Call this grossly irresponsible if you must, but short of dying in a plane crash, nothing says "rock star" quite like a public drug freakout. I'm not saying drugs are right for everybody-- kids, stay away from crack unless you think you've got a pretty good shot at getting famous-- but through the years, drug addiction has consistently remained the ultimate in-style rockcessory of all fashion's fickle vicissitudes. For the layperson, addiction may be a tragic, often painful disease; for rock stars, it's simply bolsters "mystique." Alright, I'm teasing, you got me. Addiction is pretty terrific for everyone.
Nevertheless, plenty has been made of Libertines frontman Pete Doherty's battle with crack, and I was fully prepared to not say another word-- right up until I realized that The Libertines' self-titled follow-up to 2002's Up the Bracket was indeed all about them and the interior struggles caused by Doherty's very public addiction. It's all a glitzy mess with a fair share less charm than the debut, and whether The Libertines is a wreck by design, or simply reflects the still-fractured state of the band in recovery, no one can say. All that's clear is that, once again, in the fishbowl of celebrity, addiction is being spun into a PR coup, a thing to be pitied, laughed at, cried at, forgiven, and ultimately used as just another excuse-- mostly for why this isn't a better album. The woes of drug use arise here at intervals, concluding with the romantic lament, "What became of the likely lads?/ What became of the dreams they had?" They signed with Sanctuary and released a slapdash second album; are you guys kidding me?
Considering the great heights this album occasionally reaches, it's a bit of a left-handed compliment to level the lone criticism that it seems hopelessly tossed-off. It's brilliant at points, exhibiting the casual, grimy grace that laced Up the Bracket through English countryside benders, sing-alongs, and pub anthems, but evidently, The Libertines are creatures of excess, and even a good thing can be overdone. Bands pull off "accidental genius" with more frequency than anyone has a right to expect-- Pavement founded an empire based on it-- but even if The Libertines are more hits than misses here, it still takes a little more than slurred speech and sloppy guitars to drive this act home.
Instead of lending the skiffling, slightly skewed rhythms a special air of irreverence, or making the occasionally off-key barbershop caterwaul sound a little sweeter, as on Up the Bracket, The Libertines' half-assed effort here produces half-assed results. Insouciance paid dividends for them in 2002 as they thumbed their noses at rock, dub, folk, and every other genre in arm's reach, but if you can possibly imagine it, that shambling style-blender was actually tighter then, both in terms of songwriting and cohesiveness.
The only issue here is one of investment (or possibly a calculated lack thereof), since little seems to have outwardly changed, except perhaps Doherty's singing. To his credit, his vocal resemblance to Julian Casablancas is downplayed, as he instead opts to rely on his considerable natural vocal character over needless imitation, but with that, so goes the one polished instrument The Libertines had at their disposal. Carl Barât still has a stranglehold on Joe Strummer's uber-Cockney accent, and puts it to good use in the rowdy, fuck-all fashion that's expected, if sometimes too effectively (see: the staggering, raucously incoherent rant of "Don't Be Shy"); but when Doherty goes on to slosh his own path through the impossibly English "Narcissist" ("Wouldn't it be nice to be Dorian Gray/ Just for a day?"-- that's Oscar Freakin' Wilde, folks), the vocal contrast between the two becomes conspicuous in its absence.
But what the hell, even "Narcissist" is still a riot. The worst that can ever be said of this album is that if it suffers from an excess of half-formed ideas, or a lack of effort (even if a little extra elbow grease could've made some otherwise marginal songs much, much better), it's because they're too busy having fun, asshole. The one thing The Libertines excel at without qualification is pure entertainment; they may not be masters of any of the styles they crazily flirt with, or even possibly talented enough to produce the craftsmanship this album begs for at points, but they string genres together so readily and wildly that it's tempting to allow one's self to be swept away in barrage and just have a great time in the face of other shortcomings. You're just lucky that someone was diligent enough to resist all the fun this album promises and point them out for you; if not, you might hear the quiet call-and-response of "Can't Stand Me Now" or the infectious groove-stomp of "Campaign of Hate" or any of the myriad other relentlessly enjoyable moments on this album and forget that The Libertines aren't trying very hard. Boo.
Okay, you caught me, I'm kidding; The Libertines is a charge. But it does still seem unfortunate that The Libertines don't more frequently reach the heights at which their music frequently hints here: The echoing chords and free-form trumpet of the sprawling sea shanty "The Man Who Would Be King" best exemplify The Libertines' lack of stylistic allegiance. Barely more than a string of "la-la-la"'s and a chorus, the lightning riffs and hollow, dramatic spaces still kick sand in the faces of the rest of the album cuts. The song is outdone only by the incomparable solo on "The Ha Ha Wall"-- indescribably brief, bright, evocative, and maybe the single finest moment The Libertines will ever lay to tape-- and "Music When the Lights Go Out", a genuinely sad, sweet tune with lots of cowbell and a chorus of earth-shaking majesty. These tracks show what might've been.
Instead, The Libertines settle for less because demanding more would've been harder. And lest we forget why this album was a necessary casualty, the obvious (and crass) snorting that opens "Last Post on the Bugle" is an unnecessary hint. Cocaine, crack, whatever-- whether their self-titled second album is a wreck on purpose or not, drugs are The Libertines' reason, and it's not a very good one.
