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Without mentioning a certain red-jacketed phenomenon, we all know it was never exactly a flawless course for the good ship Albion. Who would have predicted, however, that the rigging would be tugged by the commercial tempest, cruelly lured by corporate mermaids into rocky mobile phone sponsorship terrain with tonight's T-Mobile Streets gig? Never fear though, sailors. With Carl Barat at the helm, all remains very much ship shape.
In the delectably dingy, slightly surreal surroundings of the Vaults, there is undoubtedly an air of excitement and palpable expectation. Maybe it’s because everyone here is in fact a filthy internet freeloader. Maybe it’s because this is Dirty Pretty Things, a band where expectation is as much a part of their make up as leather jackets and casually brandished vino.
A defiant ‘Deadwood’ kick starts a triumphant delivery of energy, cohesion and ultimately, unprecedented determination. An anxious urgency cements the performance from being an almost too slick incarnation of ‘Waterloo to Anywhere’ into a genuinely soulful performance. They all pour their hearts into a guitar thrashed jaunt of English melancholia, joy and a shining example of the stiff upper lip. They manage to capture an optimism shrouded in certain jadedness on the album: vibrant vigour is injected into the jolts of punk confrontation in ‘You Fuckin Love It’, the battered beauty of ‘Gin and Milk’ and the ska-jaunts of ‘The Gentry Cove’. Each song shines in its own right: elevated drastically from the recording with a sweaty, rambunctious edge.
They have come an enormously long way from the migraine plagued, nervy knife edged early forays. There’s an uplifting togetherness that had been lacking: Didz, every part the Dickensian gent adds his gruff vocals and spars with Barat; Rossomando buzzes with bouncy energy and genuine enjoyment.
The encore rolls around with the inevitable Libertines reflections: the poignant acoustic musings of ‘France’ sound ever relevant, carried with the only the arch, nonchalant sexuality a shirtless Barat can offer. The decorum of Barat is unrivalled, so it’s a surprise that the early setlist closer of ‘I Get Along’ still firmly lies in smug crowd pleasing position. However, as always, there’s a taught splendour that makes it seem so right. Even in union jack pants.
Rossomando’s moment of curly mopped glory arrives in the sweetly sauntering melancholia of his trumpet intro to ‘Bang Bang You’re Dead’. Already an anthem for the post-Libertines crowd, this is DPT at their least tarnished by their past; at their brilliant best. For an album so new, the crowd’s grins, unconditional support and contagious dancing somehow moulds it into a swiftly burgeoning classic. This is a crowd who have grown up with Barat: gone are the Kitchener clothed romantics, eyes filled with dingy poetry and reflecting the narcotics of their soon-to-be-tabloid hero. Dirty Pretty Things don’t offer this magic, the dream fuelled subculture, but in it’s place is a beautifully unrivalled dignity. The charisma is dripping and gorgeous, carrying their superb pop songs through a dingy venue and, perhaps even, into your heart.
