The Libertines
Such a prestigious band as London scamps-turned-veterans The Libertines visiting a venue as small and obscure as Lowestoft’s Claremont Pier was always going to be a memorable occasion. Stopping by as part of their Tiddeley Om Pom Pom tour, a ramshackle exploration of seven British seaside towns, the show was certainly one I’ll never forget, but it wasn’t exactly the coastal getaway I’d hoped for.
From doors, it’s clear this is no ordinary show. More of a club than a gig venue, The Aquarium’s slippery laminate flooring and large bar furnished with booths doesn’t appear an ideal environment for moshpits. The opening bill is just as odd: a pencil thin geeza in a suit calling himself The Magic Mod natters away to the front two rows, making sleazy innuendos about his blatantly ‘regretting it’ volunteer, while Lock, a sort of rock/electro trio who thunder away to a handful of semi-listening punters, definitely don’t belong on this line up either.
With the bar set low, all The Libs have to do now is show up. With any other band that would be a fair ask, but 45 minutes pass before the notorious latecomers eventually bound on stage. A collective sigh is breathed that they even showed up at all.
Of course the wait is worth it. Kicking off with the classic Time For Heroes not a moment’s passed before the front end of the room collapses into a rabble of sweaty bodies, flailing in all directions as the band give it hell on the tiny stage. They’re on fine form throughout – Pete Doherty looks remarkably slick in a cut-off denim number, Carl Barat and John Hassall working the post-punk World War II look in a leather jacket and long coat respectively. Backing them up on drums, Gary Powell is hard to spot but thunders along brilliantly with his band mates.
Every song is met with elation from the increasingly mad crowd. We’re treated to the golden oldies – the timeless Can’t Stand Me Now is a mid-show highlight – plus cuts from 2015’s Anthems for Doomed Youth’including Gunga Din and the heartwarming You’re My Waterloo, for which Barat accompanies Doherty’s guitar on a beaten up piano.
Unfortunately, what they make up for in bangers The Libs lack in punctuality, and this reviewer has to bow out early to catch the last train home (and I’m not the only one). But half a Libertines set is better than none at all. The story of these four chaps is embedded in British musical history; no doubt this unlikely anecdote is far from the final chapter.
