Travelpogue, or Step In Time Pogues
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Publication: Travelpogue on www.pogues.com
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Sheva, a regular contributor to this
web site’s fora, has kindly agreed to document
her travels as she makes her way to The Pogues’
2005 shows in Glasgow, Scotland.
Saturday afternoon...my flight leaves in a few
hours. A routine bit of business for lots of people,
but not me (or, to quote Lena Lamont, “I
ain’t people!”) After all, England has
loomed large for me since childhood, yet this will be
my first time there. Ever since I was a kid,
I’ve loved English music and pop culture with a
fierce devotion. Although there’s lots of music
I love, the twin British Invasions rule my heart. I
mean, come on, one of my all time favorite movies is
“To Sir With Love”! Right now my brain is
a mishmash of images, merging the London of the
swinging 60’s and the glory days of punk into
one splendid mass. Carnaby Street and King’s
Road. Mary Quant and Vivienne Westwood. Petula Clark
is singing “I Know a Place” in one ear,
while Joe and the boys are bashing out “London
Calling” in the other, and a young Pete
Townshend and an even younger Shane MacGowan, two
beautiful blue-eyed boys, are cavorting in their Union
Jack-ets. And I’m caught up in the midst of all
of it. I’m going to London. And I’m going
to see the Pogues.
This will not be my first time seeing the Pogues,
though. Back in the 80s, I was one of a handful of
girls (ok, women, but you know what I mean) who loved
Elvis Costello and followed him on his USA tours. Oh,
did we love him. Loved the Attractions as well, of
course, but he was the reason we were there. And
sometime after the ’84 tour, a couple of the
more dedicated (meaning crazier) girls decided it was
time to follow him on his home turf. So Cynthia and
Natalie went off to England in search of more
misadventures. When they came home, they regaled me
with stories of the sights and shows they’d seen
and the fun they had. They also told me about two
bands they’d seen, these two being, I was given
to understand, the two greatest bands in the
world. And who were these wunderkind? Well, about the
one group, The Men They Couldn’t Hang, they
didn’t have much to tell me. Elvis loved them,
and this was good enough for them. But oh, that second
band. A bunch of not-quite-juvenile delinquents called
The Pogues. They’d seen them several times, and
had gotten to know them a bit as well. Were they
really that good, I asked. Oh, yes, I was told –
better than Elvis and the Attractions themselves, in
fact. Now this was no casual comment, coming from
these two – this was serious business. And
you’ve met them – what are they like, I
wanted to know. Much laughter at this point, followed
by Natalie telling me “here’s what you
need to know about them. One – they constantly
make fun of everything and everyone, including each
other, and especially Elvis (we had yet to learn the
term “taking the piss”), and two –
they can drink anyone under the table, every last one
of them”.
OK, sounded like fun, but how was the music? I got
hold of Red Roses for Me, and it only took
until about the first chorus of
“Transmetropolitan” for me to be convinced
– there was serious fun going on here, and I
wanted to join up. When they came over for that first
tour, I went with Cynthia and Nat to see them in DC. I
wish I could tell you more about that night, but
sadly, it’s all a blur. I just remember being
knocked out by one great song after another, and
(girly part here, sorry guys) being rather taken with
a few of the band members as well.
Why didn’t I go to see them subsequent times? I
don’t know. Looking back, I guess it was a
combination of factors, and my falling-out with those
girls probably didn’t help. And next thing you
know, almost twenty years have passed. This summer
saw me contemplating yet another year sliding by
without a trip to England, whilst wishing I could be
with the folks in Guilford, Japan, or Spain to see the
wonderful, reunited Pogues. That’s when I
decided – if and when this year’s
Christmas shows were announced (as I was sure they
would be), I’d buy tickets and go. The time had
come.
So here I am, not yet packed (and the flight leaves in
a few hours), trying to decide what CDs to bring to
provide the soundtrack for my lifelong dream. I land
in London Sunday morning, and then head to Glasgow for
the two shows there. Friends have asked if I’m
sorry I made these plans, as the band has since
announced a US tour (for which I already have tickets,
thanks). I think, are they crazy? Did they just meet
me? For as much as I’m looking forward to seeing
the lads, there’s more at work here. And while
I don’t expect to be greeted with a band of
merry chimney sweeps singing “Step in
Time”, or find Eddy and Patsy waiting to take me
shopping, I know I’m in for the time of my life,
which I intend to capture for you as best I can.
Well, no chimney sweeps, perhaps, but I still feel
welcome. The flight over was fine, surprisingly so
– I’m accustomed to encountering some
little problem or other. By the time we land at
Heathrow, I’m so excited I practically dance off
the plane. When asked at Customs my reason for coming,
I unashamedly give the speech I threatened –
that I’ve been in love with the country since
childhood. The Customs agent is unmoved by this but
lets it, and me, go through. OK, London, go ahead and
charm me.
The Regent Palace turns out to be tucked into an
out-of-the-way little corner right off of Piccadilly
Circus. Beautiful exterior, unimpressive but
serviceable lobby. The room is a small one, as
I’d expected, with an absurdly tiny bathroom
– the toilet’s in the shower. But
it’s clean and comfortable – I’m
happy.
