A few minutes before the Pogues took to the Roseland Ballroom stage, an old colleague from Columbus told me he heard a rumor that Shane MacGowan stopped drinking.
MacGowan staggered out behind the band members, clutching the wine bottle and squelching all those rumors.
Rumors that he finally excised those rotten stumps from his mouth in exchange for dentures also proved false. Staring too long at his toothless grin was the Irish equivalent of staring into the Ark of the Covenant.
Despite sound marble-mouthed on a number of recent live recordings, MacGowan snapped into form on every song he led. Between them, he slurred and staggered, heading offstage every two or three songs to let tin whistler Spider Stacey take the mic on Tuesday Morning and a handful of others.
Now, the Pogues called for a little moshing - not on the level of speed metal or hardcore punk, but a little shoving and dancing. It started with the first notes of Streams of Whiskey and resumed whenever the songs hit a certain speed.
But the 300-pound guy and his cohorts in front of us didn’t comprehend that getting piss-drunk and relying on your fellow concertgoers to keep you off the floor wasn’t kosher. For half the concert, we couldn’t escape these nimrods. One lost his glasses when a final round of moshing started to draw punches in addition to the shoves. I felt a bit of gleeat seeing him walk away without them. When growing old or soft, I couldn’t imagine being such a drunk ass that I’d lose my glasses.
I myself had burned off any alcohol by The Broad Majestic Shannon, and it allowed me to enjoy the beautiful ballad for its simplicity and sheer Irishness. No American band could conjure a song about meeting a lover for a stroll along the river.
While only MacGowan still drinks, one of the other Pogues had an equally frightening appearance. Recovering from throat cancer, Philip Chevron was tiny and shrunken, looking every bit the tiny old Irish man. His speed-of-light strumming and silver suit revealed a man unwilling to let an illness win.
His one vocal turn marked the evening’s high point; when he led Thousands Are Sailing, I barely avoided tears. The great tune about Irish impact on America grows in stature with Chevron's pristine Irish voice guiding it.
Body of an American was the emotional runner-up. MacGowan owes this tale,which mourns the loss of Big Jim Dwyer, drinks to his memory and bids adieu to someone beloved in just three verses.
They broke into plenty of rockers – the unmistakable Turkish Song of the Damned, the pub rock of Bottle of Smoke, and the best song about how death cannot defeat the Irish drinking spirit (at least that's what I get out of Sick Bed of Culchulainn). Slower numbers like Lullaby of London, Pair of Brown Eyes and Dirty Old Town gave the set room to breathe. Moreover, they demonstrated MacGowan's throat still has a little magic left despite all the abuse it's received.
The encore effectively bridged the emotional and rollicking sides . Blasting away with Sally MacLennane, they slowed the pace for the surprisingly pretty Rainy Night In Soho, then gunning the engine again on The Irish Rover.
What would have been a satisfying finish was a teaser for one last salvo.
The second encore roared to life with Poor Paddy on the Railway, which always reminds me of my grandfather and great-grandfather, lifelong rail workers.
The lads wrapped up with Fiesta, its smooth horns taking the lads south of the border. For some unnecessary percussion, Stacey smashed a tin tray against his head, MacGowan followed suit, mangling the gray tray against his noggin. As they took a final bow, MacGowan tossed his tray into the crowd, unleashing a frenzy for the souvenir.
Still awed, our little group gradually formed up, ready to resume our pint-emptying exercises, except for RH, who was unaccounted for.
Suddenly RH strode up to us, bleeding from a cut on his cheek - and MacGowan's tray in his bloodied hand. “Shove this under your coat. We gotta get out of here,” RH told MB.
We were gone, the tray will soon be mounted on a plaque at MB's house, and not a note will go forgotten.
Who knew sobriety and the Pogues would work so well?
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