Carl Barât – Carl Barât

Those of you expecting something familiar from The Libertines co-founder and front-man Carl Barât are in for a shock; his self-titled solo debut is completely different from the faux-Clash song writing we’ve come to expect from the trend-setter. A shadow of doubt over Barât’s sincerity is particularly cast by the lack of influence by former band Dirty Pretty Things; it’s plausible his now re-established relationship with Pete Doherty had whitewashed his identity in the past, but why would Barât wait until now to reveal the self-confessed ‘Real him’ when he had every opportunity a few years ago? In fact, this release is so uncharacteristically dramatised, if it weren’t for his trademark vocal, I’d think it was recorded by another artist entirely.

The production also spins something quite different from anything released previously. The circus takes president over the good ship Albion, best demonstrated on opener ‘The Magus’; if the song were played by The Libs or Dirty Pretty Things it would parade an electric guitar, brass section and rattling percussion with all the gusto of a street band after one-too-many. While Barât can’t shake the persistent plod of a man in love with the streets of London, he envelopes the song with a spiralling piano and steel sound effects that aren’t dissimilar to the (far better) experimental fumbling of Micachu. Elsewhere ‘She’s Something’ relaxes enough to be considered a highlight, but is still spoiled by a clanging guitar rasp mid-chorus; ‘Carve My Name’ comes over all Western outback but ultimately delivers something akin to a Noel Gallagher song recorded in a cave.

This change in direction could be explained by an influx of French culture, following a lasting relationship with his native girlfriend. On ‘Je Regrette, Je Regrette’, the presence is enough to introduce the dreaded Franglais into Barât’s vocabulary with, “Je regrette, je regrette, I haven’t had you yet.” Such blatant lyricism goes beyond disappointment when delivered by a man who once coined the now immortal lines of ‘The Good Old Days’. But then again, Barât has never shied away from Parisian imagery and wine-induced romanticism, and so perhaps the best explanation is his collaboration with Neil Hannon (a.k.a. The Divine Comedy), who co-wrote this new chapter in Barât’s career. Bundling the two of them together – in place of the often chaotic but at times inspired pairing with Doherty – has proved an utter disaster. While Doherty’s poison ivy is an unhealthy interest in illegal drugs, gossip publications and the courthouse, Barât has fallen into the unflattering arms of mediocrity; ironic, considering not five years ago he was charismatically preaching against all that normality stands for.

Ultimately, this is sorely lacking the romanticism of The Libs and the bitter realism of Dirty Pretty Things. Barât seems to be stuck writing nauseous odes to his girlfriend and noodling in a dreamland that can be routed back to his days as a drama student. The end result is neither an intriguing and new experimental direction, nor the captivating charm we’ve become so used to as to complacently accept.