I feel like I’ve experienced a legitimate rock and roll show tonight. Turning up after doors, in a whirlwind of light snow and excited hipsters. Paying on the door- no tickets as souvenirs. Stylish fucks in the mosh pit exchanging rumours of whether or not Peter Doherty is fit to play. Whispers all night ‘Do you think he is here yet?’ ‘Do you think he’ll make it?’ ‘Did you hear, Peter hasn’t even arrived yet!’ ‘He’s twenty minutes late…’ the doubt that there might not be a show only making the wait more exciting.
Out of nowhere they walk on stage, no lame entrance music- the lights don’t even dim. It is clear they have only just walked into the building, what with their coats still buttoned, scarves tied and a dusting of snow on their hunched shoulders. Pete greets the crowd with a sharp nod, tip of the hat and a salute- then they play.
Time For Heroes
No set-list, completely different from the show the night before. Talking between songs to organise what they will play next. Completely impromptu instrumentals and mini-covers of songs. A wave of beer-soaked, skinny, enraptoured kids pouring over the barricade and straight onto the floor before security can catch them. The band actually manage to be pretty tight and Peter is only a little drunk, pouring vodka and orange all over himself in an attempt to conduct the crowd, stumbling onto the amps at the front of the stage from the effort of reaching my outstretched hand. No rehearsed banter, no old jokes, no shitty half-arsed thank-you’s, we love you’s.
No shitty pre-organised encore, ‘Okay this is it now, we can’t play any more because I cracked my ribs in Liverpool, as you do, and it fucking hurts. Night Manchester.’
Fuck Forever
He throws an entire mic stand into the crowd (which also, fucking hurt) and flips us off several times, kicking amps over and collecting the several gifts/letters/rosary beads fans have throw onto the stage. He opens two of the beers he hasn’t drank and throws them into the crowd as well. Waving tiredly they all walk from the stage.
Downstairs by the cloak room there are girls flying past security trying to get into the dressing room which is much too accesable to the ecstatic crowd. Every now and then the door flaps open and you can see them standing around, braced for press they don’t want to take.
Outside the crowd flows from the Ritz, lurking around the waiting tour bus and pulling ‘Fuck Forever’ shirts over their filthy sweat-soaked chests, still singing merrily:
Ohhhhh-ohhhhh, oh-ohhhhhhh-woahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