I spend the next day and a half just getting a small
taste of London – I’ll save my big
explorations for next week. The hotel really is
ideally located – I’ve got Boot’s,
the tube, and a Virgin Megastore right outside the
door, and a reasonably priced Internet café as
well. I know I’m just doing the silly tourist-y
things now – roaming around Harrod’s,
marveling at the Times Square meets the boardwalk
quality of Leicester Square – but damnit, I am a
tourist, might as well give in to it. I find myself
shopping at H &M (they’ re in the states as
well, but they’re bigger here, with a better
selection) when it happens – I hear those
oh-so-familiar opening notes on the piano, and quickly
realize that “Fairytale of New York” is
playing over the PA system. As soon as Shane starts
singing I feel a huge grin spread across my face, and
look down at a little girl, who’s smiling up at
me. Don’t know if it’s the song making her
do that, but we smile at each other as the bells are
ringing out for Christmas Day. And tomorrow I leave
for Glasgow.
The flight to Glasgow is delayed just enough to throw
a bit of a worry into me, but I still make it in
plenty of time to get to the show. After all the
warnings I’ve been given about shows here,
I’m prepared for all sorts of drunken, rowdy
shenanigans.
Carling Academy is a great venue – similar to
the Trocadero in Philly but larger. I have an extra
ticket, which I pass on to a friend here who
isn’t that familiar with the Pogues but is
curious. We get in just as the Dropkick Murphys take
the stage. I know lots of folks like them, but for me,
there’s just not enough there to latch on to
– the songs all sound the same, and not in a
good way. Besides, both singers are of the “why
sing it when you can shout it in a hoarse
monotone”, which doesn’t work for me. But
the crowd seems to really like them. As soon as
they’re done, we stake out places in the front
(or, in Bob Dylan fan parlance, “on the
rail”). A bit of a wait, then “Straight to
Hell” starts up, and here they are!
Everyone looks great and in good spirits. Philip is,
as usual, turned out in a lovely black suit with
matching hat. Shane is also in all black, not quite as
natty but it will do. As recent pics have suggested,
he’s lost a bit of weight and seems fairly
fit. They quickly launch into “Streams of
Whiskey”, and we’re off! For the next
not-quite two hours, I can’t think, I’m
just trying to take it all in. One beloved song after
another – “If I Should Fall from
Grace”, “Body of an American”,
“Sally Maclennane”, “Bottle of
Smoke” ... all wonderful. Shane’s in good
form – the voice is a little ragged but right,
no forgotten lyrics, and he seems to be in good
spirits as well. Everyone’s playing is tight and
inspired; this is a band on top of their game. As has
become the custom, Shane turns the mic over to the
others for a song here and there – Terry’s
rendition of “Young Ned” is a
knockout. Watching the show, I’m struck by a
realization. With other favorite artists, no matter
how much I love them, there’s always a song or
two that I could gladly do without – the concert
moments my friends and I refer to as the “beer
run” ones. With Dylan, it’s
“Tweedles”, with Costello it’s
“Detectives”. But the Pogues have no beer
run songs! There isn’t a single down moment or a
song I could do without, and the energy level never
drops, on stage or in the audience.
That audience – I’m waiting for the
notorious Glasgow rowdiness to present itself but it
never really does. I’d been warned that I
wouldn’t want to be by the front but it’s
fine. Yes, things get a bit crushed, but instead of
the obnoxiousness I’m used to in the states,
there’s a pleasant camaraderie. It doesn’t
seem as if anyone’s good time depends on
annoying those around them, and I am having a ball!
Shane hands the mic over to Philip, and I know
it’s time for “Thousands are
Sailing”, a particular favorite of mine. As
folks already heard, he announces the names of
Medusans and others who’ve traveled far to be
here, including “Sheva from Philadelphia”!
Big thrill! And a laugh, too, as the pretty girl
standing next to me all night turns out to be Carmen
from California! The song is sung and played
impeccably, and as usual makes me cry a bit, this time
with a shiver down my spine as well. If Philip had
done nothing else in his life but write this song, it
would have been enough to establish his position in
the songwriter’s hall of fame; every time I hear
it I’m struck by its eloquence.
 And before I know it, it’s
Fairytale time. Out comes Ella Finer, who is lovely
and graces the audience with a sweet smile. Jem is
beaming at her as only a proud poppa can –
it’s lovely to see. She’s got a fine voice
and blends well with Shane. How many hundreds of times
has he sung this song, and yet he makes this
performance seem special. That’s a pretty nifty
gift. They finish singing, start waltzing, and the
fake snow is everywhere. It’s just about the
most beautiful moment one could ask for, and I know
that there’s nowhere on earth I’d rather
be. Then Fiesta and goodnight.
 After the show, I meet up with Philip,
who is even more gracious and charming in person as he
is on-line and on stage. He takes my friend and me
backstage where we get to meet the rest of the band,
take a pic or two, and say thanks for a glorious
evening. I ask Shane if I can have my picture taken
with him, and he very sweetly says sure. We end up
sitting together on the couch posing for several
minutes while my friend struggles with the camera,
prompting Shane to lean over and say “he’s
an idiot”. Finally, Philip steps in to save the
day and take the pic. Clearly he’s a man of many
talents. The evening came to an end with a most happy
thought – I get to do it all over again
tomorrow!
