The night began with Real Farmer, a quartet of punk from the Netherlands, their energy taut, sharp, and urgent. We loved tracks “Consequence” and “The Straightest Line” They tore through their set like a band with something to prove, culminating in an impassioned cry of “Up the Punks” and rallying shouts for the freedom of Palestine and Lebanon—a plea so raw it hung in the air long after the amps had quieted.

Then, a shift. The Libertines graced the stage just five minutes late—a far cry from the chaotic, impatient days when their lateness was as infamous as their music. Gone are the times when fans waited an hour or more for Pete Doherty to stumble on stage; now, he’s as likely to bring his dog up with him as he is to bring the mayhem. The Albion Rooms backdrop loomed behind them, a ghost of their past and a nod to the ramshackle glory days, but tonight felt different. This was a band, seasoned but not broken, reflecting on the past without being strangled by it.

As the first notes of “The Delaney” hit, followed by “The Likely Lads,” the crowd’s response was immediate—bodies thrown over each other, arms reaching out for the starry ceiling above. It was like watching old friends meeting again for the first time, and the room was soon swimming in bodies, sweat, and memory. The Barrowland Ballroom—famous for its ability to wrap a crowd into a communal, sweating embrace—became a living, breathing extension of the music they loved as teenagers.

Carl Barât and Pete Doherty, who’ve weathered more than a decade of public highs and devastating lows, stood side by side like brothers. There’s a palpable sense that these two have dug through the dirt of their past and emerged scarred but united, and there’s beauty in that. They exchanged glances, and without a word, the music took over—the timeless swagger of “Up the Bracket” paired effortlessly with newer material like “Merry Old England” and “Night of the Hunter.” The room was alive with nostalgia, yes, but also a sense of something deeper, a resilience built over time.

During “Can’t Stand Me Now,” the crowd screamed every word. It was an odd kind of interlude—both a reminder of fractures past and a sign of how far they’ve come. The crowd eager for more, and the band only too happy to oblige them with a six-song encore that felt like a victory lap through the heart of their catalog.

Pete paused for a moment before “Man With the Melody,” making a heartfelt mention of John Hassall and the history of this song—a footnote in the tangled web of Libertines side projects and what-could-have-beens. They gathered around John, their bassist and the understated man with the melody, to deliver a somber yet tender performance. It was like they were paying tribute to their younger selves, as John wrote this song at the tender age of 16.

And then came the final onslaught: “Last Post on the Bugle,” “Time for Heroes,” “What a Waster,” and, of course, the grand finale—“Don’t Look Back into the Sun.” The Barrowland Ballroom, dripping with sweat, reverberated with the echoes of countless gigs, countless moments of elation, and pain shared between audience and band. Each song was like a dagger twisted in the ribs of time—cutting, but a reminder that you’re still alive.

Gary Powell, ever the powerhouse on drums, thanked the audience with the same passion that drove every beat of the night. His final plea to “Free Palestine” was a perfect punctuation—a reminder that, despite the fun and chaos, The Libertines are still a band with a heart that beats for more than just their own legend.

There’s humor in the darkness here, though. The Libertines have always known that life is a tragic farce—one moment you’re a cult hero, the next a washed-up headline—but tonight they laughed in the face of all of it. That’s what made this show at the Barrowland so electric. It wasn’t just about nostalgia, it wasn’t about the chaos of youth—it was about finding meaning in the wreckage and carrying on, bruised but with a smile.

Words: Angela Canavan

Photos: Elliot Hetherton & Angela Canavan