The best way to find British tabloid rock star Pete Doherty is to not look for him at all. If you're one of the many people who lay claim to some of his time — bandmates, concert promoters, or enterprising reporters — your odds of actually cornering the man are slim to none. More than one story of a Doherty encounter ends with the tall, soft-spoken drug addict loping out the door, never to return. Which is why I'm slightly surprised when I end up hanging out with Doherty one muggy night in Paris.
I'm in town for only a few days, completing the last leg of a month-and-a-half-long odyssey through London, Italy and Corsica. I'm traveling with my friend Eli, political science major and future president of the United States, moving fast and living cheap at the Woodstock Hostel, a compact building filled to the gills with fellow backpackers. Probably as a direct result, it's somewhat of a dive, which is OK for most — when you're staying at Woodstock Paris, you party more than you sleep — but the lively common area, centered around a retro wall-mounted half of a VW Bug, can't quite make up for the fresh smell of Heineken-induced vomit in the morning.
It's in the grimy underground kitchen of the Woodstock that we meet Sepi, an economics, history and political science major at Columbia University. Over a dinner of bread, Nutella and grapes, we also meet Alberto, a thirty-something Italian man who frequents youth hostels in a misguided attempt to pick up chicks (his main line is "Come visit me in Italy — my car, it has air-conditioning").
Once Alberto has finally taken a hint and left the room, discussion turns toward the evening's plans. Sepi is an old hand, having stayed at the Woodstock for three nights already, and she tells us all the locals hang out each night at the Sacre-Coeur basilica on top of Montmartre hill.
A tram goes up the hill every few minutes, although on a weekend night it resembles a party bus more than anything else. But we're looking for a place to smoke, so we opt to hike up the stone steps that are still slick from the drizzly weather.
Bolstered by a few Heinekens each and some cheap Cognac I've been carrying in my back pocket, we eventually reach the top and take a seat beneath the basilica's giant marble dome, which bears a vague resemblance to the Taj Mahal. We don't find a party; instead, the plaza out front is vacant because of the rain, except for a few Parisians with a guitar.
We sit and smoke a few Italian cigarettes as we listen to the distant city sounds and the faint melodies emanating from the group with the guitar. It's approaching 2 a.m., but we're not quite ready to turn in yet.
"Let's see if the music tonight is any good," Sepi suggests, so we amble over and take a seat near the group on the main steps. We arrive during a forgettable song from a Frenchman who wears a red rose tucked between his black turtleneck and his guitar strap. With a cigarette drooping from his lips, he's nearly a picture-perfect embodiment of the cliché Parisian café-dweller — all he's missing is the black beret.
His turn up, the café-dweller passes the guitar to the next in line. A minute later, I realize the new player looks awfully familiar, and suddenly it dawns on me. We are witnessing what essentially amounts to a private concert from Pete Doherty, leader of Babyshambles, notorious crack/smack addict and erstwhile boyfriend of Kate Moss.
I seek to confirm my finding with Joliette, a young Parisian who has begun talking with us in excellent English.
"Yes, it's him! Isn't it amazing!?" she replies in an excited whisper, her eyes wide. Joliette explains that her friend was so ecstatic upon meeting Doherty that she wept tears of joy.
Our group's reaction is less enthusiastic. Eli clearly has no idea who Doherty is, though he goes along with it for now, and Sepi needs clarification.
"Pete Doherty, from the Libertines," I say, and she immediately seems more animated, edging closer to where Doherty is playing.
Sepi soon starts a conversation with him, and when he asks for her name, she introduces all of us. His large, somber brown eyes linger over us as we tell him our names, but they're slightly glazed, moving like the kind of weighted doll eyes that only seem to follow your own. They look at you, but you have to wonder how much they actually comprehend.
Doherty wears a gray woolen coat with a black-and-white patterned scarf to insulate him from the Gallic mist, and the extra layers seem necessary. His pallid face glows eerily in darkness, revealing sparse and wispy facial hair that makes him look far younger than his 27 years. When he moves to take the guitar, his body seems thin and waifish in contrast to his slightly chubby baby face.
And yet this is a man who could count heroin and crack-cocaine as staples of his diet. Last spring, Doherty was charged with seven counts of possession of controlled drugs. These kinds of striking inconsistencies abound within Doherty, who is simultaneously a wide-eyed boy and a hardened man — a wastrel and an artiste. They both define the man and fuel his myth.
This is the first of a three-part series.
