For a man in such obvious thrall to Brendan Behan, Shane really has let things slip recently. Behan had been long cold in the grave by the time he was this age and despite all his best efforts Shane still can't quite acknowledge the sobering toll of that final bell for last, last orders.
Dotage was surely never a consideration back in those wild roistering days when The Pogues cut such a drunken swathe through a music biz grown fat and well-groomed after Live Aid's circle jerk. As MacGowan lurches into middle-age though, that free bus-pass is looking more and more likely.
More Keith Richards then than Brian Jones, more of a Burroughs than a Kerouac, Shane seems
destined to go on forever and ever and ever. Or maybe not. There's nothing like a drunk for proving you wrong and as drunks go MacGowan's in a class of his own. Other than those sherry-sodden scarecrows that hang around in the bus-shelter and shout at buses of course but then they aren't likely to sell out the Astoria and have a couple of thousand fans cheer their every
slur and stumble.
Now Gary Glitter can't show his face in public without first donning a balaclava it's fallen upon Shane's sloped shoulders to uphold this whole once-a-year festive show thing. What we get is a chaotic rush through old standards like 'Sally MacLennane' which we at least recognise and countless other more recent calamities that all seem to be called things like 'Paddy Be Good' or 'Long Tall Paddy'. Like a flatulent Chuck Berry after a three-day Courvousier binge and with a particularly shrill tin whistle freshly shoved right up his a**, well it might just pass for rock 'n' roll but it sure ain't pretty.
'Fairy Tale of New York' remains a thing of rare melancholic beauty of course, lyrics worthy of Frank O'Connor set to an otherworldly waltz that tugs at the heart like the pull of a warm pub. If he had never written a single other song it would still have established him up there with the best. Not that Shane sees his peers as being any other than the like of Patrick Kavanagh or John Fante though. Like his good mate Nick Cave he doesn't really keep abreast with the current cut and thrust of chartland. Strange then that he's rumoured to be writing material for St Ronan's next album.
People turn up to watch Shane be the p***ed Paddy and to be fair to him he does it well. He's one of us, the heroic drunk, the dishevelled poet railing in the dark against his own devils and demons. B*****ks he is. He's a sick fool, hell-bent on spewing his undoubted genius into the gutter like so many before him. The crowd demands his drunkenness like they once demanded the smacked-out solipsistic stupor of Johnny Thunders until he finally keeled over.
As he bumbles about on stage like the unwanted lush at your cousin's wedding there's one song that springs to mind. It's by The Kinks and the chorus goes "let's all drink to the death of a clown". Do you know it, Shane??
IMAGES: WINNIE CHANG