I spend a pleasant day in Glasgow and venture forth a
bit, to Rutherglen. There’s a lovely town hall
with an exhibit explaining the town’s
history. For some reason, something about the main
street brings Berkeley to mind, which I suspect would
only occur inside my head. I decide that I can do
without another night of the Murphys and go into the
Carling Academy just as they leave the stage. Back to
the front, this time more in the middle. The crowd
seems rowdier tonight, or maybe it’s just
because I’m closer to the center (and
Shane). The crowd is chanting one Celtics’ cheer
or song after another, not only before the show, but
in between songs as well. As an American and
non-sports person, I’m fascinated by this
phenomenon – there’s no US equivalent to
this that I know of. There’s lots more pushing
and shoving than before, but even the worst of it is
bearable, and the people around me are being as
considerate as possible. I guess I remind them of
their dear old auntie. Again, everyone seems better
behaved than in the states, and truly enjoying
themselves. The girl next to me sings along with
Spider’s penny whistle note-for-note, but only
during instrumental bits, never when anyone is
singing, which I appreciate.
The set list is very similar to last night’s,
although we get “Old Main Drag” this time
around, which I hadn’t expected to hear and was
a real treat. Shane seems a bit looser tonight, making
several funny faces at the audience. It’s hard
to know who to watch – keep an eye on Shane, and
you’ll miss one of Philip’s trademark
spins or his fancy footwork during Fiesta. Watch him,
and you might not see James do a leap, or Terry
suddenly smile as an instrumental passage goes
particularly well. And can’ t forget Spider, the
birthday boy – his 22nd, cough cough. When the
band launches into “The Irish Rover”,
Shane lags behind a bit, then speeds up. The band
usually recovers from this quite well, but not this
time. Finally, the looks on all their faces clearly
say “right, fucked it up this time”, but
the audience doesn’t care at all, in fact
it’s endearing – they’re not
perfect, but even in defeat there’s a bit of
glory. Philip gives the Medusa roll call again when
introducing Thousands, and I blush to admit I turn to
the couple to my right and say, “that’s
me”. Shameless, I know. Andrew steps up to do a
fine take on County Down, and we all sing Happy
Birthday to Spider. Ella’s singing on
“Fairytale of New York” is even better
tonight, if that’s possible. Nepotism be damned,
she’s an excellent choice, and looks great with
Shane as well. I’m prepared for the snow
tonight, and put my hood up as the waltz starts. The
one-two punch of “Fairytale of New
York”/“Fiesta” is brilliant, and I
go slipping and sliding across the beer-covered floor,
to savor these last two nights and look forward to the
shows still to come. I’ll be staying on in
Scotland for a bit – Glasgow’s charmed me,
and I’m eager to see more. But never fear,
London – I’ll be coming back to you soon
enough.
The rest of the week went rather peacefully in
Glasgow, which turned out to be my kind of city. A
little grungy perhaps, a bit run down in spots, but
with plenty of heart and charm, and the people there
couldn’t be lovelier – sweet as can be,
and very friendly to a funny–talking stranger. I
know I’ll be going back there, and not just
because it’s a great place to see the Pogues.
Still, as the flight back to London touched down, I
started to get excited. Spoke to a
snuffly–sounding Miss Walshy, who was Birmingham
bound despite an incipient cold. I wished her happy
birthday and told her she’d have a wonderful
time, guaranteed. Checked back in at the Regent, which
is starting to feel like home, and headed to the pub
where I found a smiling fellow in a Red Sox cap. Peter
F and I traded the obligatory “Americans
abroad” stories, and I told him tales of
Glasgow, making him even more anxious for
Tuesday’s show. Signs are starting to pop up
everywhere. The band in the pub – ‘Free
McGuinness’, a great name – played a
lovely if a bit watered down version of Fairytale of
New York, followed by The Irish Rover. Pete and I sang
along and watched as a group of (apparently) Irish
guys danced up a storm with looks of concentration
that even Baryshnikov himself would envy. I got tired
and called it an early night, only to wind up watching
a ‘Greatest Christmas Moments’ special on
BBC 4. At number 11 – Fairytale of New York, of
course. Got to see a snippet of a Shane interview
along with others talking about the song. Ah, that
Pogues spirit is everywhere!
But alas, I’ve been a bad fan. The
single’s been out all day, and I’ve yet to
march into a Virgin or HMV and buy my three copies. I
know, I know. But there were some things that had to
be done today. Had to take a pic of 3 Saville Row (all
good Beatles fans will recognize that address) as well
as Waterloo Station (where I half expected
‘Terry and Julie’ to be waiting for
me). And now, I’m about to fish Pete out of the
pub so we can watch the Fairytale of New York
documentary starting soon. Afterward, we’ve
threatened/promised to tackle our own rendition of
that most beloved song as it’s karaoke night
here. London, you’ve been properly warned.
Well, so much for that documentary – a quick
call to fellow Medusan and FOS–er Christine
confirms that I don’t get BBC 3 at the
hotel. Damn, damn, damn. But it does mean I can trot
off to Virgin and plunk down my money for a couple of
copies of the single in all its permutations. I pick
up a few other things as well, blissfully ignoring the
exchange rate as well as the ever–growing
problem of getting all this stuff home with me. Ah,
the life of a tourist. All this, and the London shows
are still on the horizon – how will I get
through the next 24 hours or so?
