Pete Doherty was born in Hexham, Northumberland, in March 1979. His parents were both in the armed forces and Doherty’s childhood was spent at army garrisons across Britain and mainland Europe.
After moving to London, Pete Doherty met Carl Barât in the late 1990s. They formed The Libertines – an indie-rock band who became notorious around North London and signed to Rough Trade in 2001. The Libertines found a devoted fanbase, releasing a string of much-loved singles and 2003’s debut album, Up The Bracket. A tempestuous period followed. Spiralling drug use and intra-band tensions coming to a head when Doherty spent time in prison after burgling Barât’s flat. A short-lived reunion followed after Doherty’s release, producing a second, self-titled album which became a UK number one in August 2004, but Doherty had left the group by that point.
Albums with Babyshambles and solo projects followed before The Libertines reunited in 2010. Since then, Pete Doherty has balanced solo work with new albums and tours with The Libertines. Speaking to the Big Issue for his Letter to My Younger Self, Doherty looked back on a childhood steeped in poetry, the band’s early days and his drug addiction.
At 16, I was a big Queen’s Park Rangers fan and ran a fanzine called All Quiet on the Western Avenue. I was far from Western Avenue at the time, much to my chagrin – I was in an army barracks near Coventry. I went from one army barracks to another, but that’s growing up as an army brat. Some kids struggle, but I loved the adventure of changing schools and countries, meeting new people. There was an element of role play as well. From Germany or Cyprus where we were in a small community of army kids to being the only army kid in school, it was about adapting and fitting in. I used to experiment with accents, lying about where I was from. Anything but admit I was from nowhere – because I just wanted to be from somewhere.
At 15 or 16 I was developing a healthy obsession with music. This was the era of Pulp and Oasis and Blur and Elastica, all these bands I really fell for. I loved that music. And I was discovering older stuff too, listening to Wire and The Smiths. So I loved sport and music, but I was also reading avidly. My mum used to do car boot sales and I’d go with her and buy piles of Picador and Penguin paperbacks from the ’50s and ’60s. Cider with Rosie, Brighton Rock, The Outsider – all these took pride of place. At that time I was also reading a lot of Oscar Wilde.
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I had a feeling there weren’t many other people of my generation who gave much of a fuck about poetry. It wasn’t that I felt like a freak but at school it was seen as odd to love reading and writing poetry. It made me dig in even more, believing in my heart there were people out there somewhere and I was going to find them one day. I’d already built up a romanticised version of what was waiting for me.
I knew I was going to end up in London. I would come down to London to see QPR or to stay at my nan’s – I had Nanny London and Nanny Liverpool – and there were all these venues and places to go. For a kid from an army camp, an open mic night seemed so exotic. And the idea that there were performance poetry places where you could get up and perform your poems and hear other people was exciting. I longed to meet like-minded people, who would devote their life to poetry and music.
1998: Pete Doherty with Libertines bandmate and friend Carl Barât. Image: Jackie Doherty
After my A levels, I was sleeping on a sofa in my nan’s council flat in Dollis Hill. My dad warned me that wouldn’t last, so I got a job at Willesden Green cemetery, cutting grass and filling in graves. It was my first real money and I got a room in a shared house as I fell head over heels with London. I got accepted at Queen Mary and Westfield College and got my grant – which went in an explosion of properly discovering London.
When I met [Libertines bandmate] Carl Barât he found me quite annoying. I could sense it. But I’d already decided he was the one. I was thin and foppish but quite bulldog in spirit. So I got hold of his coattails and didn’t really let go. I still haven’t, really. In the end, to shut me up, he said we could start a band, but that I wouldn’t just be a singer, I had to learn guitar. I was pretty dedicated and, with his oversight, I got quite good and we started crafting these songs for two voices. He was studying drama at Brunel but we both jacked it in and decided we were going to go for it. We called it throwing ourselves into eternity. And that’s what we did.
