Wed Dec 31, 2014 3:41 pm
This is a bit of a long story but I have a very clear picture of Philip Chevron at a gig that I will never forget and one that made me a Pogue's fan for life.
10th September 1985 Pogues played Aberdeen. Fusion or whatever the place was called then. The general public had only ever heard of a band called The Pogues from a nice little folk number in the charts called Dirty Old Town. And so it was that the upper areas of the venue was full of unsuspecting 'folkies'. All beards and wooly jumpers, waiting for a night of traditional folk music. In my naivety I was one of them.
And as you would expect, the floor was full of die hard Pogues fans, getting fidgety and impatient waiting for the start of the show.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I thought punk had finished but these people in the pit were like super punks. Even more boisterous, and rowdy. There even looked to be a bare knuckle boxing fight going on - a big bare chested bloke with a kilt was taking on all comers. The bouncers were powerless to do anything. I think they were expecting a Dubliners style folk band too.
The place couldn't get any more outrageous.
But it could. The band was getting ready to come on. A small wirey chap with a hat on came onto the stage and placed a crate of beer right in the middle. The scene was set, Philip Chevron had carried out one of his main duties for the night.
Then the rest of the guys came on stage and the place erupted. Except the upper raised areas occupied by the folkies. We all looked down in disbelief and it has to be said, a lot of fear and trepidation. The feeling from the balcony areas only served to feed the atmosphere, which was balancing on a knife edge and ready to go into a riot. Seriously.
After only a couple or so songs, the band was taken off the stage in an attempt to quieten the crowd down. Someone had screwed up, and did not realise who The Pogues and their fans really were. The manager of the venue came on stage to appeal for quiet. There was no need for me to describe the reaction of the fans at having their gig cut short.
Over the shouts and boos and some missiles, beer glasses mainly, the manager made himself heard, to say that he wanted to make an announcement regarding that night's football. (There were no mobile phones in those days to keep in touch with news.) The crowd briefly quietened down. Even the fighting stopped. I need to explain here that Scotland's bid to make the World Cup finals needed them to gain a point from their fixture with Wales that evening. I thought then, what was he doing? Whatever the result, with the mood of the crowd, there was surely going to be a riot anyway.
"Wales were leading 1-0......." ...silence.... "but with 9 minutes to go Scotland equalised...." The crowd erupted. Scotland were going to the play-offs. But the manager stayed still. He hadn't finished yet. He allowed the crowd to settle enough for him to tell them, that Jock Stein, the manager of Scotland had suffered a heart attack at the stadium and had died.
You could have heard a pin drop.
"As a tribute," the manager continued, "I want you to join in with me, the singing of Flower of Scotland"
And so it went. The place erupted in song louder than even could be heard at Hampden Park. The tuneful folkies got what they wanted, and there were some perfect harmonies with the perhaps more raucous tones from the floor. The night was over and we all dispersed quietly. Shocked. Relieved. Happy with the football result and saddened with the tragic news of Jock Steins death. A real mixture of emotions that left everyone drained.
You don't forget nights like that. But through it all what sticks in my mind is the wee fella placing that crate of beer on the stage for the band.
A night to remember.
Nice one Philip.