A somewhat interesting phenomenon occurs whenever I
travel in the states. I’m never in a new city
long before people start asking me for directions or
other assistance. Not just other travellers, either -
even natives get in the act. And no matter how new I
am to a city, I find that I’m usually able to
answer their questions. I think I just must have that
sort of “go ahead, ask me” face. At any
rate, it’s only taken a few days for this to
kick in here - a woman with a definite London accent
asked for help finding the right tube exit. Glad to
help, ma’am.
Meanwhile, I’m starting to wonder how people
here stay so slim, with all this fabulous Cadbury
chocolate around. My initial resolve to stay away from
the tempting stuff faded almost immediately, and
I’ve consumed a startling amount of it. At least
I know I’m not the only one - walking through
the hallway in my hotel the other night, I saw a
crumpled dairy milk wrapper. It’s too much to
resist.
But it’s time to head for Brixton. Pete has seen
some frantic posts saying 6:00 is too late to get to
the Canterbury, so we head out at 5:00, me still
trailing bits of Glasgow fake snow from my
handbag. The dire warnings turn out to be false, as
there’s plenty of time. We meet Carlos outside
the academy - he’s not planning to see the show
tonight, but one encounter with a friendly couple from
Norway later, he’s got a ticket in hand and is
all set. Gradually, a few other Medusans make
themselves known - Christine shows up looking serene
and ready to have fun. I go outside to get some air
and see a perfectly adorable young woman fairly
bouncing up the walk to the pub. Without asking, I
know it’s Miss Walshy, as fair and friendly a
lass as you could ever hope to meet. A quick drink,
then off to the gig. We all go in at separate times
but somehow find each other in the crowd.
So here I am at the famous Brixton Academy, site of so
many fabled shows. It’s a fine venue, rather
like the Glasgow Academy. But I’ve been spoiled,
I’m afraid - this audience is definitely rougher
and rowdier than Glasgow, lots more shoving and
pushing. And where in Glasgow the security staff
nicely passed out cups of cold water to the folks in
the front, here the Brixton crew offers squirts from
sports bottles! But even so, it’s a far cry from
the states, where it often feels as if the security
staff is there to thwart your good time rather than
aid it. We’re waiting for the band and enjoying
the brilliant work of DJ Scratchy, who goes back to
the early days of punk, and who I’m pretty sure
I heard DJing at my first Clash gig. In Glasgow, he
knocked me out when he played The Bureau’s
“Only for Sheep”, and tonight he does it
again - “Roadrunner” from the Modern
Lovers, Dexys’ cover of the Bar-Kays’
“Soulfinger” (must have been for our
so-named Medusan!), and lots of great
reggae. I’m actually disappointed when he cuts
off Madness, then quickly realize he’s playing
“Straight to Hell”. Showtime!
And what a show it is. The band is every bit as tight
as they were in Glasgow, and Shane’s even
sharper - really on the money, the best I’ve
seen so far. This time around, it’s not just
“Thousands” that makes me cry -
Terry’s knock-out delivery of “Young
Ned” also moves me. The man is a class act all
around. They all are, each in his own way. Philip is
his usual dapper, graceful self - Cagney himself would
be proud of this man’s moves. And Spider - ah,
me. I remember thinking he was just incredibly cool
that night in Washington DC, and almost 20 years later
he’s still got it. As for Shane, he is
mesmerizing. If there’s another performer out
there with more charisma, I’d like to see
him. Can’t imagine it, though. Philip gives the
out-of-towners a shout-out before
“Thousands”, which remains a great
thrill. And there’s even a major foul-up -
Andrew’s mic isn’t turned on for the
beginning of “Sickbed”. As Philip later
explains to me, without being able to hear his
‘TWOTHREE!’, the band can’t come
in. So there they all were, ready - and nothing. A
quick adjustment, and they go again (meanwhile, the
look on Shane’s face clearly says ‘it
wasn’t me). The moment and the song are
recovered just fine. And an added bonus - a trumpet on
“Rainy Night” and full horn section for
“Fiesta”. But before we get there, out
comes Ella, looking gorgeous in a fabulous red gown
(which she later explains to me is her
mother’s). “Fairytale” is truly
lovely, a Christmas card come to life. The fake snow
can’t reach the audience, leaving plenty onstage
for a “snowball” fight during
“Fiesta”. And it’s all over till
tomorrow night. But what a great night, what a superb
birthday for Pete F (who leaves the venue tired but
very very happy), what a fine fine start to this three
day stint.
As for me, I’m off in search of more chocolate
and thoughts of wandering Portobello Road tomorrow
before meeting up with our Miss Walshy. Cheers.
Have I mentioned that I love the tube? It’s
truly a fabulous public transport system, one of the
best I’ve ever seen. Colourful stations, comfy
seats on the trains, fast service, and best of all,
it’s supremely user friendly - you really
can’t get lost, and there’s usually more
than one way to get anyplace. The buskers are fun,
too; I’ve caught some interesting acts. My first
time in the tube, I was greeted by a bespectacled
cutie bashing out a basic, generic, but still fun
60’s style instrumental, which I took as just
one more sign that I was in the right place. There was
also the harpist at Westminster station and the
elegantly dressed gentleman doing a credible job of
some Michael Nyman tunes on his keyboard, but I think
my favorite will have to be the Father Christmas
playing a rockabilly rave-up version of
“I’ve Got Rhythm”. London, I
don’t know if you’re a lady, but you are
one wacky place.
