The Pogues: A Band For Life, Not Just For Christmas

 

It happens, of course, at this time every year: people start talking about The Pogues.

Around December 1st it’s back again; that measured lament of a piano riff. That grawling, inimitable vocal. That smoky, black and white video. That greatest festive song of all time. “It was Christmas Eve babe…”

People fall in love all over again with ‘Fairytale Of New York‘, with its wonderful lack of sentiment, with Shane MacGowan, as he so often did, finding heart in scumbags and maggots. With Kirsty MacColl, her presence and personality keeping up with a force of nature sat at the piano, providing a duet which will enchant generations to come.

There’s often the odd documentary too. This year it’s been about a new set of teeth. A very unique milestone for a very unique person, and a very pertinent reminder that perhaps no other British band, or certainly individual, is as entrenched in the public consciousness and affections thanks largely to one timeless, classic song.

If only they’d look further. Look to The Pogues‘ third album on which ‘Fairytale Of New York’ sits. If they did, they’d discover a band settled on its identity.

1988’s ‘If I Should Fall From Grace With God‘ is their finest work. A glorious amalgamation of the Irish folk, punk and vintage rock songwriting which had informed the band at varying levels since their formation out of The Nips six years earlier.

It weaves from the old rollicking power of ‘Bottle Of Smoke‘, ‘Fiesta‘ and the title-track to MacGowan’s rough-round-the-edges poetic beauty on ‘Lullaby Of London‘, ‘Sit Down By The Fire‘ or ‘The Broad Majestic Shannon‘, and to the dyed in the wool tradition of the ‘Recruiting Sergeant‘ medley and (in bonus form) ‘South Australia‘. They’d find cutting, even controversial, social comment on ‘Streets Of Sorrow/Birmingham Six‘.

They’d also find the unheralded talent behind MacGowan. From the sadly departed Phil Chevron an age old tale of the sacrifices found in striving for a better life on ‘Thousands Are Sailing‘, from Jem Finer countless crucial, serene artistic contributions both here and to an enviable canon. Out on his own, they’d find one of the band’s greatest songs in ‘Misty Morning, Albert Bridge‘ from 1989’s ‘Peace and Love‘.

If they looked back another three years they’d find ‘Rum, Sodomy & The Lash‘, perhaps be reminded of the cover version of a post war ode to Salford which is now all their own. A signature. They’d find another sublime studio album, with Irish ancestry to a greater extent than on what would follow, and more of those irrepressible drinking, rabble rousing anthems courtesy of ‘The Sick Bed of Cúchulainn‘ and ‘Sally MacLennane‘. In between it all the ‘Poguetry In Motion‘ EP, MacGowan tugging at heartstrings on ‘A Rainy Night In Soho‘ and ripping yarns from a hedonistic family mourning on ‘The Body Of An American‘.

In 1984, they’d find one of the great debut records. ‘Red Roses For Me‘ vibrates with MacGowan’s teenage influence, the embodiment of the once ever present capital punk rocker who tabloids claimed (incorrectly it goes without saying) was the target of gig-going cannibalism.

‘Transmetropolitan‘ begins the Pogues story by telling one of rampaging around London, of marvelling at the ‘beauty that’s Mill Lane’, ‘Brixton’s lovely boulevards’ and ‘Hammersmith’s sightly shores’ but how the carefree abandon of youth encourages them to nevertheless ‘kick up bloody murder in the town we love so well’.

It’s MacGowan’s most heartfelt letter to the traditional music he so adored. To ‘Waxie’s Dargle‘ is added a 100mph sex pistol and one of the first examples of Spider Stacy‘s tin whistle tickling; the unassuming yet quintessential instrument which would go on to underpin the Pogues’ sound. There’s welcome drunken debauchery on ‘Streams Of Whiskey‘ – our hero ‘walking in on his feet but leaving on his back’ – while ‘Dark Streets of London‘ and the take on ‘Kitty‘ are together an early display of the intangible genius of Shane MacGowan – how that voice can drip romance in an entirely authentic way on any seemingly dark, desperate situation, and how his lyrics can regale stories and paint pictures of a life less ordinary led by the most captivating of pub raconteurs whom we’d all love to share a bar with.

Going forward they’d find new influences elbowing their way in on the aforementioned ‘Peace and Love’. A focus that has almost completed its journey across the Irish Sea and which now settles, in places, quietly at the back of London jazz clubs, while on ‘Hell’s Ditch‘ it’s on even further to Asia, to other parts of Europe and going now for Spanish mythology, telling of the body of Spanish poet Federico García Lorca walking away after his murder by Franco supporters during civil war struggles.

Ultimately, in this collection of work they’d find something that goes way beyond a festive hit. They’d experience the adventure, through a comprehensive body of work, of a young band kicking and screaming their way through centuries-old folk and seventies old punk and arriving eventually at songwriting in the grandest honour, soaking up world music from way beyond the proud land of their fathers.

‘Fairytale Of New York’ is undoubtedly on its own a fitting legacy for The Pogues. Fitting because it brought them a hit pretty much by accident. Because it did so by not compromising on where and who they were. There is no novelty about the song; it’s as much theirs and as much a classic in August as it is in December.

The elements which make the hit are all their own too, elements which long before ‘Fairytale Of New York’ had made them one of the great bands, and which culminate in a song no other could have written. Think of the romance and bittersweet celebration of their frontman. Think of the gaelic chimes conducted by James Fearnley, Andrew Ranken, Darryl Hunt and Terry Woods. And yes, think of the tin whistle.

And yet, despite this, it still only scratches at the surface of what they have to offer. All those currently under its hypnotic spell, lifting the single back into the charts once again, should use their gift vouchers wisely on Boxing Day. In doing so, they’d find all this and so much more.

They’d find The Pogues are a band for life, not just for Christmas.

(Dave Smith)