SIX  Dirty Pretty Things

I wasn’t sure what I was hanging on to as The Libertines fell apart, what piece of flotsam or jetsam I’d clung on to as the ship went down. I was out there on my own for a while, but once I’d had time to think about everything I realized that being in a band wasn’t out of my system. I began to feel that The Libertines’ demise had been a tragedy, because we’d had so much more to say. It also seemed a natural progression, really, because Anthony Rossomando had come into my life during the later stages of The Libertines, and we both felt a creative partnership that had more to give. On a more selfish level, I’d become rather accustomed to the way I was living. There was an element of everyone panicking: Is this over and, if it is, what are we going to do? God forbid we might have to get real jobs.

Over many drunken and drugged nights I’d be the reassuring hand on the tiller. Don’t worry, boys, I’ll look after you, I’ll sort it all out. Ludicrous coke talk, too many cocktails fuelling my after-hours’ bravado. After a while we just assumed this was what we’d do: we’d move on into a new band, and then there was a sudden rush of business and it began to happen. I remember we had a ludicrously long list of band names that everyone had come up with, and frequent pub meetings where we’d verbally tussle over what to call ourselves. It was around that time that John, The Libertines’ bass player, quietly left, to concentrate on his band, Yeti, which had previously been a side project. It wasn’t a surprise, but it left me feeling deflated all the same. I wish I could tell you that we had a grand plan after that, but if you’ve read this far then you’ll understand that was never going to be the case. We honestly didn’t have a clue who might play bass, but we had impetus and we had forward motion: it seemed inevitable that we’d pick someone up along the way. I mean, what’s a band without a bass player?

Between bands, I was doing DJ sets to keep my hand in, and I remember playing a festival in Wales called Wakestock, and watching the sun come up over the Welsh coastline after a long, long night. I was sitting on the roof rack of someone’s Land Rover with Didz, from Cooper Temple Clause, and playing him two new songs I’d written after The Libertines, the two ‘dead’ songs, as I’d come to call them. One was ‘Bang Bang You’re Dead’, the other a tune called ‘Deadwood’ – both destined to be singles, and both reliant on the word ‘dead’, which later seemed significant. I’d written them on the tide of emotion I was riding coming out of The Libertines, and, in hindsight, they’re kind of Libertinesque, but that’s where I was, and it was a dark and confused time. I asked Didz what he thought, fishing to see if he’d join the band – as if I was auditioning for him, rather than him auditioning for me. He liked them, and said yes. Anthony was already in, as was Gary, and so we were complete. I’m not particularly proud of poaching Didz from Cooper Temple Clause. I’d met him on the circuit and decided, when we were clear-headed enough to think, that we shared a similar mindset. It felt to me like we pulled him clear of his craft just as it went under, which was sad; I always liked Cooper Temple Clause. But once Didz was in place, we set to work on a new order, our new way, as it were.

This rebirth of sorts was happening right there in Waterloo. I was living near Waterloo Station at the time, and we’d been rehearsing at Alaska Studios, which I think the Slits were involved with in the seventies. We liked its charms and it was next to a gay sauna called the Pleasure Drome, tucked away under the railway tracks, which also added to the whole thing. There was a slightly sleazy feel matched with true endeavour: it felt right. We’d have drunken running races on the South Bank, dashing up and down the paving slabs, being quite competitive about the whole thing, and then go out in the evening to experience the lost pleasures of an innocent night out with friends who you happen to play music with – as opposed to being in clubs and backstage and doing drugs and all of that bullshit. That hadn’t happened in a long time, and it seemed so fresh, like a new dawn. We were a very social band, Didz once said to me; and that, when things were going our way, it seemed we didn’t have to do much more than walk into a newsagent and it felt somehow significant. At the end of each recording day, we’d go to stand on Waterloo Bridge and look out. Over to the west, the old world and the old order; then, looking in the other direction, to the east, and we could see change coming, strung out under giant cranes. The new world was crouched there, waiting. It’s so enigmatic and it’s no mistake that Ray Davies chose that sunset to sing about. At the time, too, Waterloo was where the Eurostar came in – or, more importantly, where it could whisk me away to my beloved Paris. I couldn’t have really called our first album anything but Waterloo To Anywhere. It hinted at my new beginning: free from restrictions, I could literally go where I wanted.