 "The tube back to the hotel from the
Brixton Academy has been a particular delight, with a
different sing-a-long each night. But I’m
getting ahead of myself. It’s Wednesday evening,
and I’ve found Miss Walshy along with a host of
other Medusans, ready for round two. The crowd’s
a bit rougher tonight, but understandably so - the
band is uptight and outta sight, and the crowd’s
loving every minute of it. I find myself watching
James a lot tonight - he moves about the stage like a
herky-jerky marionette, graceful and clumsy at the
same time, and when he does one of those perfect drops
to his knees, it’s as if someone’s
suddenly cut his strings. He makes the accordion look
like a really hot rock-n-roll instrument, and
let’s face it, that’s not an easy
task. Shane’s singing is even better tonight
than it was last night. He even breaks out the little
point-and-walkabout shtick for “White
City”, and seems quite at ease on that
stage. They all do. Philip has come up with a great
little bit of business during “Old Main
Drag” (which might not be new, it’s just
new to me, so please forgive me). He goes off to the
side of the stage and just stands there, cig in hand,
looking appropriately Runyon-esque. I try to get a pic
but it’s so dark. So many great moments are
flying by, I hope I can hold them all in my head. When
it’s time for “Rainy Night”, all
three members of the horn section come out. I
can’t decide if I like it better with the full
treatment or just the trumpet - glad I got the chance
to hear both. And “Tuesday Morning” is
growing on me. It’s one that was never a
favourite, although I certainly don’t dislike
it, but it’s great fun live, and now I
wouldn’t want to miss it. At one point,
everyone’s ready for the next song, but
Andrew’s gone missing, prompting Shane to break
out “Boys of Kilmichael”, a fabulous
impromptu treat. More great music, Andrew steps up to
deliver another fine, fun take on “Star of the
County Down”, and it’s Fairytale time
again. Most eyes are fixed on Shane and Ella, but I
steal a glance at the rest of the band. If any of them
are tired of this song, you’d never know it by
the looks on their faces. They seem as moved as the
audience. The snow falls, Shane and Ella start to
waltz. I’m watching them whirl faster and
faster, Ella’s skirt twirling out gracefully,
and just as I start to think that if they’re not
careful, they’ll slip - they do just that,
tumbling to the floor in a laughing heap. Shane gets
up and helps Ella to her feet, and no one seems the
worse for wear.
After the show, one of the security guys hands me a
generous handful of the snow, which of course leads to
a little snowball fight with Miss Walshy. Just
getting into the spirit of things, you understand. We
meet up with Christine, Celtic Dave, and Alex after
the show, and before you know it, it’s another
wondrous evening come to a sweet end. I get a bit lost
walking to the tube but eventually find my
way. It’s gotten cold so I put on my sweatshirt
(which had been tied around my waist during the show
so I wouldn’t lose it) and put my hand in the
pocket - then quickly take it out again. It’s
full of beer. So, pocket full of beer and head full of
music, I dance up and down the street and onto the
tube.
So here it is, the final night of Brixton. I’ve
been a good tourist today – went to Buckingham
Palace, walked through Hyde Park, went batty trying to
find the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. After
that, it was off to the Camden markets. I go into a
little shop to look at tee shirts, and get chatty with
the shopkeeper. “Fairytale of New York”
starts playing on his radio, and I mention I’m
here seeing the Pogues. He approves, then tells me his
wife is in love with Shane. I laugh and tell him that
she’s got a lot of company there.
After three nights, the Canterbury Arms is starting to
feel a bit like home. The owner greets me at the door
and says “your friends are here”,
gesturing towards Carlos and Miss Walshy. He’s
been quite friendly to me all week, pretty nice
considering I haven’t been drinking and
therefore am taking up valuable space in his
establishment. I make my way to the academy and catch
the end of the Murphys’ set. In the end, I guess
they’re not too bad, and it’s nice to see
how well they go over with the crowd –
they’ve been a good opener. We’re all
excited for the last London show, but there’s a
bit of sadness in the air – as DJ Scratchy
reminds us, it’s three years to the day that Joe
Strummer died, and he dedicates the evening to
him. I’m singing along to
“Clampdown” with a kid who wasn’t
born when London Calling came out, but he knows every
word all the same. This time, when “Straight to
Hell” plays, we get the whole song before the
band comes out. At first I think something’s
wrong, but then it occurs to me that they’ve
done it on purpose, a tribute to Joe. When they do
come out and launch into “Streams”, I know
we’re in for another great night. As with every
other night, there’s so much to enjoy, like
Shane’s little gestures for lines from different
songs – the hand on the cheek and eyes
heavenward for “they ruined my good
looks’; the hand on the hip for “the women
they got frisky’; and of course the various
breast gestures for “sumptuosa Cait
O’Riordan’. Tonight, that last one is
accompanied by a quick hands-to-eyes
“spectacles” move for “Costello, el
rey del america’, which goes by fast but gets a
laugh out of me.
