Shane MacGowan of the Pogues
Stereotypes are always lazy and usually inaccurate, except when they’re exactly on point. I hate to say it, but very often the portrait painted of the Irish diaspora as drunken, violent and maudlin, whether they hail from Central New Jersey or the Kilburn High Road, is often true. Maybe we’re just trying to stay connected. The soundtrack for the lives of narrowbacks (look it up, chump) everywhere for the past 30 years has been The Pogues. They played in New York three days before Saint Paddy’s and I went with my brother and two sisters and it was a fucking mistake. The night went like this:
7.30 p.m. The four of us meet up with old family friends at a bar round the block from where The Pogues are playing. We are all so anxious to buy each other drinks that we each end up with a drink in our hand and three more on deck. We run our mouths a mile a minute and remind each other the shows starting in 15 minutes, so drink up,we gotta go.
10.00 p.m. The bartenders have become our trusted friends. They refuse to serve us anymore drinks till after the show. We have drunk through the opening acts and rush through the door as they kick into Turkish Song The Damned. We fly through the crowd to the front, scuffling as we go. I end up standing in front of Spider Stacey. I yell “Spidah” at him at the top of my lungs off and on for the rest of the show. It seemed like the right thing to do.
10.30 p.m. Philip Chevron sings a beautiful version of Thousands are Sailing. One of my sisters gives me a hug. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as the other one bulldogs some girl for trying to take a picture.
10.45 p.m. Shane giggles like a Hanna-Barbera character and launches into Dark Streets of London. Tears well up in my eyes. I grab my brother and tell him I’m gonna buy a tin-whistle and learn how to play it this summer. I have since dropped those plans.
11.00 p.m. Paddy Works on The Railroad. I lose my proverbial shit. I jump so hard I nearly vomit. Somebody next to me takes it the whole way.
11.30 p.m. The concert ends. We argue about what bar to go to. The Pogues come back out and play Fiesta and we link arms and kick a circle around us.
11:45 p.m. The concert ends. We decide to return to the first bar because it turns out they have our jackets and cell phones. And wallets.
11.45- 12.30 a.m. Drinking.
12.30- 2.00 a.m. Tape missing.
2.00- 3.30 a.m. Closing, I guess.
3.30- 3.45 a.m. Some sort of taxi skirmish.
3.45-4.30 a.m. Decisive police intervention and a silent ride home.
Long live The Pogues.
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I was at this show and it was fucking excellent. The end of the night became somewhat troublesome though. At least it makes for a good story. As you said, Long Live The Pogues.