Poet in the Beerlight
New York Sun
By MARTIN EDLUND
March 20, 2006
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(only Pogues related part)
<blockquote>New York City was treated to another, equally rare sighting over the weekend with the return of Shane MacGowan to the Pogues on Thursday at the Nokia Theater in Times Square. It was the first time he's toured with the group in America since the other members kicked him out for perpetual drunkenness in 1991.
The Pogues exemplify two Irish traditions. Their music blends the traditional sounds of the tin whistle, accordion, and mandolin with Clash inspired punk. And with MacGowan at the helm, they also keep alive (if barely) the tradition of the hard-drinking Irish poet with an eye and taste for tragedy.
A romantic figure, MacGowan is also a cautionary one. Only 49 years old, he lumbered around the stage with his knees bent and his feet sliding on the floor like a septuagenarian. His once-slurred speech is now totally unintelligible.
MacGowan formed the Pogues in 1982 in London. The original name, Pogue Mahone, was Gaelic for "kiss my ass," and that about summed up his attitude. The group's careening pub-punk won it a quick cult following in Britain and America, one that included such prominent admirers as Elvis Costello, Nick Cave, Sinead O'Connor, and Joe Strummer. But MacGowan was determined to be the master of his own ill fate. As the band's fame intensified, so did his drinking - his erratic onstage behavior soon gave way to absenteeism. In 1988, he missed most of an opening tour for Bob Dylan. Three years later, the band finally gave him his walking papers.
There are those who would rank MacGowan up there with Dylan as a lyricist. And Thursday's show included much of his best work: "Streams of Whisky," "The Old Main Drag," "Dirty Old Town." "A Pair of Brown Eyes" begins, as all his songs seem to, "one summer evening drunk to hell." Overindulgence, and the broken dreams that are its cause and inevitable result, is Mac-Gowan's great theme.
Thursday night's show ended with one of the best examples along these lines: "Fairytale of New York," perhaps the most hopeless Christmas song ever written, and certainly one of the best. It begins in a drunk tank on Christmas Eve with an old man who knows it's his last, and generally deteriorates from there. MacGowan and his female counterpart - in this case Emma Finer, daughter of mandolin player Jem Finer - berate each other: "You scumbag, you maggot / you cheap lousy faggot," she sang, "Happy Christmas you arse / I pray God it's our last." But it ended on a note of redemption - or temporary reprieve, anyway. As she and MacGowan approximated a lurching waltz at center stage under fake snow, Finer stepped nimbly backward to avoid being trampled.</blockquote>