Then there’s that marvelous moment that
I’ve come to look forward to each night, at the
end of “Body of an American”, when
everyone seems to find their own little spot on the
stage. Philip stands on the drum riser, Jem and Shane
help Andrew with the drumming, and tonight Darryl sits
on the edge of the stage. This might sound strange,
but it always feels solemn to me, almost sacred, and
calls to mind the men in my synagogue finding a quiet
corner for the silent prayer. But on second thought,
maybe not so strange – after all, we’re at
Big Jim Dwyer’s wake, it’s an
acknowledgment of death and a celebration of life, and
the way the music plays so beautifully after the
raucous singing always evokes that image.
As he has every night, Spider dedicates
“Repeal” to his wife Louise, making his
usual kissing noises into the mic. This always gets a
reaction from the band as well as the crowd –
some nights Terry joins in on the kissing. Tonight,
Philip breaks out his Chevalier, crooning “every
little breeze seems to whisper Louise’. He seems
in good spirits, as do they all – at one point,
he and James dance across the front of the
stage. James is, once again, a marvel to watch, arms
and legs akimbo (Lord, I love that word, and am always
grateful for an excuse to use it). Then it’s
time for “Thousands” once more. It’s
even lovelier and more poignant tonight. The women
next to me are singing along, and it’s clear
from the looks on their faces that they’re as
moved by the song as I am. I wish they’d play a
marathon-length version of it, it could go on all
night as far as I’m concerned.
But of course we must move on, and it’s one last
chance to bask in the glow of “Fairytale of New
York”. When I spoke to Ella the other night, she
talked about how good it felt to be onstage with the
Pogues, who she views as her extended family, and it
fits. Shane, in particular, strikes me as that uncle
who seemed a bit scary when you were a kid but who
always had a joke or a little present for you. After
last night’s tumble, he and Ella waltz with a
bit more care, Shane holding her tenderly. It’s
magic.
And then it’s over. I collect myself and
reluctantly make my way back to the hotel. It’s
been an amazing three nights. Wish I were going on to
Dublin, but instead I’ll spend tomorrow saying
goodbye to London.
My last day in London is lovely but hectic –
stores and streets are jammed with frantic shoppers. I
keep forgetting that it’s the day before
Christmas Eve, although you’d think the carols
and lights everywhere would be a clue. Still, it
hasn’t been the same as in the states. Instead
of being tormented by “Grandma Got Run Over by a
Reindeer” and that sappy version of the little
drummer boy, I’ve been enjoying Slade and
Wizard’s 70’s Christmas hits playing
constantly, along with our beloved “Fairytale of
New York” of course. I finally visit the
antiquarian bookshops on Cecil Court and find them as
glorious as imagined, if pricey. Somehow I manage to
get myself and all my things to Heathrow and onto the
plane, proudly wearing my tour shirt. The flight crew
are all wearing tinsel, either in their hair or pinned
to their shirts, and the captain refers to our
“sleighride’ to Philadelphia. And with our
afternoon tea, there’s a slice of Christmas
fruitcake (which, quite unlike its American
counterpart, is actually edible and pretty
tasty). Everyone sitting around me is barefoot, and
the floor of the plane looks rather like
Nordstrom’s several hours into their shoe
sale. At one point, a woman sitting two rows behind me
starts digging under my seat – it seems her
boots really were made for walking and have wandered
off. Eventually all footwear is claimed. I don’t
mind – I’m enjoying one of the audio
programs, Mark Lamarr’s musical
journey. Don’t have a clue who he is, but
he’s playing some fabulous stuff – the New
York Dolls, Tom Waits, Tony Joe White, James Brown,
some weird 60’s garage band from Japan, all
blending together nicely. And not only does he play
the Pogues (“Lorca’s Novena”), he
keeps talking about them throughout the program. How
did British Air know to have this ready for me? I
suspect someone’s been reading this, my
suspicion growing when the flight attendant slips me
some extra Cadbury. I happily eat it, invoking
Sheva’s Cadbury rule – mass consumption is
acceptable while in the UK or flying over
international waters.
So home again. This really was the trip of a lifetime,
and having it based around the shows just made it that
much more wonderful. Thanks to everyone I met and who
shared the fun with me, thanks to DzM for graciously
letting me have this space to ramble on, thanks to the
band for all that fabulous music, and Philip, thank
you for all your kindness and generosity. The fans
here can’t wait to see you all, and I’ll
be counting the days myself.
And Glasgow and London – don’t worry,
I’ll be back.
Atlantic City was a nightmare.
OK, that might be putting it too strongly. It
wasn’t all that bad. But consider – a few
short months ago I was seeing the Pogues play the
Academy in Glasgow and Brixton, surrounded by fans who
were at once wildly enthusiastic and well
mannered. Fans who knew every word to every song, and
who filled even the briefest quiet moment with one
football chant after another. And now, here I was, in
a friggin’ Atlantic City casino. Instead of
happy beery-eyed fans, I was surrounded by would-be
Tony Sopranos (Tony Randalls is more like it). Instead
of the incredible music DJ Scratchy thrilled us with
before the UK shows, we had some blah canned crap. I
mean, I suppose the Borgata is nice as casinos go, but
it’s no place for rock and roll. And for all the
glitz, the hall itself is a big tacky box with lousy
sight-lines and spotty sound. But this is what’s
happening – most acts you’d want to see
are bypassing Philadelphia proper, and the still-good
venues we have, and playing one of the casinos
instead.
