Sat Mar 11, 2006 4:33 pm
Long term lurker, first time poster, yada yada...
The girlfriend got me tickets to last night's DC gig for my thirtieth birthday. Greatest...present...ever...Woke up at 8:15, thought about going to my law class, decided I was far too excited and to surf Medusa instead. At 12:30 I arrive in NY Penn Station, train ticket in hand. Catch a seat at Houllihan's, where a beer and ceasar salad cost me $23. Who cares? Four hours later I'm in my native DC; by six, girlfriend and I are at the bar in Four Green Fields (was the Four Provinces too republican a name?) for Guiness and burgers. At some point the bartender remarks we should stick around because they have a really popular band playing tonight. Sure you do, mate! Hop on the Metro and arrive at the 9:30 10 minutes before gate. The line is around the block. Never seen that before in years of shows here. Get in fairly painlessly, begin the gin and tonics and plop our asses center stage in the second row. William Whitmore comes on and is a revelation. Like Robert Johnson and Tom Waits had a bastard son. I'm buying his disk today (he still sells vinyl, how cool is that?). Think I catch some glimpses of the band watching him from the stage balcony. He leaves and the house music comes on. The crowd begins to sing along with The Dubliners' Wild Rover and Whiskey in the Jar. Suddenly the lights go out...Straight to Hell comes on the speakers...Let me tell you 'bout your blood, bamboo kid...and there they are, my Finnian heros! The crowd amps, and Shane walks, not shuffles, walks to the mic, carrying what I assume to be a glass of gin and a bottle of whiskey. There is a gasp from the audience. Those who have seen him before can't believe it. He's lost thirty pounds, he can light his own cigarettes, he's moving and, God forbid, smiling. He actually looks like he cares and is enjoying himself, which is more than I can say about the last time I saw him with the Popes in '02, when he was three hours late. The band and show are two hours of blur. They sound great (the mix was incredible as well, every instrument came through perfectly and the playing was flawless.) Shane is ten feet from me and at times seems so into the show that he forgets he is around bandmates -- at one point he violently throws his cigarette behind him and into James, which gets a shocked attempt at a dodge and a laugh from Spider. Shane does forget one verse from Sunnyside, which gets a nervous laugh from the band, but hits everything else. Phil looks great in his digs and jazz hands and sounds even better singing Thousands (a great highlight, that, can't wait for it in NYC!). Finally Shane and Spider duel over lighting cigarettes only to come in perfectly on beat in Sickbed.
The same sort of awe that someone described from Thursday seems to be going on here too for a while. People in the front (save for the girlfriend and me) aren't really moving. But slowly it builds until I'm thrown into the barrier and I turn around to see 1200 of my closest friends singing along and dancing away. (Note to the moron standing behind me: no matter how cool you think it is, deliberately slamming into people because you like when the mix goes back and forth makes you a moron. Enough on that). By the time the band ends with Sickbed I'm standing in a screaming pandemoneum. Out for two sets of encores. Fairytale becomes the highlight of the evening: Despite Ms. Finer singing, I can barely hear her. Instead the song turns into a call and response between Shane and the crowd, a recognition of how much Pogues fans seem to believe in this man despite ways that aren't changing anytime soon. Something I'll keep for the rest of my life, honestly.
After teh show (dedicated to Eartha Kitt), I come three inches from catching Spider's whistle from Fiesta. I turn around to see Mr. Hunt giving away goodies. Having only been to Popes' shows, I've forgotten that some bands actually care about their fans! The guy next to me gets Shane's cigarette pack, and hands me a smoke. It's broken through, but, hey, it's a silly rock treasure! Meanwhile my girlfriend gets the last of those orange wristbands that allowed you upstairs to the VIP area (or whatever it was: Did anyone go? I'd like to hear what it was like). Unfortunately, the club security won't let me up with her, so she offers the thing to me, thinking I'd like the possibility of drinks with the band (she's awesome, if you haven't guessed). I say no, and we give it to a girl who says her boyfriend is a huge fan. I tell her its my thirtieth birthday present and he better enjoy it for all its worth, to which she looks stunned and says to the girlfriend, "you keep him." Laughing and stumbling onto V street I'm happier than I've been for years. We catch a cab and are off into the night...
Sorry to ramble, but best show ever (despite what the Wash Post says). Thank you to Phillip and the band, and we'll see you Paddy's day!
I like this bad set and I like getting drunk at luncheon.