Ella Reeves on a captivating performance by the Babyshambles and Libertines frontman

As a Peter Doherty fan in Oxford, I have at times felt quite alone. So I was delighted to learn he would be playing a warm-up for last Saturday’s Hyde Park Libertines reunion, in my home town. And I was swept away on the Good Ship Albion with my fellow fans and kindred spirits, in the crowded and familiarly sweaty upstairs of the O2 Academy last Wednesday.

As a seasoned Doherty gig-goer, what was I expecting? And what was I hoping for?

These are two very different things. I was hoping that he would turn up; and play a very long set. For he is known not to play by the rules, especially when flying solo. He once told the audience that he would play until the venue staff physically removed him from the stage, so, I was also expecting the debauchery and rebellion we all know and love. If you’ve ever been to a Doherty gig, you will know what it feels like to become enthralled by the magic. And I was not disappointed.

Doherty appeared on stage, complete with his signature swagger, and a violinist and drummer (Nicky and Mr Rezzcocks), and he wordlessly went straight into a favourite from the early Babyshambles days: Killamangiro. I had my fingers crossed for a good old sing-along and this wish was fulfilled from the beginning.

Others I spoke to were hoping for a reunion with Libertines bandmate Carlos Barat. I didn’t dare to dream, and this fantasy was unfortunately not fulfilled.

We were taken on a journey from the early days of the Libertines, with obscure favourites from the good old days: B-sides and songs from an early demo album, Legs 11, and tunes such as, Bucket Shop, Breck Road Lover, Never Never, and Sheepskin Tearaway.

Oxford Mail:

Doherty struck more than a chord when he put a new spin on long-adored and effortlessly executed classics, including Music When the Lights Go Out, Can’t Stand Me Now and Time for Heroes (to which the violin was an unexpectedly welcome addition).

Nobody would have gone home happily without a rendition of Albion (not least the talented audience member who, spur-of-the moment, was invited on stage to accompany the band with a harmonica). It’s in these songs that we were reminded of the fantastic lyricism and charming wit that made us fall in love with his music in the first place.

Rebellion came in many forms, not least threatening to smoke indoors. “What’s the fine for smoking in here?” he asked. “Anyone know? £1,000?! Shall we have a whip-round?”

He expresses a somewhat shy, troubled-boy image in his music. In his own words, he is from “the ****ed generation, at the fag end of the 20th century AD, young and still breathing… too much, too young, too often, too many times, and it’s too late”. He came back on stage for the encore, saying “do this, do that...” then bursting into Don’t Look Back Into The Sun.

I have always wondered about the potentially paradoxical cries of “let me go!”. Should the audi-ence, the public, and the tabloids let him go; let him be in private? We had to let him go, but not without savouring every moment of a long awaited, beautifully executed and immensely captivating performance.