During the past week, as the temperature dropped following Shane MacGowan’s death, certain lyrics from the Pogues’ debut single, “Dark Streets of London,” continued to resound in my mind.
, I’ll keep on running until I find my thrill.”
As the winter descends, I cannot bear the cold. I will continue to run until I discover my excitement.
During the holiday season, the streets are bustling with activity.
I am exhausted and broke.
To roam the dimly lit streets of London.
In 1984, the song was published and takes place in Hammersmith. It was the first indication of MacGowan’s unique ability to portray broken individuals in a heartless city. The pubs and bookies serve as a source of comfort and a small chance for a better future, which Seamus Heaney referred to as “the temptation of cozy, illuminated places”. The song, along with many others that came after it, was most likely based on personal experiences.
I first met Shane and his group of Pogues not long after, and his usual hangout spot was King’s Cross, where he resided, as well as the well-lit streets of Camden Town. In those days, when the bars closed, we would often go for after-hours drinks at the nearby Greek restaurants and tapas bars, which Shane was very familiar with. I had initially crossed paths with him in the mid 1970s when he worked at the Rock On record stall in Soho Market, located behind Leicester Square tube station. He wasn’t the most skilled salesman, as I would sometimes arrive to find the stall unattended while Shane took a break for a sandwich or drink. However, the soul, blues, and garage-rock records he convinced me to purchase were always hidden gems.
A few years later, to my amazement, I ran into him once again while waiting in line for the restroom at a concert in London featuring the Cramps and the Fall. He had become somewhat famous as Shane O’Hooligan, a prominent figure in the punk scene of 1977. To my surprise, he informed me that he was about to perform with his band, the Nips, who were last in the lineup. Their performance was short and chaotic, but there was something captivating about it.
However, I was not prepared for what I saw next – him leading the Pogues, then known as Pogue Mahone, onto the stage at a dive bar in Brixton on a cold winter night in 1983. Other than their impressive female bass player, Cait O’Riordan, they seemed to come from a different era – an older Ireland depicted in worn family photos of my stern and serious father and uncles in dark suits and white shirts. Their performance began with The Auld Triangle, a slow and longing song that I had heard many times at family gatherings during my childhood. My father was a fan of the Dubliners, the band who popularized the song, and their rebellious spirit clearly influenced the Pogues’ music and attitude. As they transitioned into a more energetic and rowdy instrumental section, featuring banjo, accordion, and punk drums, I was captivated. Looking back, I now realize it was their boldness that left me speechless.
It has been recognized that the Pogues were a band from London with Irish roots, rather than solely Irish. This distinction is important, not only because of their punk-influenced sound, but also because of MacGowan’s songwriting style. His lyrics range from gritty depictions of urban life in songs like “The Old Main Drag” to tender expressions of longing for home in “The Broad Majestic Shannon.” As I got to know Shane better, it became clear that he, much like his music, was a unique individual characterized by a combination of self-destructive tendencies and deep sensitivity. He lived in the present moment and was closely tied to altered states of consciousness, whether through alcohol, drugs, or hallucinogens.
In 1988, I conducted an interview with Shane in an Atlanta, Georgia motel room. This took place on the final night of our week-long journey through the American south with the band. It was a Sunday evening and Shane, who typically disliked interviews, was surprisingly sober and contemplative. When I inquired about the blend of gentleness and harsh reality in his music, he responded, “People don’t grasp the effort it takes to create a genuine and truthful song.” Despite my attempts to prompt further explanation, he refused to elaborate.
Shane MacGowan was known for his pure and sincere songwriting, which many felt was not long enough. Last week, I had a conversation with Nick Cave, a friend and fellow songwriter, at a public event in London’s St Martin-in-the-Fields. We took a moment to pay tribute to Shane, who had passed away that morning. Nick spoke openly about Shane’s “pure spirit” and how he was envious of his ability to capture the essence of life in his songs. He also praised Shane’s empathy for the outcasts and marginalized individuals who were often the subjects of his music. Nick held Shane in high regard as the “songwriter of his generation.”
While it may not be the appropriate moment to delve into it extensively, it would be negligent to not recognize that Shane’s lifestyle of persistent extravagance – and the occasional darkness that followed, at great expense to both himself and those under his influence – ultimately diminished his exceptional skill. “You may call it chaos,” he reprimanded me when I inquired about his rapidly deteriorating state. “But I see it as living naturally.” Unfortunately, for quite some time, it was anything but natural.
As I listen once more to the amazing songs of Shane MacGowan, I am struck by how in tune they are with the natural flow and patterns of spoken language, drawing inspiration from things heard or remembered. In The Body of an American, the passing “tinker boys” give a quick piece of advice to the stranded “Yanks” with their stalled Cadillac – “hot-wire her with a pin”. The dreamer in Fairy Tale of New York, locked up in a drunk tank, reminisces about his “lucky” win at the races with 18 to 1 odds. MacGowan’s finest lyrics exude the weight of personal experiences, revealing an authenticity that speaks to the heart of things. Somewhere within the raw honesty and wounded romanticism lies true purity.
“I have faith in the inherent worth of the human spirit,” he shared with me when questioned about his beliefs. “Those who can endure immense challenges without succumbing to despair and continue to find joy in life.”
I didn’t have frequent encounters with Shane in the past few decades, but his death, although I wasn’t completely surprised, has affected me deeply. It feels like the conclusion of something, though I can’t quite determine what. Maybe because, like others who knew him, I can’t fathom ever encountering someone as naturally talented – or as eccentric and humorously crude – as him again.
I recently came across a book with illustrations of his songs called Poguetry. I had written the introduction for this book in 1989. On one of the pages, above his messy signature, there is a handwritten message that says, “Run like crazy!” I am unsure of the context, but it still feels like wise words from someone who understood.
Source: theguardian.com
