The Pogues in Entertainment Magazine

**Tue Mar 14, 2006 3:28 pm**

I have to say I was surprised as hell when my mother brought me Entertainment Magazine (with Steve Carrell on the front) to show me that there is an article about the Pogues possibly reuniting! 2 Pages of words, a 2 page picture spread, and a full page picture of Shane!

So check it out if you get the chance!

Just for the record i stole this from another forum

**Tue Mar 14, 2006 3:41 pm**

Anonymous wrote:I have to say I was surprised as hell when my mother brought me Entertainment Magazine (with Steve Carrell on the front) to show me that there is an article about the Pogues possibly reuniting! 2 Pages of words, a 2 page picture spread, and a full page picture of Shane!

So check it out if you get the chance!

Just for the record i stole this from another forum

is this a US magazine

**Tue Mar 14, 2006 7:40 pm**

Here is the article:

"To become true legends, someone in our group needs to die''
The Pogues open up -- One of rock's wildest bands reunites and reveals why it took so long to happen by David Browne
17 Feb 2006
Entertainment Weekly
by David Browne
Full URL

It's 11.30 p.m., and backstage at the Point Theatre in Dublin, the Pogues are crammed into a tiny dressing room. Propped on a table is the prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award they've just won at the Meteor awards (Ireland's equivalent of the Grammys). But for a band whose fondness for drink was once near-mythical, the celebrations are alarmingly booze-free. An ice bucket rattles mournfully with a handful of bottles of mineral water and low-alcohol lager. ''Three of the band are teetotal now,'' explains guitarist-accordionist James Fearnley. ''They stopped drinking after we split. If they'd continued as they were, they probably wouldn't have made it. It's nice having people around who could've been dead.''

Famously still alive against most expectations, Shane MacGowan, 48, clearly isn't one of those Pogues who've taken the pledge. Tonight, he's blithely waddling around with what appears to be a pint of neat vodka in one hand and a tumbler of vermouth in the other. The singer and chief songwriter of the Pogues — whose rollicking, punkish take on Irish music made them a top live attraction in the '80s and spawned the splendid albums Rum, Sodomy & the Lash and If I Should Fall From Grace With God — remains a subject of intense fascination. Feted by the likes of Bob Dylan and Bono as one of rock's finest poets, he's seemingly spent the last 30 years trying to drink and drug himself to death.

Our first attempt to collar MacGowan earlier in the day had come to nothing when he'd told his minder to ''f--- off'' and leave him alone. He was, we were told, trying to rest after painful surgery to remove an abscess from his mouth. When we finally corner him after the show, he looks terrible — bearded, deathly pale, with sickly, pink-tinged eyes and a toothless, gummy smile. He trips, in Chaplinesque fashion, at least twice en route to the dressing room.

Yet it soon becomes plain that the physical manifestations of years of abuse belie a quick mind and a cruel wit. Any notion that you're safe in the presence of a drunken fool quickly evaporates. As an opening gambit, I ask MacGowan about Irish folk stalwarts the Dubliners, who performed with the Pogues tonight. Are they still your heroes? ''Of course they're my heroes,'' he snaps. ''But we've become our own heroes too — that's the problem. To become true legends, though, someone in our group needs to die. Keeeeeeeee.'' MacGowan's sentences are punctuated by a ghastly, wheezing laugh. And who do you think that's most likely to be? ''What?'' The member who's going to die. ''I'm only joking! Holy Mother of Christ!'' He eyes me warily. ''If you stitch me up in this piece, by Christ I'll kill you. Keeeeeeeee.''

A week earlier, I'd met Pogues tin whistler Spider Stacy and banjo player Jem Finer for tea at a posh London hotel. The interview is to promote a nine-date U.S. tour in March — their first American appearances since 1991 — culminating in four dates at New York's Nokia Theatre (the second being on St. Patrick's Day). Neither man was drinking — and both seemed mildly irritated that I considered this noteworthy. Perhaps it's understandable. Since their first flush of success in 1984, the Pogues have been bedeviled by their image as drunken Irishmen who couldn't play. ''I think people wanted us to be drunken Irishmen,'' says Stacy. ''They liked that romantic notion.'' The truth, they're still keen to emphasize, was somewhat different. ''For a start, of the original six members, only Shane was Irish,'' says Finer. ''The rest of us were just interesting people who'd ended up squatting in central London.''

A celebrity on the late-'70s London punk scene, MacGowan had met Stacy and Finer when he was fronting the Nips — a group that, despite having a slew of great songs and the patronage of the Jam's Paul Weller, failed to secure a major record deal. When the Nips fizzled out, MacGowan, inspired by drunken nights singing along to his dad's albums, began to hatch a vision of a band performing Irish folk music at punk velocity.

Within a couple of years, Pogue Mahone (''It's Gaelic for 'kiss my arse,''' explains Stacy) had graduated from playing dingy boozers to supporting Elvis Costello on a U.K. tour. By then, MacGowan's extraordinary talent was gaining plaudits from impressive quarters. Costello, who would produce the band's second album, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash, was quick to hail the singer as ''a genius.'' MacGowan's gifts weren't lost on his band, either. ''I wasn't able to see the joints between Shane's songs and the old songs that had been around for 150 years,'' raves Fearnley. ''For a long time in rehearsals, I thought 'Sally MacLennane' and 'A Pair of Brown Eyes' [both from Rum, Sodomy] were traditional numbers. And I was in the f---ing group!''

