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citronellaww · 1 year

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Peter Doherty at the Royal Albert Hall - a coronary experience.

"...because the poet said a word."

When I came back from the (utterly maddening and brilliant and “I still smile like a madwoman whenever I daydream about that night”) Libertines concert in Prague last year, I made this note to myself: “This is what poetry means to me: I sail to the unknown, writing”.

Months of writing (and daydreaming) later, the sea called for me again — and so, in an endless pursuit of the unknown, I sailed to Albion. (Editor's note number one: I had to fly, because sailing when your country's land doesn't reach the sea - yes, William Shakespeare, I am sure you and your mystic Bohemia are flabbergasted now - is a tad bit complicated, but I watched the ships underneath the plane's wings and I shed a tear as we crossed the Channel, and I listened to Carl Barât and the Jackals as we were landing and I really recommend that sort of combination, because it made me feel colours, instead of being scared of landing).

Being a PhD student in American and British literature (…), people naturally thought I made this trip to see the Coronation. And I let them think that, because to me it was a sort of "coronary" experience, seeing Peter Doherty perform at the Royal Albert Hall. (Editor's note number two: "coronary", as the arteries which protect and nurture the heart; and "coronary" as Peter's music which protects and nurtures the poet that lives in my head).

There were things that happened in between, before and after the concert (in terms of my time in Albion), but Peter’s concert was the place where written words transcended the letters they were once formed from, dreams turned into reality, sound mixed with poetry, and the unknown left me struggling to catch the railing. Frankly (Mr. Shankly), when I arrived in London and climbed the seemingly never-fucking-ending vortex of stairs at Finsbury Park, dragging my luggage behind me (kudos to the guy who suggested I take the lift, then watched me struggle upstairs, his old green Reebok shoes an imprint on my mind), I never even guessed what I would be a part of days later at Peter's concert.

Now, when it comes to the art of 'concert reportage', I believe in authenticity, so I wrote the following paragraphs while lunching in Camden the day after the concert. Beware, my writing was influenced by my overwhelming excitement, shock (to the system), but also by exhaustion (blame the stairs at Finsbury Park and the fact that night buses from Bounds Green -one zero fucking seven, I am looking at you- live a life of their own, certainly undisturbed by my need to get from point A to point B and not to be stranded at a bus stop in the middle of the night, accompanied by a lonely fox staring at my cigarette like if it was food and the Full Moon), as well as circa million other emotions, piling atop the words like rain on the ground in Camden that day of "coronation"... :

I never thought that I'd experience the whole Royal Albert Hall singing ‘Tell the King’ and ‘The Man Who Would Be King’ a day before the coronation (editor's note number three: a beloved moment I couldn’t help but describe to everyone as I came home, especially those who asked me ‘but did you see the coronation’). Never thought I'd be dancing to (my favourite) 'Ballad of Grimaldi' and have my little nerd moment over hearing Peter talk about the meaning behind 'St. Jude' (editor’s note number four: it's one of my favourite songs exactly because of the part “St. Jude may hear my pleas / See me on my bended knees”), then sing along to 'I Get Along' (editor’s note number five: I have the refrain pinned on the wall at uni), as well as other scarcely or only once before performed songs played on Peter's acoustic, let alone watch people invade the stage while he's playing 'Time for Heroes' (but ‘did you see the ((stylish)) kids in the riots?’ I guess I fucking did!)… Guys from the row behind me jumping over my head to join others, then coming back and telling us about it. One of their friends went to the loos right before the stage invasion and thus missed the whole thing, so of course they all gathered to tease him with that "we've just been a part of something legendary and you've missed the whole thing" conversation.

I cannot say that I wasn't shocked; in the end, these were the wildest (?) "dreams" coming true, and the weirdest coincidences, as only that morning I said to my friend "I’m sad I never got to experience those wild years of stage invasions" (was the God of music listening? Whoever s/he is). To be absolutely honest, the experience was so overwhelming I think that I am only now coming back to reality, though I will not lie, it is a complex process. (Editor’s note number ?six?: The gin and tonic I consumed afterwards might have been at fault, too.)

The hours prior I was reading nature poets in Kensington's bookshops (I’m a romantic and ecocritic, shoot me), then walking around sunny Hyde Park, picking fallen blossom out of my hair, randomly bumping into old classmates (hi Magda!), this peaceful prelude to clear my head for the evening… then suddenly I’m crying to Hak Baker's support set (editor’s note number ??: his speech about mental health already had me tearing up, it turned to full on weeping as he talked about his mom), then I’m overwhelmed again, with joy too, seeing/hearing Peter – and shocked (to the core) but laughing (uncontrollably) as people sweep across the hall like a tsunami, jumping over a meter (or so) high barriers, knocking security guys down - because the poet said a word. You wouldn't be able to make any of that up, ever. And obviously, I was already more than happy (and quite emotional) that I came to London, but the following day, walking around Camden, the words of this random person I talked to after the concert suddenly hit me: "welcome to London". What a great city baptism. Now, writer's endnote: I do not think that we appreciate artists like Peter enough. For what they do for us in these moments, for how they can change our lives – with words, with music, and the magic that binds it all. What I've found since I started listening to Peter (& Carl, the Libertines and then the other dozen bands that came out of it all - bless 'em) is renewed passion for what I love, be it my poetry, writing, literature, art OR sailing (ok, flying) to Albion in pursuit of my dreams (and in pursuit of the never-fucking-ending vortex of stairs at Finsbury Park). And this, this is enough - truly, it is.

Thank you, Peter, the Albion is still on course. (But hey, where are we sailing next?)

-Karla

P.S. I apologize for the number of editor’s notes, I know it fucks up the (good) flow of the text and, as an editor and writer myself, I would give Karla here an earful about how she is supposed to control her "editor persona". Now, to prove how truly sorry she is, here are some more notes:

*Everything here (including the poem) is written by me. An edited version of this post should (soon) be also on my IG, along with videos.

*The phrase ‘because the poet said a word’ was my own invention (my friend Linda will testify to that); however, the good scholar that I am, I researched it yesterday to see if, maybe, it has been already used somewhere else, and while it seems it is original, I found connections to Emily Dickinson (such as her “This was a Poet—It is That” or “Shall I Take Thee”). This connection is purely unintentional, coincidental, but warms my heart nonetheless, especially when I know that Peter likes Emily’s poetry (and I do, too), and I wanted to point that out in case you people are poetry nerds like me, or would like some poetry recommendations.

*Addition to editor’s note number two: “coronary” and “coronation” both stem from the original Latin term “corona”; “coronary”, in particular, was derived from the medieval term "curuner" which was used for the person who had the (local) responsibility of protecting the crown. Ever thought of yer own heart as the “crown”? (I do have my “Karla the Linguist” moments.)

*Editor’s note number x (missing from the text): An hour before the gig I went for a tea into one of the bars at the Royal Albert Hall (it really was a tea!), and the girls behind the bar told me how it was ‘a quiet and slow day’ and I sat there, the room empty, and watched the staff around exchange jokes. I thought of that moment later as I watched the security/staff struggling to, somehow, control the masses.

*Anyone who wants to point out to me that ol’ Will Shakespeare thought that ‘Bohemia’ was reaching the Adriatic Sea at that time should understand that I am well aware of this possibility but, as a wannabe scholar, I feel inclined to test the limits of good ol’ William.

*Special thank you to everyone who made my stay in London an absolute dream come true (especially everyone at Muswell Hill and Rosebery Road where I was staying, local foxes and buses included), and to Linda for listening to my continuous storytelling these past few weeks (and being the first person to read this...what would my writing be, if I didn't have my people to share it with?).