A shambolic and emotional comeback at Brixton Academy.

I first saw Pete Doherty take to the stage with The Libertines all the way back in 2002. It was at Nottingham Rock City, less than a week after their debut album Up the Bracket had been released. I’d never heard of them; I was there for The Vines, whom the NME had assured my nineteen-year-old self were the next big thing. In the queue outside there was a lot of buzz, not about The Vines, but about The Libertines, which I was very sceptical of. As it turned out, The Vines were a bit disappointing that night, with Craig Nicholls seemingly more interested in declaring war on his immediate surroundings every five minutes than actually playing any songs. The Libertines, on the other hand, were incredible.

By the time I saw them again, Pete had already been kicked out and Carl Barât had dutifully taken over full-time frontman duties. As much as I love Carl, without Pete they just weren’t the same. Pete is cut from a different cloth, a true British eccentric. A kind of timeless Rimbaudian dandy with a penchant for punk rock, French cheese, and Hancock’s Half Hour. Thankfully, during his exile he formed Babyshambles, who, thanks to Pete’s undoubtable talent as a songwriter, became a much-lauded and well-respected band in their own right.

So here we are, over twenty years later and over ten years since Babyshambles last toured together. And thankfully, they still sound just as loud, raucous, and bloody brilliant as they ever did.

The evening begins in suitably shambolic style with me nearly pissing myself outside Brixton Station while waiting for my mate, who, it turns out, is already two pints in at the pub down the road. Once reunited, and bladder emptied, we head to Brixton’s famous O₂ Academy, with its rich musical heritage, its lovely Art Deco entrance, and its astronomically expensive pints.

I politely ask a steward which queue I need to be in, and this seems to trigger some kind of psychotic break in the poor lad, who mistakenly sends us in through what appears to be the VIP entrance. Bizarrely, I find myself standing between Beatles offspring James McCartney and producer extraordinaire Stephen Street. After a few suspicious glances from important-looking people, we’re handed some fancy green wristbands. What powers might they hold? A private bar? Backstage access? A glass of Chablis with Stephen Street? We approach another steward and excitedly ask where our magical wristbands will take us. “Nowhere,” the steward scoffs, bringing us back down to earth with a bang. Oh well. An astronomically expensive pint it is, then.

Ignoring the nagging feeling that we’re not utilising the full potential of our accidentally blagged wristbands, we take our place at the back of a heaving auditorium. The band launch straight into ‘Killamangiro’, quickly followed by ‘Delivery’. Opening with two big hitters sends waves of people sprinting from the bar behind us towards the stage. It appears it’s been collectively decided that the shortest route to the front is directly through us. About a hundred beers are sloshed over us as a constant stream of fans clumsily burrow through. To be fair, almost all of them apologise. It’s the kind of polite revelry Pete would be proud of.

The set is tight and triumphant, with staples like ‘Down in Albion’ played alongside rarer delights like ‘The Man Who Came to Stay’ and the new single ‘Dandy Hooligan’. Pete is in fine form, sober, healthy, and having the time of his life. Which is a bit of a miracle, all things considered.

Of course, amidst all the jubilation, there’s an element of sadness to the evening, namely the absence of founding member Patrick Walden, who tragically died earlier this year. By rights, Walden should be a household name. He was one of the most gifted and unique guitarists of his generation. When Babyshambles first emerged through a haze of class-A drugs, cigarette smoke, and trilbies, his brutal, unorthodox fretwork perfectly complemented Pete’s savage lyricism, and helped dispel any notion that they were an inferior band to The Libertines. Signature songs like ‘Killamangiro’ and ‘Fuck Forever’ would be unrecognisable without him, and although his time in the band was short-lived, Babyshambles were never quite as spellbinding without him.

They close, of course, with ‘Fuck Forever’, which Pete dedicates to “someone who should have been here tonight.” Walden’s image appears behind the band as 5,000 people hurl themselves at each other and sing their hearts out. It’s chaotic, cathartic, and a perfect tribute. After the rest of the band have left the stage, Pete lingers for a bit. “There are still tickets left for the rest of the tour if anyone’s interested?” he calls out, sounding like a bloke flogging knock-off goods out of a van. “Leamington Spa’s gonna be fucking banging,” he adds playfully before applauding the crowd and vanishing backstage, presumably to hang out with Stephen Street and the other members of the green-wristband elite.