Shotter's Nation barely worth a shot

Former Libertines frontman's new band does not live up to his reputation.

By Kelsey Whipple

Published Nov. 13, 2007

Pete Doherty is half his own man, half his habit’s. This is, after all, a man who dresses like a chimneysweep and does crack with his cat — a man whose fractious history and general godlessness make Britney look like Barney. In the nonstop haze of v-signs and after parties that is the black sheep of Britrock’s waking life, drugs come first, the music comes second and sleep, it would appear, comes never. If his teammates on the Britscape speak for the everyman, Doherty’s reppin’ the everyaddict.

And he’s not giving up. Even after the band’s tragic first album went asunder, Pete and his post-Libertines outfit Babyshambles are back with Shotter’s Nation, an admirable, if undercooked attempt at a comeback for a band that is a comeback. Sure, there’s game, but it’s as though the band had a brainstorming meeting and the result was, “Let’s try this time, guys, just not too hard.” Gone is the paroxysm of feeling found briefly on “Fuck Forever,” replaced with predictably vulnerable lyrics on predictably sympathetic topics: wasted opportunity (read: heroin addiction) and tainted love (read: Kate Moss).

Lesson No. 1: Pete Doherty is messed up. On the punchy “You Talk”, Doherty’s lilting voice lets listeners in on a secret: “I never ever said it was clever, I just like getting leathered.” Shakespeare, he is not.

In the past, lyrics like these have established Doherty as the poet laureate of the street corner, but you get the feeling he’s not content with staying there. The smoldering lines of “Lost Art of Murder” prove though he doesn’t do it often, Doherty is capable of getting his shit together. Doherty’s regret is palpable as he mutters over an acoustic guitar, “Get off your back/ stop smoking that/ You could change your life”. (Note to self: Do what he says.)

Lest Doherty’s self-loathing steal the spotlight, it has to be said that Shotter’s Nation is very much a group project. Carl Barât might have been the Keef to Pete’s Mick, but neither one is in the other’s shadow anymore. Although Babyshambles began as an overly ambitious side project, the guys have become a fully functional four-piece, and with the help of producer Stephen Street (The Smiths, Blur), they’ve become a streamlined one. Down In Albion, at 16 songs, was longer than Doherty’s rap sheet, making the concise 12 on Shotter’s Nation a pleasant change.

It’s a pity, then, when the delicately jazzy “There She Goes” only makes you wish you were listening to The La’s classic of the same name. “Unstookie Titled” cribs the “one and the same, one and the same” repetition of “Fuck Forever” and smothers it in sang-froid. “French Dog Blues” opens with a great '60s chorus and drums mix only to lose it in banal clapping.

The sole wholly unspoiled track on the album is “Delivery,” like “Fuck Forever” on its predecessor. Kinks throwback riffs mix with taut drums to showcase that voice — a grimy blend of urchin and angel. It took years of cigarettes to get that wretchedly captivating voice, and every butt was worth it.

There will always be hope for that voice, but when Doherty swathes every song in half-decent, nihilistic nonsense about being the world’s most jaded bum, it’s hard to sympathize. His current band is the poor man’s version of his last one, and his current record is no magnum opus. The man does have nine lives, though — maybe in his next one he’ll get over it.