The show was – good, maybe even great in
spots. But compared to the UK shows I’d seen,
there was something missing. Most of the fault lay
with the audience, I think – a pretty obnoxious
bunch all round. Lots of pushing and shoving, lots of
talking (talking! During a Pogues show!). When I
quietly asked the guy next to me to please finish
trying to make a date with the girl in front of him
after the show, he started yelling at me “hey,
why don’t you go in the back and sit
down?” Not sure of the logic there; seems to me
that would be a more appropriate place for him to
be. But you can see how an exchange like that could
put a damper on a good time. Ah, well. I wondered if,
despite all the many rabid fans here, stateside Pogues
shows could ever be as good as those I’d seen
last December.
Thursday saw me alternating between day-dreaming and
surfing Medusa, and frantically trying to tie
up a few loose ends at work, the better to enjoy
myself over the long weekend to come.
When the time to leave came, I trained up to NYC,
stopped at my friend’s apartment long enough to
drop off my bags and pick up the spare keys, and
jumped on the subway to Times Square and
Connelly’s. A quick cell phone chat with Carmen
confirmed that several Medusans were already in
place. Sure enough, as soon as I walked in I saw a
tall smiling guy wearing a “Macrua”
nametag, and I knew I was among friends.
The group happily chatting all around me turned out to
be Carmen (who I’d met in Glasgow), Neil, and
Tar. Georgecat popped up soon after, and Derelicts
Mr. and Mrs. could be spotted in the corner. And the
gentleman standing next to them? None other than DzM,
aka Man of Mystery, drinking one in a series of beers
offered up by grateful admirers. All in all, a happy
crew.
We made our way over to the venue, the brand-spanking
new Nokia theater. Pretty snazzy joint. The first
thing that greets you when you go in is the wall of
cell phones. Despite knowing it is, after all, the
NOKIA theater, it still made me giggle. Once
downstairs, all we could see were bars. All well and
good, the better to keep DzM properly beered –
but where the heck was the actual venue? You know, the
room with the lights and a stage? Turns out they keep
that cleverly hidden, but we sussed it out and went
in. And that’s when I got the first sign that
this was not going to be another Atlantic City –
I heard “Shaking All Over” and knew that
once again, we were in Scratchy’s hands. As the
opening band was winding up their set, I went down to
the front. That was tough – whereas in the UK,
folks were willing to make room for one more if they
could, here the rail was guarded by a handful of big
boys who were all taking up as much space as
possible. But I hung in there and found a good
spot. And soon enough, “Straight to Hell”
started, the lights went down, and here they all were.
How to describe the giddy little thrill when the
lights come on and the band strides across the stage?
I always feel as if I’ve suddenly had a rush of
oxygen whooshing to my brain. Everyone looked sharp
– this was New York, after all – and ready
to get down to business. After the one-two punch of
“Streams” and “If I Should
Fall”, they went straight into “Broad
Majestic Shannon”, Shane turning his back on us
to conduct the band during the instrumental
passage. Then into “Turkish Song” and that
incredible stretch from James and Terry. It always
strikes me as the first emotional high point of the
night, the band tight and focused, culminating in
James’ perfect collapse (just once, I’d
like to see someone come out with a spangled cape for
him, a la James Brown – you know he’d
shrug it off to knock out one more arpeggio.). But
it’s still early in the set, there are many more
thrills and chills to come. They tear into a dear fave
of mine, “Boys from the County Hell”,
which sounds fantastic. “Tuesday Morning”
gets a huge cheer, as it will every night. All around
me, folks are rambunctious and sometimes a wee bit
crazy but very, very happy. And I’m happy to
hear the Celtic football chant rise up now and then,
almost as loud as in Glasgow (note –
that’s not an endorsement of the team, or the
sport, or indeed of any sport – it just sounds
right at a Pogues show, that’s all). After
“Young Ned” (another crowd pleaser), Shane
is late in returning to the stage. When he does show,
he smiles at the audience and says “Patience is
a virtue”, to which Spider replies “Not to
mention a common courtesy”. Later in the
evening, Shane also makes mention of being in New York
– “so nice they named it twice,
csssssshhhhhhh”, and makes the first of what
will be a nightly reference to “Brokeback
Mountain” (some things never get old,
apparently). When it’s time for the second
encore, he steps aside for Andrew, who was clearly
born to belt out “County Down”. Having
staked out a spot on the left, I’ve now got
Shane right in front of me, and it’s great to
watch him join on the chorus of this every night -
unlike so many frontmen, Shane doesn’t seem to
have any problem manning the sidelines, and it’s
clear he enjoys the song. Then Spider introduces Ella
as “someone we’ve known since she was
literally a baby!” (before the weekend is over,
this will change to “someone we’ve known
since she was an egg”). She’s lovely,
wearing that same gorgeous green dress as in Glasgow,
although I don’t remember those fabulous pink
shoes. She and Shane sing beautifully together, Shane
watches her lovingly, and they dance to the music, and
they dance. They seem to be whirling faster than at
the other shows I’d seen – the New York
pace, I’m guessing. “Fiesta” sees
Spider whip out what looks like a disposable tin
cookie sheet, and which makes a very satisfactory
sound. The guys take their bows, and Philip steps up
to the mic to say “It’s one minute after
midnight – Happy St. Patrick’s Day!”
