A musical version of Withnail & I? Some nostalgia trip through old Libs material and a time not long passed? There’s been an Academy cancellation already this year – being banged up can make touring inordinately difficult – and most of the crowd are just happy to see their wayward indie icon. They get more than that. They get a host of the most delightful sucker punches, delivered throughout a focused, back-to-basics and altogether crowd-pleasing show.
Shock number one comes on point of entry. Doherty making his entrance in inauspicious and uncharacteristically punctual fashion. Without a word, he’s here and he’s into ‘At The Flophouse’. A fleet-footed slip of a song, its detailing of his awkward pre-gig demands acts as a lovely opening wink. In reality, he doesn’t need much to play tonight. There’s a tumbler or two of coca-cola (possibly with some company in the glass) and a guitar – all that and he’s away. Things from which to take heart: he looks clean as a whistle, sharp as a thistle. He’s considerably bulked up, suggesting that he’s relatively substance-free. From that heartening start, it’s a hits parade. Well... he doesn’t do hits per se, so maybe consider it more a procession of familiar friends.

Shock number two: the breadth, depth and sustained quality throughout his body of work. The b-sides, backroads and unreleased sketches are greeted just as fondly as the singles. ‘East Of Eden’ is Pete skipping down the garden path to a tune milkmen could whistle, ‘Arcady’ bolsters the myths concocted with Carl Barat a decade ago and ‘Last Of The English Roses’ proves he remains a viable musical force.
Naturally, The Libertines songs are what the people crave. He delivers. ‘Don’t Look Back Into The Sun’ is an early clarion call, ‘Time For Heroes’ a perfect slice of literate pop and the likes of ‘The Good Old Days’ and ‘The Ha Ha Wall’ retain their bruised-heart romance. ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ garners the biggest singalong near the close. Away from his old band, he’s been no slouch - ‘For Lovers’ sounds beautiful and ‘Fuck Forever’ is as anthemic as he’s ever gotten. Everyone in the sold-out venue laps it up. Is that a shock? That Pete can still draw a capacity crowd after everything? He earns the fervour this evening and no mere tabloid waster could hold this level of sustained adoration. He’s taken chances with his career and his life, but he’s no chancer in the talent department.

Maybe age brings a little wisdom. Another shock: Pete as agony aunt. Well… he sidesteps the advice bit. A note is passed onstage, from some loverlorn type who wants to win a girl he lost due to drug abuse. “This is like Jim’ll Fix It!” Peter smiles, before informing us that he’s learnt “not to be involved in other people’s love lives.” Peter The Wise. That bit of chat is his only real interaction with those assembled, though he does sing about driving “down the banks of the Liffey”, thus proving that at least he knows where he bloody well is. We don’t need the raconteur, the songs will do just fine.
A final emotional knock-out blow. Amy Winehouse’s ‘Tears Dry On Their Own’. Recast as a lament for his late friend, it also serves to remind that he himself is a wrong decision away from similar tributes. There’s a road back for Peter Doherty, and this evening seems like a step in the right direction. “Come back soon Pete,” someone shouts at the end. It’d be lovely if he stuck around.