Even before the band was formed, or had a name, I’d already secured us a deal with Vertigo, who had given me carte blanche creatively just so they might see what I came up with. And although, suddenly, there were deadlines, deadlines and more deadlines once again, it felt great to be signed to a major. There was a whole unit behind us – video commissioners, A& R, security, cars – and I had a real feeling of creative potential and freedom. The instantaneous upside of the new project was that it felt great to be in a band again, and to have nothing to be apologetic about. I’d loved most of my time in The Libertines, but it had got so tiresome, always having to say sorry for things that I didn’t want or were out of my control. With the new band it felt as if we were all on the same page and fighting a good fight. We’d all been in bands before, and tasted some success, and we’d quickly formed a tight unit. We were four people against a world, had our eyes on the prize, and, this time, it felt as if we knew how to get it. In comparison to those early Libertines sessions with Bernard, the first Dirty Pretty Things record was a bit of a breeze: the gang mentality and the adventure were both there. I think for Didz it was a step up from the level he was on, from the way he’d been used to doing things. That’s no slight, and, if he’d often seemed surprised by how quickly things were moving, then so were we, but we’d learnt not to show it. We travelled to LA and did the first half of the album with Dave Sardy, who was major league – he’s worked with everyone from Marilyn Manson and the Chili Peppers to Johnny Cash. I think someone at Vertigo had decided that there was potential for it to go global, that I could be a singer without borders, if you like, so there was a lot of money being thrown at that first album. It was exciting, the belief that people had in my new band and me, and part of us wanted that recognition. Everyone wants the world to love their record and connect with what they’re saying. Alas, it wasn’t really to be, but a certain cultish underground did connect with it.

I felt vindicated doing things on my own, and especially as it was around that time that Peter was barely out of the papers and the whole Kate Moss circus was happening. That was always going to eclipse what I was doing, and I wasn’t setting out to create chart hits. Peter was better at fame than me: always was, always will be. He dresses and acts the part, he invites the limelight. I sort of admire him for that. I remember playing with Dirty Pretty Things at an old theatre, like the inside of a chocolate box, in Paris, probably towards the end of the band, towards the end of everything. Peter was in the city, and we still weren’t properly talking to each other, but, like a lot of estranged ‘couples’, we were texting. He texted to say he wanted to come to the show and, naturally, I panicked, scanning our set list to see what Libertines songs we were doing. ‘I Get Along’ was in the running order, and all through the show I was searching the crowd for him, while giving it all I had. He’d never seen us before and I was incredibly nervous. I wanted to make an impression. He was up in the Royal Box, which was exactly the place where I should have thought to look for him, of course. When it came to the last song, we announced that we would love Peter to join us to play ‘I Get Along’. The place went absolutely mental, and then there was a long, unwinding moment when it transpired that Peter had left the venue five minutes before, which was both embarrassing and confusing.

∗ ∗ ∗

But back to the first album. I’m still proud of that record; it really does capture a time in my life. I think any record should be a snapshot of the time, and, for me, the success, or lack of it, of any of my records is down to their ability to capture a moment, to be a true portrayal of a place in time. The first album broke commercially too, and even if the second one fared less well – and it did – it was true to the time and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In LA, with Dave Sardy, we actually only recorded six tracks, because that’s all we agreed to pay for. Dave was pretty strict about that sort of thing. You’d be thinking about recording a seventh song and he’d say, ‘It’ll cost you ten grand for me to hit the space bar on my computer. Do you want to pay that? ’ Cue an uneasy air and a nagging voice in my head: So that’s how you want to do it, is it? It concentrated the mind, all right. We were feeling good and ready to go again that day, but that really put the tin hat on things. We’d spent $70, 000 on six songs, so we decided to head home and finish up the rest of them in Glasgow with Tony Doogan. With Sardy we’d all lived on Sunset and Vine in apartments for a month or two. In Glasgow, right at the other end of the rolling-surf-and-swaying-palm-trees spectrum, we rented a big old townhouse right in the middle of the city, but the recording carried on almost seamlessly and Tony did a great job. He perfectly matched the existing sound of the album. I like the way two worlds quietly collide on that one record.

