doherty.
Now they are back together for their fourth album in 22 years. In 2015, 11 years after their second album, they released Anthems for Doomed Youth. The Wilfred Owen-inspired title was classic Libertines (even if the album wasnât) â poignant, poetic and fuelled by war of one kind or another. All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade, the new record, is another classic Libertines title â again referencing war, literature and trauma. The difference is that this is a classic Libertines album. There is the rollicking boisterousness of old in tracks such as Run Run Run, writerly songs that allude to 20th-century Hollywood (Night of the Hunter) and ballads of shimmering beauty (Songs They Never Play on the Radio).
Was it easy recording together again?
âNo,â Barât says, quickly.
âCarl insisted on there being no alcohol even,â Doherty says. âHe wanted it to be pure. Itâs not like I want to get pissed, but I like a glass of cider. And heâs like, no. It was pressure. Weâd never done it before. The studio had always been a time of merriment and celebration.â
Was Doherty surprised he could create while sober and clean of drugs? âI was relieved. And proud. To be able to say to my wife, âIâm not drinkingâ, I was proud.â
Whatâs it like to be back together? Doherty gives me a scornful look. âI donât know if that question makes any sense.â
Barât: âWeâve been back together since 2010.â
Doherty: âHe doesnât know what heâs talking about.â
Theyâre ganging up on me. What I mean, I say, is itâs almost a decade since the last album.
They give each other a conspiratorial look.
âItâs a better story actually to say we havenât been together,â Barât says. They decide they quite like this version of history.
âI like it when someone comes who doesnât know anything about us,â Doherty says sweetly. His moods change today as rapidly as they ever did.
What is different, they say, is that this is the first time theyâve taken pleasure in the product of their toils. âToday we were coming up the M23 and we actually listened to the new album from start to finish,â Doherty says. âWe had a singalong, a bit of a laugh, a bit of a cry. Thatâs something weâve never done before â put on our own record and listened to it on a car journey.â
Barât: âAnd definitely not laughing and crying.â
Doherty: âThat must say something powerful.â
There have been many times in his life when he thought heâd had it with music, he says. But he always finds himself returning to his guitar. âItâs a calling; like the priesthood. It will always call certain types of men or women.â
Barât: âItâs like a call to arms.â
Doherty tuts. âWhy dâyou always see the dark side?â
What made them cry when listening to the album?
âWe were coming up the Westway and at that moment Songs They Never Play on the Radio came on and a flood of memories, related to the A40 and London in general.â
The song fades out into a chaotic blur of chatter and laughter.
âEven that bit,â Barât says, âI thought, âGod, we do like each other, we had fun together, and it was real.ââ
âI donât like the word âfunâ,â Doherty says grouchily. They still go at each other like squabbling lovers.
We meet at a photographic studio in London. They are wearing stylish suits for the shoot. Barât is little changed â lithe, fit, glossy brown pop star hair. Doherty couldnât look more different. Twenty years ago he was skinny, boyish, with a fragile beauty. Today, his hair is grey and heâs a huge wardrobe of a man. When Doherty piles on the pounds, it usually means heâs not taking drugs. Itâs when heâs at his skinniest we need to worry.
Today, he lives in northern France with his wife, Katia, and their baby Billie-May. He has two other children, but admits this is the first time heâs been a present father. Thatâs largely down to being clean. âI gave up the main poisons and my health improved. Then you get told alcohol and cheese and sugar are just as bad and you were healthier when you were on heroin.â
Barât: âGluttony.â
Doherty: âYeah, I am a bit of a glutton. Itâs not a joke. Iâve been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. And at the moment Iâm lacking the discipline to tackle cholesterol.â
Is Barât surprised that Dohertyâs still here?
âAm I surprised Peterâs still alive? No, heâs too smart to die. He never intended to die.â
Doherty: âI always wanted to see the result of things. I donât switch the telly off halfway through election night. I want to see what happens.â
Is Doherty surprised that Barâtâs still here?
âYes. There were times I worried about him so much, particularly in the early days ⦠He wasnât very stable.â
Itâs interesting that people have tended to worry more for Doherty, I say, whereas in fact he may have been the stronger one.
