The Pogues, Academy, Manchester
Rolling back the tears
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Your support makes all the difference.No one thought this would happen again. When Shane MacGowan split from The Pogues in 1991, because of growing drunken unreliability, the idea that he'd even be alive to sing with them 10 years on would have been doubted by many. His great songs often touched on lives spent in the boozer's warm bosom, or the gutters and drunk-tanks outside. They described, too, old men counting the costs and rewards of such a life, with a young man's sympathetic curiosity, a lyrical singing voice and romantic melodic swirls. But as MacGowan's drinking after The Pogues appeared to devour him, those old Irishmen dying in pub corners seemed like premonitions of his own fate. Yet now, suddenly, for just one week, he's trying again.
There's a mood of anticipation and celebration in this small, packed venue on the first night; a sense of happy community among strangers which The Pogues' embattled, uncynical spirit always allowed. When the band strike up, men and women aged 20 to 50 are soon swinging each other around in mad dances, cackling and roaring. And the focus of everything they feel is MacGowan, tonight not the subject of a wake, but a rebirth.
He looks as healthy as he possibly could. He's put on weight, his stomach sticks out like his cockerel's quiff, a profile of middle-aged satisfaction. Fears of the state he'd be in when he took the stage prove groundless. The reason lies in the songs he announces in a gravelly mumble, a list to make anyone rediscover their pride. Though he sometimes lets his lyrics tumble out in a rush, he enunciates when it counts. By "A Pair of Brown Eyes" people are crying, as am I, for reasons which must have something to do with the humane beauty in this music, unheard too long.
When the crowd start singing "Dirty Old Town" for MacGowan, he half-crosses the air in a blessing, not knowing what to say. But it's "Fairytale of New York" which is most magical. It's about dreams and love wrecked by stupidity and drink, but never let go, made more poignant by the recent death of its co-singer, Kirsty McColl. "I could have been someone," MacGowan complains. "Well, so could anyone," comes the reply, and the crowd roar along the loudest to this accepting wisdom, summing up the spirit of a deeply moving and welcome return.
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