Through all the rehearsing and recording, I kept Gary close to hand because it’s reassuring to look over your shoulder and see, to your mind, one of the best drummers in the world. His playing was a constant feature of both bands: I’d hear the rattle of his snare drum and I would be ready to go. That’s definitely how it was when we debuted as a band at a club in Paris. Going abroad to play was a deliberate ploy: we wanted to get away from London and the British media, but, as it turned out, we didn’t go quite far enough. The UK music press was out in force, and pretty excited it seemed, and then there were the French on top of that, all their magazines and media, and suddenly it was a bit of a circus – albeit a fun one. If you punch below your weight in terms of venue size, you’re going to get excited and disappointed punters outside; it’s part of the thrill, part of creating a buzz. It made me feel very welcome, and I realized how much I’d missed it.

Three quick shows in Italy followed, which set the template for Dirty Pretty Things: riotous gigs, unparalleled hedonism and the band finally being marched off a plane at gunpoint and banned from Rimini airport. It had been a strange couple of days anyway. We were trying to pin down our set and find our live sound, and were out with a band with whom I really didn’t get on at all. One of them was a real Pete wannabe without any of the songwriting talent, all talk and swagger, who went at the coke and crack with a joyless vengeance, as if it was a part he felt he had to play. He made endless snide digs at the plight of The Libertines, suggesting we, Dirty Pretty Things, were no more than its runt offspring, which was obviously something I didn’t need – then or at any time. It was horrific and pathetic and it made me so fucking angry. I was in such a wounded place anyway and I began to hate him; I wasn’t sure I could stop myself from laying into him, so I decided the best course of action was to avoid him and his band at all costs.

Odious support acts aside, I was pretty pleased with our progress. There was a lot of positive energy surrounding us, the shows had been warmly received and I felt we had a foundation we could build on. We were in a celebratory mood when we got to the airport, a mood that received a boost when they bumped us up to first class. That was, it’s fair to say, a mistake. We were a total fucking mess, rabid and pissed as we took our seats on the plane, a real stupid cliché. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked around: first, a very camp trolley dolly with an overblown attitude, who was deftly rebuffed; second, a policeman, his hand on his revolver. A policeman, moreover, for each band member, and they didn’t look like they were joking either. So they marched us off, removed our clobber from the hold and told us that we were no longer welcome, and that we should go to a different airport if we wanted to get home. From first class to being dragged to the exit and told not to return: it was a sudden fall from grace. I’m not sure if the ban still stands – I haven’t been back to find out.

The tour manager took us back to the hotel, where we refused to go to bed: we had loads of gear and we wanted to polish it off before we got on the next plane. On a later tour we’d spend something like £ 14, 000 on cocaine, yet still I didn’t think we were out of control. Or maybe I did and I just didn’t care. Coke seemed essential then: it gave everything its colour and stopped sleep from being a necessity, and we just wouldn’t throw any away. It was a recurring problem for a lot of bands I’ve known and played with. All too often you ended up forcing yourself to ingest it because you knew you had a customs check coming up.

Even though I’d enjoyed the first four Dirty Pretty Things shows so far, I was as petrified of going on stage as I ever was when I had Peter at my side, maybe more so, as I still didn’t really know if I was going to get bottles chucked at me for not being with Peter. The passion we’d inspired together was amazing, and I was pleased people cared so deeply and vocally about us, but after our separation I feared that the violent passions would turn negative – and my reaction to those fears was not good. I thought about Peter a lot, and guessed that he might have been receiving the same treatment, although I think he’d probably deny it. I was still carrying the pain and the shame for the disintegration of my first band – in truth, I’m still devastated about it – whereas at that time I should have just said: ‘This is what I am doing, and these are my reasons. ’