Now itâs Barâtâs turn to take offence. âHang on, I had to pull myself up from the wreckage, mate. That takes some strength.â Heâs right â both have shown extreme vulnerability and resilience.
Their relationship is one of popâs great rollercoaster romances. They met when at different London universities. Barât, a year older, was studying drama at Brunel, Doherty was reading English at Queen Mary. Both dropped out. Dohertyâs sister AmyJo became close friends with Barât. âMy sister came home and said sheâd met this guy who was really fit, with a ponytail and a six-pack, and he was a really good guitarist.â Doherty fell for him as soon as they met. âI thought he was a cross between Raskolnikov and Johnny Marr. He just seemed like a man on a mission. You couldnât pin him down. If you tried to have a conversation with him, youâd end up in a heated debate very quickly. Heâd start destroying things, and I thought: what the fuck is this?â
How did he destroy things?
âHe was angry. But there was also a creative, beautiful side. I tried to befriend him, but there was no way in. I thought, âOh, Iâm not good enough to be your mate,â so I just hounded him really. Thatâs the truth, isnât it?â He looks at Barât.
Barât: âYeah, thatâs 27 years ago.â
Doherty says it wasnât like him to do the chasing; it was usually the other way round. But he wanted to start a band, and Barât was perfect for it.
âI knew that I needed a good-looking guitarist. But also Carl wasnât your average sort of lad. He was an impenetrable fortress. Raskolnikov crossed with Johnny Marr, I quite like that!â He chuckles, pleased with himself.
Barât: âI donât know who the first one is.â
Doherty: âRaskolnikov from Crime and Punishment.â
Barât: âOh, yeah! Iâve got you now.â
Why was Barât so angry at the time?
âStuff I donât want to talk about, but I had a lot of unhappiness in my childhood. Maybe I was born angry. But my battle has been with that and depression in the wake of the anger.â Has his depression eased? âYeah! Iâm here, arenât I?â
Heâs been in therapy for nine years and says it has helped. âIt makes it more manageable. Iâm certainly not as angry as I was, and Iâm not a loose cannon.â He talks so quickly, with a nasal twang, that sometimes itâs hard to catch his words. Your speech hasnât slowed down over the years, I say. âNo. Thereâs a lot going on there. I think they call it ADHD these days.â
Doherty drags on his fag dismissively. âBloody hell. This interview.â
Barât ignores him: âI did a screening recently that said itâs likely.â He grins. âMy wife keeps leaving books out with titles like How to Deal with ADHD in a Marriage.â
Doherty: âThey used to just call it personality. Now theyâve got all sorts of names for it.â
I tell Doherty he seems much more self-conscious now heâs sober. âI know. I must have been so mangled the last time we met that I got really into it and now Iâm just being defensive, imagining what all this is going to lead to. So thereâs two ways to do this â try to seduce you and establish a great relationship with you so you donât betray me, or just donât read the fucking article, which is what Iâve tended to do for the last 21 years.â
Suddenly he perks up and asks what he was like when we first met. âWas the hotel in Brick Lane? I was happy as a sandboy at that time, but now there wouldnât be the blood or the needles. They were my tools in a way. Now Iâm happy with Gladys [his fabulous mastiff cross, whoâs here today], walking in the woods and changing the baby, and I have a glass of cider and a cigarette. But Iâm quite curious ⦠I wouldnât mind being a fly on the wall, back then. It would probably break my heart.â
Barât: âIt broke our fucking hearts, mate. We were flies on the fucking wall.â He sounds upset, almost angry.
Doherty: âI donât particularly want to go over all this. Normally, I enjoy reminiscing about this kind of thing, but I donât think itâs healthy to do that today. I mean, what are you trying to do by asking these questions?â
Iâm trying to find out about your lives and how youâve changed, I say.
âHeâs gotcha there, boss,â Barât says in a broad Bronx accent.
Eventually Barât succumbed to the young Dohertyâs charms. They formed the Libertines united by a love of poetry, punk and chaos. Doherty and Barât came from very different backgrounds. Barât had grown up on a council estate in Basingstoke. His mother was a CND activist, his father an artist until he found a job in an arms factory. Not surprisingly, his parents split up. Dohertyâs father was a major in the Royal Signals, and the family moved around the country with his job. Until he was 15, Doherty was convinced that he would also join the forces and serve his country. Both were clever boys who gave up on university. Barât discovered drugs at the age of 10, Doherty much later. In the early days, he says, he only took them to impress Barât.
