Threepenny Memoir: The Lives of a Libertine
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The extraordinary life and times of Carl Barat, Libertine.From his childhood in suburban Basingstoke, through times of literally being down and out in London and Paris, to success as one of the co-founders of one of Britain's most revered bands, Carl Barat has gone through the glass darkly as bands fell apart around him, friendships faltered and egos and hedonism threatened to pull his life apart.Untitled Autobiography tells his extraordinary story, in themed chapters. Love tells of early, unrequited ardour, first heartache and the enduring feelings he has for his best friend, Pete Doherty. Work details time spent on the night shift in factory jobs; his first taste of the bright lights and big city as an usher in theatreland; of the moment when rock and roll really did become just another chore. London looks at the city that shaped him and helped nurture him as a song writer even as he slept on its streets; Icons his fascination with Sir Alec Guinness, his adoration of David Niven, the affinity he felt for the War Poets; Drugs – well, you can probably guess.Each chapter is chronologically linked by pages from Barat's journal, each recalling a pivotal moment from his life. The Libertines first NME cover in June 2002; their last ever show in Paris just before Christmas in 2004. Walking out on stage with Pete once more at the Hackney Empire in April 2007; touring broken-hearted and solo along America's West Coast in early 2009. His first night onstage at the Riverside Hammersmith, in Sam Shephard's Fool For Love in January 2010. His thoughts on the upcoming Libertines reunion in August 2010.Untitled Autobiography is a revealing and intimate self-portrait, a story of love and fighting and the creativity that came of that, and a fascinating account of the London of the last decade, with The Libertines its beating heart.
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CARL BARÂT
Threepenny Memoir
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I was always much happier on Camden Road than I was later, living on the top floor of a townhouse in Holloway, which, looking back, was an exercise in making myself feel edgy. Some nights I even slept in a cage, in the spare room of a prostitute we’d made friends with, a woman we’ll call Natasha. Natasha worked from home, I suppose you could say; she ran it as a sort of brothel and, when she wasn’t working, she hung around Camden a lot, a face at our shows. Someone said she knew one of the guys in Blur, but I don’t know. What I do know was we needed somewhere to sleep, and she had the space, so we took her up on her offer, despite its pitfalls. Natasha looked like a beautiful fourteen-year-old boy: skinny, emaciated and striking, and she was an enigma. She thought it would age her being outside too long, took cabs everywhere, and wouldn’t leave the house without applying sun block – a very paranoid girl, and quite lonely as far as I could tell. The bedroom I was allocated had a big iron cage in it, halfway between an outsize birdcage and a medieval torture device, which I often ended up sleeping in. I think her clients used to spend their hours in there paying to suffer, but it afforded me a degree of security I enjoyed. Natasha was our drummer for a few hours; we liked the notion, but she really couldn’t drum.
When she had a client, Peter and I would sit in the next room holding pellet guns and talk in gruff voices so that, through the wall, one might think that she had muscle to look after her in case a client freaked out. As a thank-you she’d usually take us to the café across the road and feed us, which seemed a fair exchange. Peter and I used to spy on her and her clients, sometimes, crawling quietly around on our knees to peep through the keyhole. I remember seeing her with a Hassidic Jew and, surprisingly, the drummer from a band we knew. Not at the same time, of course. We sat back dumbfounded when we caught sight of him on the other side of the door.
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