People sometimes ask me what Dirty Pretty Things gave me that The Libertines didn’t. I stop and think about, and I come to the conclusion that the answer’s two-pronged: I got a certain ease and a sense of self-worth. I’d see that ease in other bands and I’d think: They don’t have that bullshit that me and Peter had, they’re mates. Now I realize that I never really saw beneath the veneer, but for a while that’s what I thought I wanted. And that sense of relaxation that I’d always striven for in the past actually left me a lot less prolific, because I didn’t have another person to push me in that unique way. The sense of worth from Dirty Pretty Things came from not being judged in Peter’s shadow, something that I always wanted and eventually came to be. Judging by the crowds at our shows, there were two sorts of fans. The morbid car-crash enthusiasts, attracted by the whole tabloid media thing around Peter, accounted for a fair few bums on seats. But there were also the real fans, to whom I feel so grateful. I was actually pleasantly surprised how well I did on my own; I avoided my own downbeat prognostications.

∗ ∗ ∗

Touring with Dirty Pretty Things felt good. It felt like we were doing things for the first time. There’s a little bit of footage on my video camera from one of our tours: we’re being driven in the bus, and we’re just hitting Dover on our way to adventures on the Continent. We’d been up all night and the sun was coming up and we were in the back lounge of the bus with our guitars, and ‘Best Days’ by Blur is playing on the stereo, and it’s just so picture-perfect. If you saw it in a film you’d think it was just a heavy-handed, symbol-laden image, especially as it was my birthday. But when it happens in real life, moments like that are simply beautiful. There’s a true togetherness, a oneness. You know the moments like that are what certainly kept it alive.

I look back at those patches of calm, and I know this sounds odd but I think of the film Stand By Me. Four kids together on a journey, a certain innocence … and I say that fully aware of the body at the end of the road. The niggling insecurity that ambition puts deep in your belly, which I’d learnt about in The Libertines, unquenchable, like the mild depression that I suffer. I found it difficult ever to feel completely happy, and that the moment wasn’t somehow overshadowed by future events. Only on stage, experiencing that overflow of strong emotions, was that insecurity quelled and was I truly in the moment. Only that fizz of euphoria could momentarily block out the bad thoughts and fill the void.

I’m getting away from myself again.

I wanted to talk about the way the light hits the buildings in Mexico City, and how I got my driving licence without once taking a lesson. The TV show Fifth Gear once asked me to appear, but I doubt their researchers had done their work: I can’t drive. We were in Mexico to play some shows and our management, as ever, were trying to do three things at once: shows, a live video and a promo for ‘Bang Bang You’re Dead’, too. We were hanging around in Mexico City, with Mario Galvan – our key to the city, our communicator and, when it came to it, our muscle – a tremendously dependable, kind-hearted being with a strange predilection for South Park and blowing things up. Later on, in London, he was to become my flatmate. Mario took me down to a government office, their DVLA equivalent I suppose (though I doubt you’d get away with it in Wales), and fixed it, with the aid of a man who knew a man, that for around four hundred American dollars I was issued with a driving licence. You can see me in the video driving a vintage Mustang we’d hired for the shoot, though it dawned on me fairly quickly that I might start killing children and innocents if I were behind a wheel too long, especially given my drug intake at the time. I only actually drove in about two shots, but I kept the licence until a subsequent girlfriend threw it off a ferry from Dover to Calais. She said she was angry, and I do believe she was. I remember the licence clearing the handrail and disappearing into the choppy waters of the English Channel as if it were yesterday. I don’t have any recollection of what she was angry about, though.

We did two gigs in Mexico City, both quite unconventional. One was in the middle of something resembling a council estate, four blocks, in a square and in the middle an empty lot where there had once been a similar building, a space that had been commandeered as an artistic haven. It had large ditches around it, like a moat, filled with burnt-out cars painted orange and yellow and red – like flames, now that I think about it. Atmospheric: a great place to do a show. Or so we thought. We started sound-checking around two in the afternoon, and all the balconies quickly filled with very angry locals staring at us and putting their hands over their ears. We ignored them at first, but then three hours before gig time the Mayor of Mexico City’s son rolled up – it turned out he lived around the corner – and said we could only proceed if we gave him some sort of donation. I’m not sure what we were donating to, but it cost us a few grand to go on with that show. Given the whole driving licence situation, I shouldn’t really have been so surprised when that happened.