Barât was by far the better musician. He dreamed of killing it on stage, but heâd not reckoned with nerves. âI was so shy. When I finally got to where Iâd been pushing myself my entire life, Iâd be crippled by self-doubt and terror. I wasnât able to commit in the way Peter wanted. I was going, âOh my God, this is terrifying.ââ
Was Doherty shy?
âWas he shy?â Barât giggles. âHe was not shy, no! He doesnât know what shyness is.â He says the only time heâs ever seen a hint of it is if the conversation turns dirty in front of Katia. Doherty nods. âThereâs something from my childhood thatâs been instilled in me. Itâs like a kneejerk reaction. She swears like a trooper, she doesnât get offended, but, yeah, for some reason I still have those Victorian standards.â
Perhaps thatâs the influence of your father? âYeah! Heâs the same. Itâs strange,â Doherty says.
Barât: âItâs a prudish thing really, isnât it?â
Doherty: âYeah. Prudishness.â
Doherty has had a difficult relationship with his father. How do they get on now? âWhy dâyou ask that?â
Iâm an interviewer, I tell him, Iâm here to ask questions and Iâm nosy.
Barât grins: âHeâs gotcha there, boss,â he says again in the Bronx accent.
âI seem to talk about that a lot,â Doherty says. âWhenever Carl and I talked about fathers in the early days, we really bonded. How fucked up we were about them. Iâd love to be able to ask him, but I donât think I could ever say to him, âHow do we get on, Dad?ââ
Then he comes to a stop. âWhose business is it anyway? What does it matter? Do you really care?â
Yes, I say, I want to find out what makes you tick; what makes you the person you are.
He softens. âI love him so much and I feel that a big part of me changing the way Iâm living my life, particularly since I got married and stopped taking heroin, is to be accepted by him.â And now Dohertyâs tearful. Iâve never seen him like this before. âI think itâs too much for him to see past.â
âYou donât have to go that far,â Barât says gently.
Doherty: âI think Iâve done things that have made our relationship better, but in my heart I still feel I canât ⦠I donât know. Iâd have to score a hat-trick in the World Cup final for my dad to say all is forgiven, or make a million from selling this album. When I go up there with Billie-May and my wife, he says to me, âAre you still trying with the music?â If I picked him up in a limo with a chauffeur or had a helicopter landing heâd be like, âOh, yeah!â But for me Iâve always been happy to write songs that Iâm fucking proud of. Maybe Iâm still really seeking it.â Heâs weeping silently, thinking about how much his fatherâs approval would mean to him.
Does he appreciate youâve been successful, or did he just see the negative stuff? Seconds pass in silence. âI think he thinks I had potential and threw it away.â
Barât puts his arm around Doherty. âIâve got to tell you now, mate, I think heâs really proud of you for just doing normal things heâd never have expected. He struggles to communicate it, like you do.â Doherty smiles and says, âWeâre doing a therapy session for Pete.â
Lifeâs hard, I say â doing normal things, getting by, looking after family is an achievement.
âLife is hard, isnât it?â Doherty says. âI used to think I could run on air. But now I feel the need for community and somebody who knows how to fix pipes.â
Barât laughs. âCan you do DIY, Pete?â
Doherty has recovered. âBasic plumbing, yeah, when things are clogged up.â
âWhat can you do?â Barât asks, disbelievingly.
âI can clear clogs,â Doherty shouts defiantly. âI can clear clogs in the U-bend under the sink.â
Barât: âHow dâyou do that then?â
Doherty: âWell, you get down there with a bucket, you take it apart so all the shit goes in the bucket, and then youâre all right for a bit.â
Barât: âRemember when you pissed in the sink at that party in Harlesden and it was full of washing-up? Then somebody nicked my guitar, that Gibson?â
Ah, happy days. Maybe.
