Forget Merseybeat melodies and polite applause. The Cavern Club tonight is a furnace of flailing limbs, spilled pints, and singalongs so loud they rattle the ghosts of mop-topped legends. The Libertines are back, and their reunion, previewing the aptly titled “All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade,” is anything but.
Doherty, a walking Dickensian novel in a Frank Spencer Macintosh, snarls greetings over the clamor. Barât, a barely contained hurricane of energy, works the stage like a pogo-ing marionette. The air hangs thick with anticipation and lager mist, a heady cocktail that fuels the joyous pandemonium.
This ain’t some polished arena spectacle. This is raw, ragged rock and roll in its purest form. New tracks like “Run Run Run” brawl with the ghosts of past glories, Doherty’s gravelly vocals weaving tales of redemption amidst the sonic maelstrom. “Night of the Hunter,” meanwhile, is a twisted waltz of love and violence, Swan Lake melodies battling punkish riffs in a glorious, grimy ballet.
The years haven’t dulled their edge, just honed it. The onstage chemistry between Doherty and Barat, once combustible, now crackles with a knowing glint.
At times, the show and the audience are reminiscent of a club night in the 70’s punk era. More of a jamming session at moments and the crowd at their most raw with pushing, shoving and jumping. There only had to be a Mohican haircut in the crowd and the look and feel would have been completed.
And when the classics erupt – “Time for Heroes,” “Don’t Look Back Into the Sun” – the Cavern transforms into a heaving, sweat-soaked cathedral of rock and roll. Voices hoarse from belting out choruses, bodies a tangle of limbs and euphoria. This is more than a gig; it’s a shared exorcism, a cathartic release of years of pent-up energy.
The Libertines might not be the fresh-faced lads they once were, but their fire burns brighter than ever. In the sweltering heart of the Cavern Club, they proved that rock and roll, like a good vintage cheese, only gets better with age. Tonight, Liverpool wasn’t just treated to a concert; it witnessed a resurrection. And in the face of this glorious, messy, triumphant ruckus, who could ask for anything more?