Culture Blues

Why The Pogues Are Better Than You And Everyone Else

Don't be fooled by this picture. They are usually a total shit show.

When I was tiny, my parents and I used to belt out The Pogues' Fairytale of New York together for guests, on Christmas, when we were stuck in traffic, and on ordinary Tuesdays. It was our family anthem. When we'd get to the part where Kristy MacColl sings, "You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot", the profanities would fly out my 3-year-old mouth and my parents would mumble the words too, looking at each other, surely thinking, "she doesn't know what she just said. Keep singing."

I would listen to Lullaby of London tucked safely in my bed before I went to sleep. As I drifted into dreamland, the lyrics made me feel like everything was okay.

May the ghosts that howled round the house at night never keep you from your sleep, may they all sleep tight down in hell tonight, or wherever they may be.

The Pogues have been around for 30 years, though together they haven't really done anything new in 20. That's thanks to lead singer Shane MacGowan's bouts of alcohol dependence and excessive drug use. It's good for fans like me who get sentimental about their old stuff, because everything is their old stuff, and concerts are never experimental showcases of new songs I don't want to be subjected to. What they play is what fans have been loving for more than twenty years, and songs the Irish have been playing on their banjos and mandolins for hundreds of years more than that.

I'm stuck on the Pogues because they're just so much better than any 80s Irish punk band. Any 80s band. Any punk band. Any Irish band. Any band at all. Of all the Irish bands like Flogging Molly, Dropkick Murphys, The Waterboys, the Levellers, Black 47—who you should listen to, you really should—only the Pogues truly understand the Irish experience. When you look at the worn, toothless musicians, you feel like they've been through immigration and the Birmingham Six themselves. And in a sense they have. They bring those experiences to us and make them real.

Like most American mutts, I have a drop of Irish blood in me but it's not something I really identify with or think about all the time. But listening to the Pogues connects me to all Irish immigrants, or anyone who came over from a foreign land, or even anyone who has gotten wasted off whiskey.

Peace and Love, so long as there's whiskey.

Nothing against Flogging Molly or Dropkick Murphys, but those bands are unable to do the same thing. They are rowdy but they don't really know why and they play the shit out of their instruments but they technically don't know how. They wear a lot of plaid. Kilts? Alright. Also, there are bagpipes. But these bands aren't real musicians and they don't make me cry like the Pogues do.

And as wasted as the Pogues are 99% of the time, they appreciate subtleties so minute and complex it launches their music to another universe.

On Tuesday night I went to see A Parting Glass With The Pogues at Terminal Five with my friend Jess, who hadn't been to a Pogues concert since 1988. I remember their 1988 tour specifically because I was home with a babysitter, angry that my parents got to attend and I didn't. They said the show was so out of control they nearly got their asses kicked and their friend Doug turned around at the door when he saw people being carried out with bloody faces. Four-year-olds miss all the fun.

Tuesday's show was a bit toned down. Titus Andronicus opened, and they were dedicated to their music but were like poorly-dressed bridesmaids that seem to exist solely to make the bride look good. I was in an awesome mood and a few whiskeys into the night, though, so I enjoyed it anyway.

Then The Pogues started playing and, Shane, though only capable of singing every other song without a break, was fairly coherent. Between songs, he would mumble something and Jess and I would pause from our jumping and dancing to wonder to each other what he said. ("I think he said he's playing London Girl." "No, he said Body of an American.") But then again, Shane has always been like that. Bottle of Smoke has been one of my favorite songs for more than twenty years and I still have no idea what the lyrics are.

He's a looker, that one.

The good news is that Shane was, despite popular belief of the past 15 years, alive. And he put on a bit of weight and could stand for semi-long periods of time and didn't need anyone to help him lift his whiskey glass to his mouth this time. He could do it all by himself. I commented to Jess that leading man Spider Stacey looked great, but (even taking into account Shane's relatively robust appearance) anyone looks great standing next to Shane MacGowan. They should hire Shane to accompany people to class reunion parties and job interviews.

When they played they played well, shocking me with Thousands Are Sailing (which is difficult to play because it uses so many instruments and has so many words that often a large, wrecked group of older Irishmen have a hard time remembering the lyrics), played wonderful versions of Tuesday Morning, Pair of Brown Eyes, and Waltzing Matilda, and proved they are still feisty with If I Should Fall From Grace With God, Fiesta, and White City.

Then there were the amusing distractions from the music. Someone started waltzing with Jess, an Irish guy kissed me on the cheek because I returned his nasty-ass shoe to him, and another drunkard stuck a piece of gum in my mouth and I'm not really sure what that means. I also woke up the next day with a bruised wrist and several strange cuts on my hands, which I attribute to the fact that Jess and I were extremely close but not too close to the mosh pit. I also purchased a ridiculous orange and green Pogues scarf which I have been wearing since the concert was over but would never wear otherwise. Happy St. Patrick's Day.

When The Pogues played Lullaby of London I felt like I was being tucked into bed all over. I was brought back to days before deaths of people I love and family strains and other things that can make life sad sometimes. And with his heavy, weathered, Irish brogue, Shane reminded me that everything is good in the world.

May the wind that blows from haunted graves never bring you misery. May the angels bright watch you tonight and keep you while you sleep.