There was nothing safe about the Libertines. They were raw, primal and unpredictable. The band were a four-piece â Barât and Doherty, accompanied by John Hassall on bass and Gary Powell on drums â as they are today. Both Doherty and Barât were frontmen, playing guitar and singing (Barât rockier, Doherty more soulful) from the same mic like a punk Lennon and McCartney. But there the comparison ends. The Beatles enjoyed global success, evolved, and left an astonishing back catalogue. The Libertines? They fought, stagnated and imploded. They had one chart-topping album (the self-titled second) and four top 20 singles between 2003 and 2004. Their best songs (Time for Heroes, What a Waster) had the Sturm und Drang intensity of a young Goethe â self-destruction went hand in hand with hedonism. Meanwhile, their biggest hits, Canât Stand Me Now and What Became of the Likely Lads, documented a relationship that had already fallen apart; a success story already in the past tense.
The Libertines were done and dusted by 2004. Yet there was something special about them â their Blakean vision of an England rich in culture without being jingoistic, their desire to break down barriers between fans and band (playing gigs in basement flats), and a life-affirming raucousness alongside their reckless nihilism. They provided endless front-page news for the tabloids, usually courtesy of Doherty â whether it was about his tumultuous relationship with supermodel Kate Moss, his drug habit, or bizarre behaviour on stage (he ran away from a gig mid-song in 2004).
After Doherty was temporarily thrown out of the band in 2003, the headlines came thicker and faster. He was jailed that year for breaking into Barâtâs flat and stealing items including an antique guitar, a laptop, a video recorder, a CD player and books. In 2006, he was caught on CCTV running past 30-year-old actor Mark Blanco as he lay dying on the pavement. It is still unknown whether Blanco jumped or was pushed off a balcony at the flat where they were partying and had been involved in a confrontation. In 2011, the Crown Prosecution Service said there was insufficient evidence to charge anybody over the death. In the same year, Doherty was jailed for six months after pleading guilty to possession of cocaine.
Soon after we last met in 2019, he turned his life around. At the time, he was having a break from Katia. They got back together, and he did the one thing he could to prove he loved her: he gave up drugs and started to take opiate blocker injections, which prevent opioids producing rewarding effects such as euphoria. (In 2006, he had an opiate blocker implant, but he dug it out with a combination of hands and knife.) Has it been transformative? âYes. With all the will in the world, I donât think Iâm ready to lose it. People around me definitely prefer me to have it.â
âGood lad,â Barât says, patting him on the knee approvingly. âKeep that up!â
How does Barât think Doherty has changed over the years? âWell ⦠â Barât starts.
Doherty: âBe honest.â
Barât: âI was about to say before I was interrupted, heâs grown stronger in so many ways. He can let himself be loved in ways he couldnât before, if you want to go to the kernel of it. And as his friend, itâs been easier on me, which is a fucking bonus because it means I get to lower my defences. Itâs not just a big happy-clappy love-in. Itâs still hard and prickly and spiky, and thereâs a darkness there to navigate.â
The darkness is by no means confined to Doherty. When I met Barât, I remember thinking he seemed incredibly troubled â and by then he was in a far better place than he had been. âI still struggle now,â Barât says. âYes, Iâve had my moments. Iâve still got the scars.â
Doherty: âItâs a strange crossing point, because youâve got this one fella who was from a disciplined and ordinary background who had this romantic vision.â Heâs talking about himself. âAnd you had someone from a really chaotic background who was maybe longing for normality. I was going the other way, and we met right there. We tried to hold on to each other in the storm.â
What does Doherty think has changed most about Barât? âOn a purely basic level, heâs got bricks and mortar around him. Heâs got a home. Itâs a huge thing. I quite enjoyed the vagrancy and sofa-surfing and squatting. I donât think Carl did.â
Barât says his dream was always to feel normal, on his own terms: âTo feel I can make it in this society, I can exist on this planet, and I donât have to just throw myself into the canal.â Barât says becoming a father (he has two children, aged nine and 13, with his partner Edie Langley) finally gave him a sense of belonging. âThereâs something about having kids. You canât switch off and let the depression overcome you. Thatâs no longer an option. Then it makes you realise that if thatâs not an option now, what was it about in the first place? I donât know; itâs a bit paranoid.â
For a long time, Doherty was homeless, relying on the goodwill of friends and lovers for a roof over his head. In 2017 Barât invested in a seaside hotel in Margate, partly so Doherty had somewhere to live. He called it The Albion Rooms (after the first flat they lived in together), had it refurbished and built a studio on the site. This is where the new album was recorded.
