Thursday, July 22, 2004
The cocking Libertines are on the cover of the NME for what seems like the 30th time this year (work it out). Their new album is supposedly the most eagerly awaited thing ever, which is news to everyone with ears. Let's face it, no-one associates the words 'Libertines' with 'top quality music that really tells me something about my life'. No, they associate 'Libertines' with 'the twats in the guardsmens uniforms' and 'that smackhead guitarist. Is he dead yet?'. The only reason that the NME is fixated on Pete Doherty is that they reckon the little streak of piss is going the way of Sid Vicious and Richey Manic sometime soon and they need to be close to touch the vestements and do the whole 'The Last Interview', 'The Last Pictures', 'Win the Charlie He Didn't Take in the Overdose (Well it Would Be A Shame to Waste It)' spiel. Who gives a shit about the Libertines' music, hell, Franz Ferdinand have come along to steal their thunder by actually doing songs rather than being a smackhead's punching bag. If the fans and the music press really cared they wouldn't print acres of adoring text on his merest bowel movement while talking of wanting to respect his privacy (though to be fair, reading this weeks NME he seems to have given up on trying to get rid of his addictions and is going to try being a hopeless addict and a functioning musician. Well, anything's possible...). It seems all there is to do now is what for him to snuff his pathetic little candle and then wait for him to be risen to the level of Saint Richard of the Bleeding Arm in the hearts of Indie kids everywhere.
