Doherty und Barat

I don’t know what it is about Carl Barat. He was one of the sleeker live performers I’ve seen -very nice, very cool, very famous- not that that detracted from the joy of seeing him, but I’ve never seen a more together person. But when it comes to photographs, he’s a lurking cynical hairball, these subtle observant expressions – it’s as if the normal poles are reversed with him: spontaneity in the face of permanent recording, and total professionalism in person. I stress that I’m talking about an unusual aspect of his art, rather than judging him as a man. It’s “Carl Barat, you know how and when to channel yourself,” not “Carl Barat, you are a fuzzy little fake.”

Anyway, this photo of Barat and Doherty at (how did you guess?) the latest NME awards captures something about how they always look together – this complicated, resigned exchanged glance (of course they’ll exchange a glance when the cameras are there) which is both public and genuinely intimate. You know you’re being played to, but the plot of the play is “fuck this for a situation where we feel we have to play to people;” the glance is an invitation to pretend you’re part of their frustration with the observing mob, rather than part of the observing mob. Under the circumstances, that’s very generous.

I was enjoying some Fall Out Boy Trail today, marveling at FOB’s world-takeover ability to simultaneously disgust and please -they make product placement a punk pose; they released a deliberately unwinnable parody 16-bit game where you can heal your party with Vitamin Water and somehow it’s cheeky- but I prefer the weary striptease of the Libertines’ 4-years-and-counting breakup, if we’re going to pit PR-as-art against PR-as-art, and we are.