Their first reunion proved promising and elevated the materials of indie-rock dreck. The Libertines return with All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade, a title which will delight the Pete Doherty faithful as his writing leaps between harsh times and nostalgic heartbreak. Somewhere within this Doherty and Carl Barât collaboration is the soul of The Libertines. It could be heard on Run Run Run intermittently and made a rising, sudden appearance on Night of the Hunter. Isolated spots of teasing new material which has since been slightly reworked. Opener Run Run Run sounds louder, a boisterous first step in a delayed release of All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade. It works. It’ll pull in The Libertines faithful and may turn a few heads elsewhere, too.
Life on the lash never sounded so commonplace as it does on Run Run Run, and then it crashes into Mustang with looks down towards the country-wide hardship. Car worship as escapism to the hard-drinking during the day of a stressful life is another indicator of The Libertines being in touch with the experiences of plight but unable to offer a discussion or conclusion which adds anything but romanticism. Have a Friend drifts through a loose realisation of mid-2000s alternative rock. Slick guitar work and a steady pace from Doherty’s vocals once again kindle ideas of rich against poor but it is never clear which side The Libertines fall. They are the neutral ground asking for peace in a world far from it. Merry Old England sounds like the tongue-in-cheek expectations of a band distancing themselves from the real world with repetitions of Cool Brittania focus, the imagery which moulded their breakout.
All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade has not a lick of irony to it – Doherty and Barât are of the Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins variety. Proposing themselves as chancers in touch with the country, having departed it some years ago. Merry Old England lasts as a string-ridden slight and becomes the bottom of The Libertines’ barrel. Utopian concepts are not knocked against or assessed in a contemporary light, just hoped for. Specifics are lost to titular repetition which gets listeners nowhere if they are not read up on the decades of life Doherty has experienced, with and without Barât.
Attempts at kindling instrumental beauties on Man With the Melody fall flat. Heavenly experiences which detail the desires of a person as stronger than otherworldly beings. The Libertines keep themselves wider without specifics and present a lack of detail for listeners to fill in the blanks themselves. Those softer, string-led moments do not last and the initial appeal of The Libertines, their energetic fury and apparent talent for writing comes through on Oh Shit. Titular repetitions once more and a glorification of just getting by with the cash in your back pocket. All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade suffers from its lack of emotive attachment and understanding of struggle.
There is still a desire to experience the utopia of England, and it pales in comparison to real assessments of the country. Yard Act took it up on Where’s My Utopia?, a gut-punch response released a month before The Libertines tried peddling the plucky charms of people who hope to pull the word “rapscallion” back into dialogue. Still, they hold firm to the influences of Roy Judge and those empty assessments of England through turns of phrase used by our grandmothers. Grab the seemingly accidental charm of Night of the Hunter and run. It loses its smarts when pulling at the influences of the Charles Laughton film. Strings can win you over, eventually.
The Libertines drive off into this sunset of a land which never existed. Escapism from the real world is one portion of influence, but attempting to tell the truth of scrappy living as a treat feels clunky and rude to the reality of it. Punches of saxophone on Baron’s Claw attempt to grift a blues appeal in the latter stages of All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade, which rapidly deteriorates into a tiresome experience. The Libertines has long lasted on alleged poetry but their big-time swing influences in the latter half of the album crack open the constant struggle Doherty has in connecting public mood on his experiences to the experiences themselves. His military upbringing may have instilled this national pride which cannot be switched off, no matter how hard he tries to present himself as a champion for the voiceless. Shiver still sounds like a tribute to the Queen and the old hat influences of Union Jack-draped celebrities from the late 1990s lingers on Doherty and Barât’s mind.
In turn, All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade feels uncomfortable in its skin and a stale experience. The Libertines are locked in the past and hope to make it their future. Songs They Never Play on The Radio is a sentimental wash, needle-skipping memories where the band claws for John Peel’s attention once more. Again, it goes unanswered, and All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade rests as an example of The Libertines at their best and worst. Their use of the real world as a cynical and passionless backdrop to flutters of patriotism and the alleged good old days. Even the fade-out of studio chatter feels aged, as though a hidden track will bounce through like a costumed 1950s horror villain.
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