A Pretty Ugly Thing
REMEMBER Pete Doherty? Back before Amy Winehouse became England’s favourite celebrity f **k-up, Pete could be relied on to act the eejit in public while simultaneously affording us a glimpse of possible genius.
Last spotted galloping towards the gates of hell on an old white nag, Pete once had an interesting band called The Libertines. He made as notable a mess of it as Amy Winehouse on a bad hair day.
The nation felt sorry for Doherty's chums, especially handsome Carl Barat, the Glen Matlock of the group. From Gordon Brown (well, one can assume) to Gordon Bennett (he died in 1918, but not before scandalising society by urinating in the fireplace at a posh party), it seemed everyone wanted Carl's new band to do well.
The fact that it traded on such an obvious and hackneyed name wasn't considered an impediment.
They got away with their debut album. Solid, if unspectacular, it did well enough, charting high enough in Britain, for the Dirty Pretty Things to be afforded a second shot.
Sadly, like the Buzzards & Crows of the opening song, Carl seems intent on pecking the bones of a scene that's about as lively as Johnny Thunders' grave.
You can't blame the lad for trying though. And he does find a vein of form on the ramshackle single Tired of England, with its Sheriff of Nottingham trumpets and Babyshambles blunderbuss imagery. "While the Queen of England sits on her throne, her bingo cards and chicken bones..."
There are infuriating hints that Barat's men could possibly nail something important, such as when he skirts the urban desperado landscape that fuelled the late Nikki Sudden's best moments.
The weary surrender to fate that breathes melodic simplicity into tracks like Come Closer and Fault Lines, confirms Barat's talent for insight.
It's when he feels compelled to play the arch-rocker that things fall apart at the seams, like a sweaty old punk-era stage jacket.
The declamatory tones of Best Face suggest it has ideas above its station when, in reality, it wouldn't be let in the door at an Arctic Monkeys session.
But Romance at Short Notice reaches its lowest ebb on the ludicrous Hippy's Son, a Frankenstein mutant of a song, part shouty Saturday night bar band drivel and a second thought chorus grafted on from some failed cast-off.
vThere's a horrible irony in the detail that Dirty Pretty Things are being managed by pop impresario Alan McGee, the man who foisted Oasis on the world.
This suggests Barat is destined to spend the equivalent of rock'n'roll eternity playing the sheds of America, doling out ghost images of a vanished Albion and the seedy underbelly of Swinging London to juiced-up cowhands and trailer park wives with stars in their eyes and prescription drugs in their systems.
No doubt, the lame brains of Idaho will buy into the Brit bluster of Kicks Or Consumption, hailing Dirty Pretty Things as the coolest Limey thing since the Climax Chicago Blues Band.
Rumours of a Doherty-Barat songwriting reunion have been kicked into the gutter. But such a detour might be the saving of both men.
Doherty needs the steadying influence of Barat. And poor Carl, if some of the soggy junk on this album is an indication, needs to get away from his pub rock cohorts and inject some artistic risk-taking into the equation.
Allowing other band members to get on the mic, as on Chinese Dogs and The North, is a bad mistake.
Whatever might be unique about Dirty Pretty Things, it's Barat's vision and talent. Sidemen are like servants or roadies, best kept in the background, out of the limelight.
Allowing these dullards to express themselves freely is the 'raawk' this band will perish on.
Despite the few highlights, given the evidence of these 12 tracks, Barat's career remains perilously close to the intensive care ward.
This last gang in town schtick feels as old hat as Pete Doherty's sticky trilby. HH
Email Eamon e4expletive@gmail.com
- Eamon Carr
Source:
Herald IE
