Posted: Tue Mar 13, 2007 5:25 pmReview: Pogue Mahone
Poguetry in motion.
Dogmatika.com
Full URL
<blockquote>"Ask me a fucking interesting question."
[..] Friendly advice has it that Shane is fond of reminiscing about his days in Burton Street, the short-life housing project and creative community near King's Cross, London, where the idea of The Pogues began to take root. What were the sights, the sounds, the smells, the atmospheres, of Burton Street? Perhaps that might be a fucking interesting question, one which he might respond to. At the very least, it could be a starting point.
"It was a street with houses in it," snorts MacGowan. "Have you talked to the other members of the band?"
It's nay impossible to tell the story of The Pogues without Shane MacGowan, ex-public schoolboy, punk refugee, hedonist, poet, the stuff of music legend and not a million miles from that Dennis Leary quip on Jim Morrison—"I'm drunk, I'm nobody. I'm drunk, I'm famous. I'm drunk, I'm dead." Though it seemed that The Pogues, with their "pioneering, punk-fuelled, emerald-hearted romps," came from nowhere, tearing through the Eighties with their unique blend of loud, fast Irish singsongs, the seeds of the band were there as early as 1980. In an interview MacGowan said, "In the future I want to play disturbing dance music—really strange stuff, but not fucking arty... Trash is what we're really talking about...the Soho part of London, the side that's full of pimps, whores and junkies."
Formed with like-minded souls, The Pogues, as Carol Clerk writes in this new biography, were to "recharge the batteries of Irish folk music and bring it to new, modern audiences via the spirit, the spontaneity, the attitude and language of punk. Primarily, it would be music that stood for fun, to dance to and to drink to," and at a time when it was undesirable to be Irish. As Dee O'Mahony, wife of the Nipple Erectors (MacGowan's post-punk band) manager Phil Gaston, says: "It was not hip to be Irish at that stage. Growing up in Ireland, there was a deep-rooted sense of shame at being not modern enough, that lingering insecurity. I was very conscious, in London, of keeping my head down due to the IRA's mainland bombing campaign in the seventies. I remember being very conscious of my accent, and I lost it fairly quickly. So here was this mad bunch ranting about Irish history and music, and it was the first time I'd met people who weren't afraid to talk about what it was to be Irish in London and to talk about Irish culture. That's one thing I remember about Shane—his focused sense of what it was to be Irish."
The alienation of being Irish elsewhere, of being outsiders, was the essence of The Pogues, and they cut a reckless dash through the seamier side of London, with a reputation as the wildest bunch in town, boozing, brawling outlaws in suits that looked as if they had been slept in or, as Clerk puts it, "as though they'd seen a few hedges backwards." In giving Irish music a much-need boot up the arse, they upset a few traditional musicians—no bad thing—even having their own Bill Grundy/Sex Pistols moment courtesy of Planxty's Noel Hill and broadcast on RTÉ in 1985. During a heated debate on Irish music chaired with the now-legendary BP Fallon, Hill dismissed The Pogues as "a terrible abortion" playing "rowdy ballad music," to which Andrew Ranken replied, "I think it just comes down to sex. I mean, are you a better fucker than me?"
While Clerk rightly asserts that The Pogues were "by no means the only outfit in the hedonist Eighties to fly the flag conspicuously for the right to party," as the decade wore on performances came to be judged by how fucked up MacGowan was on stage—that is, the drunker he was, the more the audience delighted in it—"rooted in his own background and in the example of the great Irish writers and poets for whom alcohol was the key to inspiration and vision." The sustained intoxication and riotous behaviour was bound to take it's toll, and though most of the band were heavy drinkers, it was the singer and reluctant front-man who was the worse for wear. Stan Brennan, producer of their first album Red Roses For Me: "To me, the band is a bit like [Oscar Wilde's] The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Shane's the picture in the attic. If you want to see the cost to The Pogues, you just have to look at Shane."
"Well, what do you need to talk to me for?"
Because you're the poet.
This doesn't go down well. Historically, Shane has not always been gracious with compliments, although I am trying to tell him that people are interested in his writing, in view of his considerable reputation, rather than to curry favour or to insult the talents of the other band members and contributors.
He shoots back immediately with a list of Pogues favourites that are not of his making: "People have credited me with writing 'Dirty Old Town' and 'Misty Morning, Albert Bridge,' which I didn't. People have credited me with writing 'Navigator' on Rum Sodomy & The Lash, which I didn't. That was written by Phil Gaston. 'Thousands Are Sailing'—I didn't write that. Phil Chevron wrote it. And, like, some people think that I wrote 'The Irish Rover.' Too much credit is given."