2005: Pete Doherty performing at the May Day Music Against Fascism event in Trafalgar Square, London, with Babyshambles. Image: Mark Large/ANL/Shutterstock
I really wanted a band to believe in so I thought I’ll have to make it myself. And when we started writing these songs, I really did believe in them. And I did believe in Carl as a musician and as a soul. It occurred to me that the rest of the world, or at least a few people out there, might believe in us as well. The idea that he would forge songs like Up the Bracket, from the same chords as I Want The One I Can’t Have by The Smiths, would blow my younger self’s mind a bit.
They try and make you do this in rehab. You have to write a letter to your younger self, the idea being that you warn him off drugs. But I never could do it. I was never strong enough to get it together to actually even try to have that conversation. It was always too emotional. It is a powerful thing. Maybe I was scared about what I would say to my younger self because that kid is still me. I’d just put my arm round him, ruffle his hair, and say, ‘go on, son’, because no one ever did. But that kid managed to achieve so many things he might have doubted were possible.
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The day we got signed, we took it all out in cash, put it in the fridge, and would iron it every day until it was spent. Mostly on guitars and drugs. There’s no talking to some kids. They will do what they have to do. But maybe I’d say to him, get yourself a little flat. Would he listen? Nah, he’s gonna give me a lecture and be so ashamed that I turned into the sort of fellow that would ask his younger self to get a flat rather than invest in a commune. Because at that age I was very radical. I didn’t believe in private ownership of property, not while there was a single person homeless.
The more time that passes, the more realistic it seems that I can live without heroin. Because I am living without it. But for a long time, it was very hard to imagine – heroin was always there for so long. And even when I gave it up, in the back of my head, there was a sense that eventually: ‘I will find my way back to you.’
2024: Pete Doherty headlining the On The Beach festival in Brighton with The Libertines. Image: Cristina Massei / Alamy Stock Photo
From point zero, when The Libertines first made money, we didn’t know what was going on. We didn’t even read the contracts, we just presumed everyone had our best interests at heart. A lot of people do, but they also look after themselves – that’s why the industry exists. I would tell myself from day one to monitor everything – PR, publishing, all this stuff. Because 25 years and four bands and seven managers later, it’s so messy. Maybe I’d say take a couple of night-school classes in accountancy!
I was easily impressed by fame – Morrissey and Jarvis Cocker, these people were like gods to me. So if I could tell my younger self all the people we worked with, that we supported Morrissey, that Mick Jones from The Clash produced our records, he’d be well impressed. And I was part of a quartet doing the dog song [Home Sweet Home] from Lady and the Tramp with Nick Cave, Shane MacGowan and Jarvis Cocker all around the mic. Even if I did get the impression Jarvis was looking at me going, ‘Who the fuck’s this bloke?’ – you can’t take that away from me.
I can’t imagine giving advice on matters of the heart to anyone. Not even myself. Where would I start? It’s a similar thing as that lust for fame and for the trappings. It applies to a lot in my life. It was a question of get it while you can. So I’d say take a breather. Slow down. It’s not going to disappear overnight. Relax. Maybe spend a couple of months in the monastery now and then. Or stay in and watch telly – you’ll be amazed, there’s some good stuff on. It took me 15 years to watch Breaking Bad – I could have enjoyed it first time round.
A lot of the chaos and confusion and extremes that came from using drugs fuelled not my ability to create, but my need to create. I’d do a tour or record albums because I fucking needed to or I was going to sit around and die. And anyway, I needed the money. When you’re using that heavily, you can’t be around your family. You can occasionally manage to make the music thing work. The satisfaction and pleasure I thought I was getting from drugs I’ve been getting from elsewhere – like family things. And I’m trying to make it all work, taking my missus and the baby and the dogs on the road.
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The idea that you can get by on this planet just by singing your thoughts and wiggling your bum on stage– to me, that’s fucking cool. So telling my younger self that’s what I’ve done, wiggled my arse and basically sung my diary aloud? He’d be well up for that.
