Ever believed in the existence of a parallel universe? Well tonight NME witnessed it with our very eyes! Onstage stagger The Libertines. Minds mangled from three weeks of sleazy manoeuvring across Europe, they dwell in a private cosmos of free beer and euphoric narcotics where all present are eager sex slaves eager to be initiated into the arcane ways of Albion.
In close orbit lurks a 200- strong cluster of Spanish rock biz types. The ones who don’t resemble members of the cast of ‘Miami Vice’ look like they’ve just been turfed out of a Lenny Kravitz video-shoot. All of them will happily dance the lambada upside down to anything, just so long as MTV have told them that it’s cool to do so.
The skaggy, whippet-thin song structures; the shaggy mop-topped non-harmonising from Carl’n’Pete; the ever-visible fizz of sexual chemistry which sees the pair of them snog on stage not once but THREE times tonight; the crowd are shown no mercy. Tonight The Libertines are no longer a spindly indie-band wearing Britpop’s old wardrobe, but a dissolute, past-caring rock’n’roll whirlwind.
The badly dressed tribes from the Enrique Iglesias-loving suburbs of a city designed by robots crumble in their presence. They end with a glorious, shambolic ‘I Get Along’. The whole place writhes like it’s living la vida loca.
Out of this world.