And what of the other Pogues? Clerk has spent hours talking to fellow band members—and it's good to see the likes of Phil Chevron, Terry Woods and Jem Finer get the credit they deserve—but when the once-tight, visceral band starts to disintegrate, it is clear that the band were at its peak with Rum, Sodomy & The Lash and If I Should Fall From Grace With God. When MacGowan finally leaves The Pogues, first Joe Strummer, then Spider Stacy step up to Shane's old role, but the original members start to peel away. In the 2001 book, A Drink with Shane MacGowan, he was pretty vicious about his former band: Peace and Love a "really dodgy album", Hell's Ditch a "real dog". MacGowan is in conciliatory form in Clerk's book but, let's face it, he had a point, The Pogues just weren't the same band anymore.
Despite a largely absent MacGowan—he's interviewed briefly at The Boogaloo, his home-from-home, and chips in occasionally—and a conspicuous-by-her-absence Cait O'Riordan, who left the band to marry Elvis Costello in 1986, who apparently declined to contribute, Carol Clerk's book is solid, jammed-packed with anecdotes on and off the road: 'Fairytale of New York' relies heavily on Ennio Morricone's score for Once Upon a Time in America; 'A Rainy Night in Soho' is for the most part on MacGowan's former girlfriend Shanne Bradley from the Nips ("He's got the softest heart in the business," says Chevron); in homage to The Dubliners, the band tried to grow beards with Shane's encouragement ("We all just looked dirty." - Chevron again); the title track of 'If I Should Fall From Grace With God' lifts a Keith Richards lick; Shane wanted an Acid House track on Peace and Love.
And just like a Hollywood movie, the story of The Pogues has a happy ending. "The whiff of the bar-room wafting through their lyrics, the irrepressible gallop of their up-tempos and the teardrops in their ballads," as Clerk writes, enjoys a new lease of life, when MacGowan rejoins the band: "'I think we'll stay together,' says Shane. And I think he means it." We'll see.
[ST]
Buy this book>>
Pogue Mahone: Kiss My Arse, the Story of The Pogues by Carol Clerk
Omnibus Press
352 Pages</blockquote>
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
© Dogmatika 2004-2006 | All rights reserved
Poguetry in motion.
Dogmatika.com
Full URL
<blockquote>"Ask me a fucking interesting question."
[..] Friendly advice has it that Shane is fond of reminiscing about his days in Burton Street, the short-life housing project and creative community near King's Cross, London, where the idea of The Pogues began to take root. What were the sights, the sounds, the smells, the atmospheres, of Burton Street? Perhaps that might be a fucking interesting question, one which he might respond to. At the very least, it could be a starting point.
"It was a street with houses in it," snorts MacGowan. "Have you talked to the other members of the band?"
It's nay impossible to tell the story of The Pogues without Shane MacGowan, ex-public schoolboy, punk refugee, hedonist, poet, the stuff of music legend and not a million miles from that Dennis Leary quip on Jim Morrison—"I'm drunk, I'm nobody. I'm drunk, I'm famous. I'm drunk, I'm dead." Though it seemed that The Pogues, with their "pioneering, punk-fuelled, emerald-hearted romps," came from nowhere, tearing through the Eighties with their unique blend of loud, fast Irish singsongs, the seeds of the band were there as early as 1980. In an interview MacGowan said, "In the future I want to play disturbing dance music—really strange stuff, but not fucking arty... Trash is what we're really talking about...the Soho part of London, the side that's full of pimps, whores and junkies."
Formed with like-minded souls, The Pogues, as Carol Clerk writes in this new biography, were to "recharge the batteries of Irish folk music and bring it to new, modern audiences via the spirit, the spontaneity, the attitude and language of punk. Primarily, it would be music that stood for fun, to dance to and to drink to," and at a time when it was undesirable to be Irish. As Dee O'Mahony, wife of the Nipple Erectors (MacGowan's post-punk band) manager Phil Gaston, says: "It was not hip to be Irish at that stage. Growing up in Ireland, there was a deep-rooted sense of shame at being not modern enough, that lingering insecurity. I was very conscious, in London, of keeping my head down due to the IRA's mainland bombing campaign in the seventies. I remember being very conscious of my accent, and I lost it fairly quickly. So here was this mad bunch ranting about Irish history and music, and it was the first time I'd met people who weren't afraid to talk about what it was to be Irish in London and to talk about Irish culture. That's one thing I remember about Shane—his focused sense of what it was to be Irish."
