Friday night, we got to do something we thought we would never have a chance to do.  Scott and I saw the Pogues play a live show with what was essentially their original line-up all together  (Cait wasn’t there).  As soon as the tickets went on sale a few months back, Scott bought some.  And then the show sold out and tickets started selling on E-Bay for hundreds of bucks.  And then I started to fret that the show would be terrible, and maybe we should sell our tickets.  Scott called me nuts and refused, thankfully.  Sometimes my impulsive streak runs away with me.

Let me explain:  By the time I was going to expensive (for a student, at least) shows far from home, Shane McGowan was passing out on stage so early in their act that the band couldn’t tolerate it anymore, so they booted him.  Friends of mine who had the chance to see the Pogues play during the collapse were disappointed and angry and worried for McGowan’s life, all with good reason.  I’m so glad the band worked up either the ability to forgive McGowan or the thirst to relive some of their old glory or large enough visa bills to schedule this tour.  I was prepared to be disappointed.  Instead, I was blown away.

William Whitmore opened the show: one man, his boot tapping, frailing on one of the best-sounding open-back banjos I’ve ever heard and singing with a voice that seems so wrong for his young, thin frame.  I had a chance to talk to him after the show, which was a hoot.  I know he is playing a Kay with a wooden tone ring, and I know the banjo is missing the drone string’s peg and Whitmore didn’t bother to put one back, so he’s playing an open-back as a sort of hacked tenor, but he’s changing tunings a fair bit.  I know I’m going to buy all of his albums now, and I hope to buy a Kay banjo one of these days.  And I always thought I’d only fall for Bacon and Days and Vegas–wacky.

Right–onto the Pogues.  Shane McGowan is one of the finest lyricists around, and it’s a miracle he hasn’t drunk himself to death yet.  He’s never been a talented singer, but he’s often a great singer.  Dylan fans know what I mean.  And the instrumentalists of the Pogues make up one of the best bands since, well, The Band.  They were so tight, and each is a showman in his own right. 

Terry Woods has the kind of cool ease of a virtuoso who knows his playing says whatever needs saying–he doesn’t bother with many stage antics.  He made my night, singing Young Ned of the Hill.  Thanks Terry. 
Phil Chevron is in complete contrast–he knows he’s so good that he spins and jumps and basically puts most rock stars to shame with his showmanship.  He took a turn at Thousands are Sailing, and I don’t think I want to hear anyone else sing it from here on out. 
James Fearnley, he may lead me to play air accordion one of these days, with his maniacal leaping about.   His box sounded great, and he clearly gave it and himself a work out.
Andrew Rankin’s drums sounded great, and he sang Star of the County Down as a reel (atta boy) and dedicated it to the "radical feminists lesbians" all the world over.  Those of us who are two out of three thank you, Rankin.  Great job, you David Johannsen sounding nut.  I never knew you had those pipes.
Shane looked better than he had in a while, slurred a lot, drank even more, but stayed standing throughout.  And he was hilarious.  I wish so many brilliant people weren’t stricken by addiction, but he is what he is.  He’s smarter and funnier than most even when he’s pissed.  He also dropped his lighter into his whiskey bottle, but kept drinking with gusto, thus inspiring Scott to invent "The McGowan," a drink I advise against ordering.  He sang almost everything I wanted him to.
Spider Stacy.  .  . I’ve never really been much of a fan.  His whistle sounded good, as usual.  He did a good job, truly, though it just drives me nuts to see him so antsy in Shane’s shadow.  BUT during the finale, Stacy redeemed himself by using his head to play a metal tray as a percussion instrument.  There’s the spirit, Spider.  Keep it up.  Soon, your penance will be over.
Darryl Hunt is, as always, Master of the Low End.  His bass lines were gorgeous.  And he was smirking all through the show.  I’m wondering if he doesn’t want to fuel the Shane/Spider animosity a bit. 
Jem Finer.  I command you all to love Jem Finer.  In fact, when you are here visiting in my home, I require you to love all my favorite banjo players.  Them’s the rules.  Jem is amazing.  He has always been amazing.  And while he and I can both claim to play the banjo and the sax . . . well . . . he’s the only one who is actually good at both.  Another essentially cool musician.  And another great writer in the band. 

I think this is what they played, though not in this order:
Fairy Tale of New York
The Irish Rover
Sayonara (oosh!)
Sick Bed of Cuchulainn
Dirty Old Town
The Broad Majestic Shannon
Young Ned of the Hill (Terry Woods Sang)
White City
Sally MacLennane
Rain Street
Star of the County Down (Andrew Rankin sang)
The Old Main Drag
Turkish Song of the Damned
Tuesday Morning (we must forgive them their transgressions–Spider would have popped if Shane had all the fun.  )
Thousands are Sailing (Phil Chevron sang)
The Sunny Side of the Street
If I Should Fall From Grace With God
Bottle of Smoke
A Rainy Day in Soho
A Pair of Brown Eyes
Fiesta: this is the best song for a finale ever written.  If I remember any bit of any concert I ever see from here out, it will be this number.  Fan-freaking-tastic. 

It was a great show.  I’m so glad we went, and that we had a  good balcony spot.  I think the techs at the 9:30 need to adjust the sound set up in the hanging stacks–the sound was really muddy up there.  But when that’s the worst thing I have to say about a show, it’s a great sign. 

Happy almost St. Paddy’s, folks.  Go see some live music.  And please don’t drink green beer–it’s bad for you, it’s bad for the beer, and it’s really bad for carpets.  I proclaim Fraoch Heather Ale the official beer of St. Paddy’s 2006.  Have one or two and some great food, see a good band with people you love, and be careful.  There are idiots on the roads, you know.  Sláinte. 

Now excuse me while I prepare to quit my job.

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