Their take on Britishness had, as someone fascinated with the music, art and history of this country, infuriated me - Doherty's waffling on about Albion seemed an excuse to make regular trips to his back-street pharmacist, as if he were some indie Coleridge. Before that trip, I'd been angrily hunting for left over dregs of piss-poor lager to hurl over the balcony at The Libertines' supposedly epochal London Forum gigs. It was a short-lived affair - the uglier forms of nationalism will always surface when a sense of identity feels estranged from belonging. It was inevitable, in a way I was weeks and thousands of miles from home, and surrounded by scenes of men in Stetsons standing on the back of their pick-up truck as they bullwhipped the empty cans of Bud that they'd just finished. ![]() For it was in that nondescript mid-West American sprawl, midpoint in the summer of 2004, that I accidentally fell in love with The Libertines. Let what happens in Denver stay in Denver.
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