The alienation of being Irish elsewhere, of being outsiders, was the essence of The Pogues, and they cut a reckless dash through the seamier side of London, with a reputation as the wildest bunch in town, boozing, brawling outlaws in suits that looked as if they had been slept in or, as Clerk puts it, "as though they'd seen a few hedges backwards." In giving Irish music a much-need boot up the arse, they upset a few traditional musicians—no bad thing—even having their own Bill Grundy/Sex Pistols moment courtesy of Planxty's Noel Hill and broadcast on RTÉ in 1985. During a heated debate on Irish music chaired with the now-legendary BP Fallon, Hill dismissed The Pogues as "a terrible abortion" playing "rowdy ballad music," to which Andrew Ranken replied, "I think it just comes down to sex. I mean, are you a better fucker than me?"
While Clerk rightly asserts that The Pogues were "by no means the only outfit in the hedonist Eighties to fly the flag conspicuously for the right to party," as the decade wore on performances came to be judged by how fucked up MacGowan was on stage—that is, the drunker he was, the more the audience delighted in it—"rooted in his own background and in the example of the great Irish writers and poets for whom alcohol was the key to inspiration and vision." The sustained intoxication and riotous behaviour was bound to take it's toll, and though most of the band were heavy drinkers, it was the singer and reluctant front-man who was the worse for wear. Stan Brennan, producer of their first album Red Roses For Me: "To me, the band is a bit like [Oscar Wilde's] The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Shane's the picture in the attic. If you want to see the cost to The Pogues, you just have to look at Shane."
"Well, what do you need to talk to me for?"
Because you're the poet.
This doesn't go down well. Historically, Shane has not always been gracious with compliments, although I am trying to tell him that people are interested in his writing, in view of his considerable reputation, rather than to curry favour or to insult the talents of the other band members and contributors.
He shoots back immediately with a list of Pogues favourites that are not of his making: "People have credited me with writing 'Dirty Old Town' and 'Misty Morning, Albert Bridge,' which I didn't. People have credited me with writing 'Navigator' on Rum Sodomy & The Lash, which I didn't. That was written by Phil Gaston. 'Thousands Are Sailing'—I didn't write that. Phil Chevron wrote it. And, like, some people think that I wrote 'The Irish Rover.' Too much credit is given."
And what of the other Pogues? Clerk has spent hours talking to fellow band members—and it's good to see the likes of Phil Chevron, Terry Woods and Jem Finer get the credit they deserve—but when the once-tight, visceral band starts to disintegrate, it is clear that the band were at its peak with Rum, Sodomy & The Lash and If I Should Fall From Grace With God. When MacGowan finally leaves The Pogues, first Joe Strummer, then Spider Stacy step up to Shane's old role, but the original members start to peel away. In the 2001 book, A Drink with Shane MacGowan, he was pretty vicious about his former band: Peace and Love a "really dodgy album", Hell's Ditch a "real dog". MacGowan is in conciliatory form in Clerk's book but, let's face it, he had a point, The Pogues just weren't the same band anymore.
Despite a largely absent MacGowan—he's interviewed briefly at The Boogaloo, his home-from-home, and chips in occasionally—and a conspicuous-by-her-absence Cait O'Riordan, who left the band to marry Elvis Costello in 1986, who apparently declined to contribute, Carol Clerk's book is solid, jammed-packed with anecdotes on and off the road: 'Fairytale of New York' relies heavily on Ennio Morricone's score for Once Upon a Time in America; 'A Rainy Night in Soho' is for the most part on MacGowan's former girlfriend Shanne Bradley from the Nips ("He's got the softest heart in the business," says Chevron); in homage to The Dubliners, the band tried to grow beards with Shane's encouragement ("We all just looked dirty." - Chevron again); the title track of 'If I Should Fall From Grace With God' lifts a Keith Richards lick; Shane wanted an Acid House track on Peace and Love.
And just like a Hollywood movie, the story of The Pogues has a happy ending. "The whiff of the bar-room wafting through their lyrics, the irrepressible gallop of their up-tempos and the teardrops in their ballads," as Clerk writes, enjoys a new lease of life, when MacGowan rejoins the band: "'I think we'll stay together,' says Shane. And I think he means it." We'll see.
[ST]
Buy this book>>
Pogue Mahone: Kiss My Arse, the Story of The Pogues by Carol Clerk
Omnibus Press
352 Pages</blockquote>
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
© Dogmatika 2004-2006 | All rights reserved