But in the press, talk of the Pogues' musical triumphs was slowly being eclipsed by tales of monumental alcohol binges and on-the-road high jinks. MacGowan and Stacy seemed to be the worst culprits and were gleefully depicted as a kind of Guinness-quaffing version of Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood. ''We were driving to Leicester once,'' laughs Darryl Hunt, who replaced original bassist Cait O'Riordan in 1986. ''Shane and Spider had an argument about whether a tomato was a fruit or a vegetable. Jem got so upset he ordered me to stop the van and went and stood by the roadside. He refused to budge.''

''Actually, it was at the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool,'' corrects Stacy. ''And it was more [about] the port and brandy than the vegetables.''

''Or fruit,'' deadpans Finer.

The stories of drunken capers kept coming — Stacy being so sloshed one night he passed out in the van and missed the gig, only to wake up later and inquire, ''Were we any good?''; MacGowan going AWOL and having to be steered back to the venue by bemused fans; MacGowan being hit by a taxi.

The band swelled to eight members for 1988's magnificent I Should Fall From Grace With God, and constant touring became the only way they could survive financially. As their principal songwriter and spokesman, MacGowan was feeling burned out and creatively hemmed in. He sought solace in increasing volumes of booze and pharmaceuticals, and his behavior became ever more erratic. One night on tour in New Zealand, he painted himself completely blue, claiming he'd been egged on by Maori spirits. ''I thought it was silver paint, actually,'' states Fearnley, soberly. ''But it was very disturbing. When Shane went off the rails I tended to stay well clear. To their credit, Spider, Jem, and [Irish folk veteran] Terry Woods lovingly and generously went out of their way to help him. But it was Shane's way of saying he didn't want to do it anymore.''

''Look, I really did hear those spirits,'' counters MacGowan, whose interest in mysticism seems genuine. ''As a kid I'd see banshees and my auntie who died when I was very small.''

The end finally came in Japan in 1991, when MacGowan was so smashed, says Hunt, he was ''leaving taxis horizontally'' and barely able to sing on stage. The band summoned him to a Tokyo hotel room, where they told him they were continuing without him. ''Thank you,'' the singer replied. ''You've been very patient with me.'' The remaining dates of a world tour were honored with former Clash man Joe Strummer at the microphone. The band carried on with Stacy singing until 1996.

Back at the Point Theatre in Dublin, MacGowan is reliving the difficult last months before he was asked to leave the band. An unlit cigarette — Dublin's venues carry a smoking ban — dangles between his lips. ''I actually excommunicated the audience every night, '' he snarls. ''Why? Because I was disturbed and angry. Keeeeeeeee. All you need is the right curses.'' [Intones sinister-sounding Latin verse]

The late '90s were difficult times for the former Pogues. MacGowan occasionally performed with a group he dubbed the Popes, while the rest of the band made two limp albums without him. Though never quite as heroically hedonistic as MacGowan, several members struggled with alcohol. ''I was pretty f---ed up by then,'' says Stacy. ''But it was easier to sober up once we were off the road.''

The idea of a Pogues reunion was first suggested by their long-time accountant, who figured there was still a potentially huge live audience for them. There were other considerations, however, besides money—such as pride. ''It was more difficult for some members to get back in that rehearsal studio than others,'' says Hunt. Mostly, the problems appear to have revolved around the thorny subject of Shane's rambling 2001 memoir, A Drink With Shane MacGowan, in which the singer merrily tore into several of his former bandmates.

He criticized Fearnley for playing his accordion in an unorthodox, non-Irish manner, and ridiculed his thick Yorkshire accent, which, MacGowan maintained, was so offensive to the ear that it scared off female fans. Fortunately, Fearnley is philosophical about the barbs. ''I didn't read it because I knew he was going to be rude about me,'' he says. ''But that's Shane. He does and says whatever he feels. That's what makes him an exciting guy to be around.'' (When pressed, MacGowan simply says, ''I don't like the book now.'')

Despite the lingering friction, the Pogues played their first reunion concerts at London's Brixton Academy in December 2001 (a recording of one show is featured on their latest best-of compilation, due out in the U.S. later this year). These were followed by regular Christmas dates in London and Ireland and festival appearances in Spain and Japan. In late 2005, they rereleased their Christmas classic ''Fairytale of New York,'' which hit No. 3 on the U.K. charts.

Judging by the Point Theatre performance of traditional tune ''The Irish Rover,'' the group has lost none of its zest. MacGowan remembered all the words, too, which wasn't always the case in the old days. After the show, I ask the singer if he feels in better shape than when he left the band in 1991. ''I haven't dropped a pint [on stage] ever since we re-formed,'' he says. ''I was constantly doing it before.''

Darryl Hunt is somewhat more complimentary. ''Shane is singing some songs better than ever before,'' he says. ''When we played London before Christmas, 'Fairytale of New York' and 'Rainy Night in Soho' were totally magical. I think we're finally reaching a new peak. We've never been better.''