This is the final installment in Alec Luhn's ongoing account of his summer encounter with notorious British rocker Pete Doherty. The roving ArtsEtc. columnist finds himself in a Parisian square, among friends and new French acquaintances Joliette and her boyfriend, Gustav.
Many careers, not to mention millions of dollars, have been made selling the image of the bad-boy rocker. Notable examples include Mick Jagger and Axl Rose. But while Pete Doherty may cultivate the image, he's not a true bad dude in the mold of Rose. Axl was more of a thug, a rock star who would have made his millions as a gangster rapper had he been born black. The violent tendencies and straight-out mean streak are such an inherent part of Rose's personality, they're just as evident now that he's in his mid-forties (see attempted brawl with Tommy Hilfiger).
Doherty, on the other hand, is a passive, soft-spoken and, dare we say, intelligent rock star, one who's equally at home passing out on stage or referencing French literature in song titles. A show of intelligence is a rare thing in today's pop culture, and Doherty, with his bookish sensibility and Oxford education (though incomplete), is decidedly too smart for his own good. Even with the drugs, this former English major still retains a mind like a steel trap, though it may be a little rusty around the edges.
He's Britain's response to Weezer front-man and Harvard graduate Rivers Cuomo, minus some of the eccentricity and plus a whole lot of drugs. The result is an old flavor that tastes new, a flavor neither the press nor the British public can get enough of.
Of course, Doherty's literati pretensions could be just another facet of a publicity ploy. At one point in the night's conversation it seems obvious that Doherty's playing at being an intellectual to some extent. The rose-wearing Frenchman, who turns out to be Joliette's boyfriend, Gustav, begins talking literature with Doherty, or at least trying to. Gustav's asking Pete something about Flaubert, but for several long seconds Pete doesn't comprehend, until suddenly the old brain fires up again.
"Ah yes, of course, of course, Flaubert," Pete says. But that's as far as that goes, and what had the potential to be a revealing look at this scholar-turned-rock-star's taste and influences fizzles out with Gustav's weak suggestion that Doherty read some other French author.
This sorry attempt at conversation finished, Doherty decides it's time to get high (or keep the high going, depending on how stoned Doherty is, which is nearly impossible to tell at any given moment). You might expect a bona fide rock star to be on an expensive designer drug, or even powder cocaine. But Doherty, who has in many ways remained true to his East-London roots, does the street variety.
In the middle of the conversation, he nonchalantly pulls out a crack pipe. Pete hunches over the milky-white, broken-ended glass and takes a long hit before neatly tucking the pipe away in a small side pocket of his backpack.
By now, another Frenchman has gotten a hold of the guitar and begun strumming the jangling riff of the Babyshambles tune "A'rebours." Without even looking up from the cigarette he's rolling, Pete starts softly singing along in a reedy tenor, his schoolboy voice stepping gingerly from note to note: "You ignore, adore, a'rebours me/ You leave me washed up begging for more."
The lyrics could be a condemnation of the greedy public, the legions of fans exactly like the one now obliviously plunking away, who have turned Doherty into a strange musical antihero, hunted (by the press and police) and celebrated at the same time.
As the thin, parched voice clumsily ascends the scale, it makes you realize how thin the line between greatness and mediocrity truly is. Had Doherty been just another nameless Parisian night-goer, his singing wouldn't have caught anyone's attention. But in the presence of his looming celebrity, we hang on every word. In some ways, Doherty's ability to parlay a rather weak set of pipes into a celebrated career is eerily similar to that of another troubadour — Bob Dylan.
Once the song is over, I try to ask Pete a question about what he plans to focus on in the near future — art, writing or music. He seems unsure how to answer, pausing with eyes wide open, caught in the headlights of a non-sequitur that interrupts the flow of the evening. For Doherty, this flow is a life force he is highly attuned to — a vital need for conversation to go smoothly and for everyone around him to be completely relaxed.
The moment is resolved when I propose that "they all flow together," a statement Pete approves before lapsing into an unconcerned silence.
Doherty's flow is nearly interrupted again a few moments later, when two obnoxious Americans from Kansas approach and almost upset the precarious equilibrium. Apparently, they've heard that there's some sort of rock star present, and they ask him to pose for a picture. Eli quickly takes the female American aside and tells her, "Nobody really wants pictures right now."
"Why not?" she innocently asks.
"Because everybody's high out of their minds."
We avert crisis for now.
Before she leaves, the girl asks "So who was that?" in a loud whisper, and Sepi explains it to her.
They leave with a picture anyway, as a generous-minded Doherty is happy to take a photo with them, or at least unwilling to protest. He often exhibits generosity rarely found in a tabloid-level celebrity, such as when he offers a cigarette around to the entire gathering of 10 people before smoking one himself. Of course, not many celebrities roam around Paris unaccompanied.
When he's not too wasted to notice, Doherty is surprisingly caring of others and not the jaded celebrity in the slightest. At one point he lightly admonishes Gustav, who has been neglecting Joliette to bask in Pete's glow: "She's young, man — you should take care of her."
The night is obviously winding down as Doherty picks up the guitar and begins playing a jazzy four-bar groove. He doesn't even bother to remove the lit cigarette from between his fingers as he plays an intricate finger-picking pattern. He hits a few wrong notes, but remains nonplussed, gently working through the rough spots. Soon a newcomer takes out his guitar and tries to play along, but he's so out of tune that he effectively kills the jam.
Despite the intrusion, the natural vibe continues on once Doherty has stopped playing, so that none of us stop him when he gets up to take his leave.
A few minutes after his departure, it already seems like some sort of strange dream, this meeting with the most notorious musician in Britain at a church high above misty Paris. I feel as though, merely by meeting Doherty, I have been offered a glimpse into his life, a 24/7 dreamlike existence into which the shapes of people and places come and go with no rhyme or reason.
It's hard to make any other quick conclusions about Doherty, a man whose conflicted and contradictory persona would make sufficient material for a novel. You'd have to meet him yourself to even begin to know what to make of him.
Just don't go looking, and maybe you will.