You can actually see some of that show in the video for ‘Bang Bang You’re Dead’, and we followed that up by playing a disused bank, which had real bullet holes in the ceiling, from what I liked to imagine were banditos. That place must have been at least three hundred years old, and when we stepped out on to the stage the audience was full of kids who’d travelled something like ten hours to see us, really Amazonian looking; it all felt so exotic. I really did have a moment where I couldn’t believe the power of music, how far it could reach; people were so happy that we’d made the effort to come. There’s not much money in playing in those sorts of places, so most bands don’t bother doing it. They should, though: it was like experiencing Beatlemania.

There were more drugs in Mexico City than even we might have imagined, incredible cocaine called Coconut Grove, presumably after the area or the song. The way it was explained to me made no sense, but I’ll share it anyway as I was fascinated. Coconut Grove was a kilo of cocaine that was dissolved in coconut milk and then dried and distilled, and then condensed down to only 600 grams of lethal cocaine-coconut mixture. I should have asked for the recipe, because the result meant that snorting it was like smelling coconut, desiccated coconut; it was really rather lovely. There’d just be a lovely rush accompanied by a coconut scent that made you feel as if you were luxuriating in a very expensive spa. It really was quite special. When people ask me now if they can get it, I say, of course you can: just go to Mexico City.

I stayed in Mexico for a few weeks with Mario Galvan; it was fair to say that he knew how things worked. We shot some of the ‘Bang Bang’ video around the old streets where Frida Kahlo’s house is, playing the trumpet and moving through the city, riding in cars balanced on flatbed trailers. It was like a film set, and tremendous fun, with people wandering around with walkie-talkies, a crew and security guards – lots of security guards. Not that we ever needed them – or not that we noticed. That’s the thing about good security: if it’s done well then it’s a deterrent and you don’t need to use them.

I was glad they were around, though, later. We were on the way to see the Aztec pyramids, which, again, we were planning to shoot for use in the video. I’d never seen death before. I’ve seen it in films and on the TV, I’ve seen graphic violence on the street at kicking-out time, but watching someone meet a bloody, violent end is not something you generally wake up thinking about: you don’t expect to have to look into the maw before the afternoon’s over. On the way to the pyramids we had to pass through an old, dangerous barrio where there was a lot of gang trouble – where, apparently, when they’d been shooting the film Man on Fire, a gang of machine-gun toting guys had calmly demanded two of the Ford people-carriers the production was using. And the film people, of course, just gave them right over. What else could they do?

That’s the kind of neighbourhood we were in when Roger Sargent, our photographer, decided we needed to get out for some pictures. Roger was an old friend, who’d come to one of our earliest gigs at the Albion Rooms in Bethnal Green. He has a roaringly infectious laugh and a strange and unbridled passion for the Second World War, which is reinforced by his occasional resemblance to a young Churchill. He’s taken some of the most iconic music photos of a generation, so we followed him out of the car, but immediately it felt bad, that kind of bad that makes your guts itch, and I looked around and realized that even our security guys were bricking it. They knew better than us just how lawless it was down there. We were trying to look casual as we strolled down these little streets and alleyways, then Roger suddenly started shouting at us, and other people in our group started shouting too, and we quickly jumped back in the car, hearts beating out of our chest, mouths dry, and as we’re tearing out of there, there’s a young man getting lynched. He had what looked like barbed wire round his neck, surrounded by a big gang who were kicking and punching him, and dragging him along the street, off to his death. I’d say it was horrific, but that doesn’t begin to describe it. Even now, writing this, I can still see his body kicking up dust, his feet flailing uselessly as he’s pulled off towards his doom. Someone took a photo on their camera; someone else muttered about local justice, but I didn’t know how to react. All I remember is in that hot Mexican sun everything suddenly turned cold, bleached of its colour like old bones.

SIX Dirty Pretty Things

SIX  Dirty Pretty Things