I wasn't there, but I would have enjoyed it if I had. I will now hand you over to an eye-witness from the Peel family.
Take it away, son.
'Thanks Dad.
The last gig where I found myself beside a person taking notes, I was watching Cara Dillon with Seth Lakeman and I was with the old feller. This time I’m with my friend J, who is doing some work experience with a magazine and intends to be a music journalist. Unlike the old man, he’s also recording snatches of the music on his phone and taking photographs. J can get into places that others only dream of. There are 30 of us in the room and Pete Doherty has invited a few select people give him some feedback about Doherty’s new songs.
Who me?
Doherty's huge, probably about six foot three and he’s wearing a red World Cup 1966 shirt, jeans and pork pie hat. Beside him is a full bottle of gin. He takes great gulps of it between songs and finishes the bottle off. He's playing an acoustic guitar and he's backed by three of the Babyshambles on guitars and bongos.
He warms up with two Libertine songs: ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ and ‘Music when the Lights Go Out.’ The songs have been stripped down and reworked, losing none of their magic or catchiness, but allowing the audience to focus on the melodies and lyrics. Less is more. They are stunning and Doherty's guitar playing is impressive. Despite the gin, he doesn’t seem drunk and he quizzes the audience as he plays the four new songs. ‘What’s the vibe about that one?’ he asks after each song.
What can you say to that? I am in a smallish room full of experts, critics and musicians and I want to say: ‘That was great, Pete. Really good. You’re the man!’ Instead, I nod and mimic John Thompson’s jazz presenter, ‘Yeah. Nice.’
The private audience finishes after six songs and we go outside for a cigarette. The Big Man joins us, shakes my hand and says ‘Hi, I’m Pete. Thanks for coming.’ He’s pale with enormous cheeks. He's bright-eyed, he's lucid, funny, knowledgeable, well-spoken and totally absorbed in the song-writing craft. He’s catching a Morrissey gig this week, working on more songs and tells us that he's investigating ‘Ska’.
He finishes his cigarette, disposes of it carefully and then walks in a straight line back into the hall. 'Remember', he winks, 'the future is Ska.'
What's Ska?
And that was it.
How did I do, Dad?'
Not bad, son, not half bad.
Sir Robert Peel
