Wednesday, October 18, 2006
The Pogues: Ragged glory
Review: The esteemed but still punkish band make a hearty return after 13 years away.
By BEN WENER
The Orange County Register
Lest it still be uncleaar nearly a quarter-century since they began, let's restate their importance: The Pogues are the Beatles – or at least the Clash – of neo-traditional Irish music.
Their arrival on the British scene – catapulted to international notice via their first two albums, 1984's startling "Red Roses for Me" and 1985's brilliant "Rum, Sodomy and the Lash" – represents the great turning point. They wrenched Irish music away from decades of polite antiquity and pushed it toward a raffish, reeling fusion of that well-preserved past and a punkish present.
Everything that came before them, from the Clancy Brothers to the Chieftains to a score more who considered the Pogues' approach an ugly bastardization, seems musty compared with the passionate radicalization the band and its perpetually drunken poet laureate Shane MacGowan set forth. Everything that came after them, from peers like Sinead O'Connor and the Waterboys and partners like the late Kirsty MacColl to Americanized offshoots like Black 47, the Young Dubliners, Flogging Molly and the Fenians, all owe the Pogues an enormous debt.
At this point they're virtually mythologized, revered by purists and punks alike. So you can imagine why in Southern California, where for decades similar offshoots have darted up and disappeared faster than pints of Guinness at Muldoon's, the return of the real Pogues – replete with toothless, shambling MacGowan – is trumpeted with the sort of fanfare that might have greeted St. Patrick himself.
It's been 13 years since the originals have toured stateside, though there are two bits of fact-fudging in that statement. For starters, it isn't exactlythe original lineup; it's the one from 1987's "If I Should Fall From Grace With God."
Bassist Cait O'Riordan remains retired, still replaced by Darryl Hunt, who joined at roughly the same time guitarist Philip Chevron and multi-instrumentalist Terry Woods (late of Steeleye Span) did. MacGowan, who split in 1994 and formed the short-lived and nowhere near as accomplished Popes instead, now garbles his profound tales of death and glory alongside longtime mates Spider Stacy (tin whistle), James Fearnley (accordion), Jem Finer (banjo) and Andrew Ranken (drums).
For another thing, it's not much of a tour. Before Tuesday night's stop at a sadly not-full Grove of Anaheim, the band had played San Francisco and Las Vegas; after it, there's only a three-night stand at the Wiltern LG (continuing tonight and concluding Friday) before they head back to Britain, where they have embarked on reunion jaunts since 2001.
Of course, that makes these appearances – and this O.C. stop in particular – rare sights to be treasured. Which compels me to give the Pogues a pass, not taint memories.
The unavoidable reality is that there may never be another opportunity like this, and there probably shouldn't be. True, the band plays almost as potently as ever. The breathtaking, heart-racing pace of yore has been slowed by age (most of these guys are pushing 50 or past it), but their chops are resolutely sharp. And the infectious fun and melancholy of their songs – from wild reels like "Sally MacLennane" and "The Sickbed of Cuchulainn" and genre-blending bits like "Fiesta" and "Turkish Song of the Damned" to ballads like "Dirty Old Town" and "Rainy Night in Soho" – still resonate deeply.
But permanently pickled, chain-smoking MacGowan always looked as though someone just woke him. As a guy behind me muttered to his friend, "It's just sad." Amazingly, he was more decipherable here than when I saw him a decade ago with the Popes. But that doesn’t mean he suddenly achieved the relative clarity of those five Pogues albums (all of which have recently been reissued by Rhino Records).
Here and there I could make out a few lines of what he sang, but unless Stacy or Chevron – or more boisterous members of the crowd – chimed in, the lyrics were gibberish: "Flam flahrrr arrrgh und flarrrm!"
The Yuletide duet "Fairytale of New York," with (I think) Finer's daughter filling in for MacColl, was a delight, fake snow falling from the rafters as it faded away. MacGowan, who dawdled offstage for four numbers, mustered enough lucidity to make "A Pair of Brown Eyes" and "Boys From the County Hell" higlights. The rest tended to blur together.
And so what if it did? For many, MacGowan could have passed out after two tunes and this still would have been an occasion to celebrate at $60 a pop. I pity anyone dragged to this unknowingly; it must have been baffling. Surely they won't understand why for those who routinely hoisted pints in tribute this was a dream come true.
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bwener@ocregister.com
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(Not a fan really, but I know a couple of songs)