Trust the Pogues to time their show so perfectly. We
all yell back, the lights come up, and it hits me
– tomorrow is indeed St. Patrick’s
Day. What sort of show awaits those of us lucky enough
to be returning?
I’m awakened Friday morning by a man shouting in
the street. At first I can’t make out what
he’s saying, then I hear “You know my
name! You know my name! I'm the Doctor! D-O-C!”
I’d love to know what this is about but
I’m not in the best of moods. My friend’s
apartment had no heat the night before and I
didn’t get much sleep. A voicemail check reveals
that I neglected to email a critical file before
leaving work, which doesn’t help my spirits
any. But I’m off to meet friends for lunch, and
of course there’s the evening’s
entertainment to anticipate.
Approaching the subway, it occurs to me that it is
indeed St Patrick’s Day in New York, something
I’ve never before experienced. I’m
overwhelmed by the sea of green, worn in every
conceivable fashion. I marvel at the evolution of a
holiday honoring a patron saint – how did it
become a day to wear shamrock-shaped deely boppers and
florescent green eye shadow? Well, we all celebrate
however we can, I suppose. But a little of this goes a
long way, and I head back uptown to get a bite to eat
and prepare for night number two.
Connelly’s is packed, as expected, but I see
several Medusans holding down the fort. Aineen and
Josie have joined the merry band, the former looking
sharp in her Medusa tee shirt.
This time around I get into the Nokia early enough to
see William Elliot Whitmore, who is
fantastic. I’m down in front again with Aineen,
stuck behind a big guy who seems to be one step short
of keeling over, from a combination of drink and
excitement. Turns out he’s a new dad, his wife
having given birth just two days before to their first
child, a son they’ve named Finn (though Shane
was considered). He proudly shows us the hospital
bracelet still on his wrist and shakes his head over
his wife’s agreeing to let him come to the show
(although something tells me she didn’t mind
getting a few hours’ rest without
him). He’s jumping up and down so hard I fear
for everyone’s safety, and that’s while
we’re waiting for the Watchmen to come out. They
do, to no one’s particular enjoyment, at least
that’s how it seemed to me. The new dad at one
point gestured towards them, and in a strikingly
plaintive tone, said “if only they would leave,
the magic could begin!”. I point out that the
magic will indeed begin shortly; he gives me a doleful
look and tells me he doesn’t think he will last
that long. He does last, but not before surrendering
his spot on the rail to Aineen and me (just as she
predicted he would, clever girl!).
Finally the Watchmen go off, Scratchy’s at the
helm (Madness, Undertones, and Stiff Little Fingers
– ah, my youth!), and we wait. A couple of guys
next to me tell me they recognize me from my pics on
the Medusa board, and that they enjoyed my blog last
December. Well, well, imagine that – I’m a
celebrity! On the very bottommost rung of fame, of
course, but still, it feels nice (and it’s to my
shame that I cannot remember their user names, but
howdy guys, hope you enjoyed the show!). It’s a
lovely thing, being surrounded by Medusans and other
devoted fans – it’s family.
Soon enough there’s no more talking, Joe is
singing and the guys are here. They tear into the set
full tilt and don’t let up. Shane is totally at
the top of his game tonight, and once again proves
that any and all rumours of his demise or decline are
wildly exaggerated and quite premature. As for the
rest – well, there’s no getting around it,
they are the coolest band in the world. And not just
that. They’re also incredibly sexy. Now, let me
explain. I don’t mean that in a gushing, girly,
ooh-he’s-so-hot kind of way, although they are
as good looking a collection of men as you could
want. No, this goes deeper than that. As a friend of
mine once said about another band, they’re grown
men who know what they’re doing. They do indeed,
going about the task at hand with confidence and
joy. The music they’re playing is earthy,
sensual, full of life and drenched in sweat. It hits
you square between the eyes, in the heart, and below
the belt. Good lord, little wonder there’s a
free condom table in the lobby. After a couple of
hours spent here, I daresay quite a few in the crowd
will make good use of the service. It’s a happy
crowd, that’s for sure – not as rowdy as
I’d expected but loving every moment of the
show.
Everyone enjoys Shane’s “walkabout”
during White City – he covers the whole stage
but keeps the beat throughout, making it back to the
mic precisely on cue. When Philip asks us if
we’re doing alright, he says “Lemme hear a
’Hell Yeah!’”, and we give it right back
to him. Hell Yeah we’re alright, jack,
we’re with the Pogues and loving it.
All too quickly it’s Fairytale time. I take
particular notice of the courtly way Shane gathers
Ella in his arms when they dance, his hand properly
braced against her back, holding her so carefully as
they twirl. At that moment, there is no other place I
would rather be, no other moment in time in which I
could possibly bear to exist, than right here, right
now, watching and listening to this wonderful
collection of souls, brought together on this, the
night of St. Patrick.
Outside it’s freezing cold and it will take me
far too long to get a cab home. Others will brave the
trip to Brooklyn, only to find no Shane spinning songs
for their listening or dancing pleasure at BP
Fallon’s Death Disco. But that’s outside -
we’re still inside, still warm, still
rejoicing. Hallelujah.
Discussion is here.
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