I got asked one of my favorite music-related questions this week at work, one we’ve debated many times over beers at the bar (back when that was a thing) — if you could see one band (or artist) back in their prime, who would it be? When we’ve discussed this in years past, folks will name some obvious ones (Elvis, the Beatles) and some slightly less obvious (Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Sly and the Family Stone). The answer I gave this week is the one I usually give, I’ve got to break it down by decade to even begin to answer — for the 60s I went with the Beatles, the Doors, and CCR, for the 70s I did Zeppelin, for the 80s I did the Smiths and the Clash.
I’m sure there’s more I’m forgetting, but those are the ones that jump to mind as bands I’d love to have seen, ones I still listen to incessantly all these years later (and have for decades now). That got me thinking about what makes those bands so special and why do they immediately spring to mind, even though they were all gone by the time I started really getting into music? And how/why do l consider them my own even though they were coming from (and speaking to) a generation or two before me?
The best I can come up with is the magical, universal quality of music — you don’t have to understand the words of a song to connect with the melody or know what the singer’s saying to sing along. The lyrics can be in different languages or made-up gibberish and you can love them just the same. The best music transcends all of that and lets you in anyway, tapping into something deeper, something that spans generation and geography. The best music transports you somewhere else — to another time, to another country, or maybe deeper within yourself to probe your thoughts and emotions.
Each of those bands does that in some way — the Beatles back to my childhood, CCR to the swamp — but more modern bands can have the same effect. The Pogues are textbook ambassadors for the middle category, immediately whisking you away to the Emerald Isle — whether the countryside or a boisterous, sweaty pub depends on the song — but when you listen to the band you are no longer in your room, car, or crazed house of murder in Baltimore, you are somewhere in Ireland. For that reason I’ve always tended to listen to them around that most Irish of times, St Patty’s Day, when I need that mental airlift to the bright green hills of stashed gold and Guinness over yonder.
In the crowded pantheon of great Irish bands/singers, these guys have always held a special place in my heart — bands like The Dubliners and the Irish Rovers are great for the older, more traditional fare, Van Morrison, U2, and the Cranberries are rightful giants but don’t evoke that Irish sense with their sound, and folks like Flogging Molly are excellent extensions of what the Pogues used to do. If I had to pick just one, though, I’m picking the Pogues.
There’s just something about this band that’s irresistible — the energy, the unabashed Irishness, the gleeful abandon and sense of humor right next to the cry-in-your-empty-pint emotion after a night kicking them back at the bar. They’re the quintessential Irish band, which is why they’re always the first thing I put once March comes a-calling.
Some (maybe all?) of it centers on frontman Shane MacGowan, whose lyrics and delivery are incomparable, grabbing your attention and holding it raptly until he’s good and well finished. There’s still no one that sounds like him all these years later. (Gogol frontman Eugene Hutz might be the closest that comes to mind, capturing the gleeful punk hutzpah and charm, but Gogol’s songs lack the poetry and heart that are essential elements of MacGowan’s work — which is not a knock on Gogol, who I love, but more a credit to what the Pogues and MacGowan accomplished with their music.) It just sounds sincere and not a contrived (or indifferent) fiction like so many other bands.
MacGowan always sounded like he was half in the bag while singing these songs — you can clearly picture him in that hot, crowded pub, standing on the bar and belting out these tunes while the rest of us sing along, hugging the shoulders of our neighbors with our pints hoisted in the air. Unfortunately, it seems he actually was — whether recording, performing, or most times in between, according to the documentary Crock of Gold: A Few Rounds with Shane MacGowan.
The film does a nice job telling the history of both MacGowan’s life and the band itself, going from a kid on a farm with no amenities to the rock and roll life of indulgence he ultimately enjoyed once the Pogues became stars. It’s an interesting story — IRA relatives, the quest to “save” Irish music, and the one-of-a-kind MacGowan himself, part charmer, part joker — but it’s also a heartbreaking one. The toll of the aforementioned excess — the drink, to an extent, but primarily the drugs (namely heroin) that came later — has had a devastating impact as you see in the documentary.
It’s a gut-wrenching watch at times — I found myself getting mad at the filmmakers in those moments for showing MacGowan in such unflattering states: nodding off mid-conversation after reaching for his beer or wine, sitting there hunched over with crud on his cheek (whether saliva or snot). You wanted to shout at them “hey cmon, take it easy on the guy!” but then you realize the outrage and empathy are part of the point, as is the cautionary lesson that’s causing those emotions.
MacGowan (and the band) may be textbook examples of Ireland and its music, but he’s also one of the most searing reminders of the dangers of overindulgence and the terrible toll it can take. I’d always known he had struggled with drugs and that ultimately led to the breakup of the band (he carried on making similar music with the Popes for a few years after that, but largely disappeared by the late 90s), but never knew how devastating an impact they had had. It’s honestly tough to listen to the music the same way afterwards, knowing what happens as a result, which is unfortunate — they’re a great band and MacGowan wrote some fantastic songs over the course of his career.
One of my perennial faves is this one from their great second album, Rum Sodomy & the Lash. You could almost pick at random and find a winner — “The Old Main Drag,” “A Pair of Brown Eyes,” “Sally MacLennane,” “Navigator,” “A Rainy Night in Soho,” but my favorite has always been this one, “Dirty Old Town.” You need look no further than the song’s opening stanza to see what I was saying about MacGowan’s transportive powers — “I met my love by the gasworks walls, dreamed a dream by the old canal, I kissed my girl by the factory walls, dirty old town, dirty old town…”Those images jump to mind clear as day and the song’s just getting started — great stuff. Give it a listen (and the rest of the band’s stuff once you’re done!):
We’ll close with a couple quick hits caught in passing — first the latest single from British band Jungle, the winning disco track “Keep Moving.” No word on a new album yet, but hopefully this is a sign of more to come:
Next is my current fave off the new DFA album, Is 4 Lovers. The album itself is a bit disappointing so far (it starts out OK enough but then definitely loses me by the end), but this one’s a vintage winner. Love the riff — check out “Free Animal” here:
We’ll close with the latest from Aesop Rock, who decided to write a song about a long-legged frog named Larry (which he released on National Frog Day, to boot). Logically it may seem out of left field, but it’s a pretty fun little song (and an instant theme song for anyone bearing the titular name). Sing along with the crowd — “Go Larry! Go Larry! Go! Go! Go Larry!”
Until next time — stay safe, sane, and separate…
-BS