The Libertines’ state-of-the-nation abum never quite reaches its potential
“It’s a lifelong project of a life on the lash / I’d forgotten how to care but I’ll remember for cash,” croons Carl Barat on Run Run Run, the opening track from The Libertines’ fourth album, All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade. As one part of the British tabloid press’s favourite early Noughties band – mostly thanks to Pete Doherty’s boozing, drug-taking and love-making – Barat and co. have grown accustomed to criticism.
They know, of course, that cynics will have one image in their heads while listening to any new music from the Likely Lads: the quartet laughing all the way to the bank with profits grabbed from loyal fans who’ve followed them since the beginning, from sweaty Camden flat parties to festivals around the world, regardless of a drop in quality (their last album, 2015’s Anthems for Doomed Youth, tried far too hard to be clever, and ended up feeling like an unnecessary addition to their flawless first two records).
But The Libertines – also made up of Gary Powell and John Hassall – have undergone personal transformations, from chaotic twentysomethings to family men in their forties and fifties. Doherty has swapped heroin for scoffing posh cheese in France; the rest are committed to running The Albion Rooms, their boutique hotel in Margate.
Which isn’t to say that All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade tries anything new. It is pure, quintessential Libertines: 11 catchy songs about – deep breath – Englishness, the migrant crisis, alcoholism, heartbreak, loneliness, each backed by raucous, plucky guitars and frantic drums. Their 2002 debut Up the Bracket remains a perfect ode to being young and in love with London, serving as a time capsule to a period when, not all that long ago, ordinary people could afford to rent, drink and grow old in the capital. This fourth offering moves away from those personal experiences to become a wider study of the future of Britain, and disappointingly loses some of its clarity in the process.
Take Merry Old England. Doherty has long been obsessed with Englishness – his other band, Babyshambles, created a masterpiece on Albion, in which he describes the violence lurking underneath an idyllic image of nationhood – and what it means in the modern world. Here, he turns his pen towards the migrant crisis, imbuing the story of “Syrians, Iraqis and Albanians” landing in Dover to find a land buckled by the cost of living crisis, filled with squalid, overflowing B&Bs and grey streets strewn with litter. His voice buckles under the weight of his feeling and anger at people’s indifference, backed by a terrific group of soul singers. It had real potential to be a searing state-of-the-nation polemic, conveniently coming in at under five minutes (who needs three-hour plays on the West End), but its passive voice and failure to centre the people he’s singing about let it down.
Hassall lends his vocals to Man with the Melody, which he wrote in his bedroom when he was younger about facing his demons head-on. Mustang, a tale about a downtrodden woman addicted to the bottle who spends “every night riding Mustangs to her dreams” picks up the tempo, while Oh Sh–t sounds like an executive called the band into a room, ticked them off for writing an album chock full of melancholy ballads and ordered them to whip up a festival anthem (“another Don’t Look Back Into the Sun, pronto!”)
Doherty’s voice has always been a paradox: it’s not strong by any means, and is often out of tune – but its rawness (showcased best on early tracks like Time for Heroes or Music When the Lights Goes Out, which set him up as a Jack-the-lad descendant to Leonard Cohen) makes it instantly recognisable. That’s what made The Libertines’ first two albums so brilliant. This fourth may not reach those heights, but it’s a solid effort from a band who, above all else, just sound grateful to have survived.