Could this record finally make them wealthy? âYes, in theory,â Doherty says. âBut for me, there are tax bills from 15 years ago. Also, every time I think Iâve made a bit of bunce, itâs gone immediately.â In tax? âYes. Iâve always paid it, you see. Itâs complicated, though â now living in France, and my child support. Itâs like Sisyphus with the money thing. Iâve always said one day weâll make a record that will sell so many we wonât have to worry about money, but it hasnât happened yet.â
Barât: âThe thing is, unless you want yacht money, if you can live in a house, and not have to do jobs you donât like, thatâs as good as you need to be, right?â
The bandâs publicist, Tony, pops in to say weâre running out of time. Tony has worked with Barât and Doherty since way back. I ask if thereâs anything heâd like to ask. He has a think. âIs there anything you would have done differently?â
Doherty exhales loudly. âWow, this is hypothetical. Like science fiction. I wouldnât have run down Brixton high street halfway through Canât Stand Me Now. I love playing that song, but I was so mangled, and my head was so far up in the rafters, I couldnât hold it. Sometimes when I was lashing out I thought it was the start of some movement, like loads of people were going to join in and smash everything together and it was going to mean something, and in the end itâs just me and maybe a couple of others hurt themselves, end up in prison or … â
Dead, I say.
âYeah, too many dead.â
I ask Doherty if he regrets running away from the scene of Blancoâs death in 2006? âOoooph, mate!â he replies, as if heâs just been hit. âWhat are you asking about that for?â He says itâs unfair because itâs come so late in the day. âIf youâd started on that ⦠â
Barât finishes the sentences for him. âYou would have left the room.â
âNononono,â Doherty says. He comes to a stop, and says he doesnât want to sound flippant about such a serious matter. He knows he will always be dogged by the CCTV footage of himself, then girlfriend Kate Russell-Pavier and âminderâ Jonathan Jeannevol walking past the body on the ground, then running away. Three weeks after Blancoâs death, Jeannevol walked into Bethnal Green police station and confessed to his murder. Hours later, he retracted his statement, citing stress as the reason for making a false confession.
âOf course I wish I hadnât run away. Of course I wish I hadnât,â Doherty says. âI should have stood there and waited for the police and just thrown everything down the drain.â He means his drugs. âOf course. I mean, yeah. Basic stuff, isnât it. Legging it down the street barefoot … â Heâs still haunted by the night.
We return to the new album. Sure, itâs taken a long time, but it really does sound like a band that has finally matured. Do they have a renewed trust in each other? âI never trusted him in the first place,â Barât says.
âThese questions,â Doherty protests. âThese are deep and personal questions. We probably donât know the answers to them ourselves and donât want to know. We made a good go of our music, which we both believe in, and I think we both trust each other with. We didnât go into the studio with the songs written. We spent a lot of time sat there with a typewriter, hammering these songs out, so we believe in the album and trust the album. Maybe in 10 years weâll go into a serious group therapy session and get these things hammered out. But thereâs no time for that now. Weâve got to spend nine days on a tour bus with each other.
âThis is the type of in-depth analysis of friendship that might make things uncomfortable â and I donât want to make Carl uncomfortable. I want him to be happy and comfortable that heâs doing this. The more we delve into these things, the more Iâm likely to say something stupid to try to get a cheap joke, and it wonât be a cheap joke to Carl, it will be something hurtful, so I donât want to do this.â There is a painful sincerity to Dohertyâs words.
Barât once said heâd never find another songwriting partner like Doherty. Was he right? âI think itâd still be true now,â he says.
âErmmm,â Doherty says. Another loud exhalation. âYou want the honest answer?â Yes, please. âMaybe Iâm not thinking it when I write the song, but the first thing I think afterwards is, âI wonder what Carl will think of that?â, whoever Iâm writing the song with. The honest answer is, everything I write is for Carl.â
James Parker is a UK-based entertainment aficionado who delves into the glitz and glamour of the entertainment industry. From Hollywood to the West End, he offers readers an insider’s perspective on the world of movies, music, and pop culture.