Far from a fairytale

This latest volume on the Pogues rightly focuses on the band as a whole, not just on Shane MacGowan. An exhaustive and exhausting tome, it is engrossing, but definitely one for the converted. By Michael McCaughan
When the wild, raucous Pogue Mahone first appeared on the music scene in the early 1980s I wanted to grab a pair of spoons and join these rebels for what seemed like one long, fun-filled fiesta. Spider Stacy started out playing the beer tray so the idea did not seem too far fetched. The London-Irish sextet had it all: scruffy Oxfam suits, Irish music with a punk attitude, shambolic live shows and the poetry of the doomed exile.

The group wielded accordion, banjo, guitars and drums, standing in a line that hinted at a spaghetti western gearing up for the final showdown. While detractors criticised them for degrading Irish music, it soon became apparent that they had a deep respect for the tradition and once they mastered their instruments they put the jizz back into diddley-aye. The addition of Terry Woods and Philip Chevron, accomplished players and writers, cemented a powerful unit that seemed unstoppable.

However, by the time I had finished reading this brick-size biography I was damn glad I'd kept away from this unhappy bunch, this dysfunctional family held together by economic necessity and the vain hope that Shane MacGowan might snap out of his alcoholic haze and become a responsible lead vocalist.

The rest of the group looked on helplessly as MacGowan reached death's door only to find Sinead O'Connor in priest garb blocking the entrance. She turned him in and may have saved his life.

It wasn't always like this. Shane MacGowan was a regular on the gig circuit in London, coming of age in a golden era of Clash and Sex Pistols gigs, hanging out at the legendary Rock On record shop in the old Soho Market. MacGowan stood out back then, a homemade punk sporting a crucifix and a black beret, a nod to his Irish roots.

He was a regular fixture in the music press long before he took to the public stage, a reincarnation of Brendan Behan in search of a medium. Shane also had a habit of getting beaten up as paddy bashers and punk bashers alike beat him black and blue on many occasions. Shane was 'razor sharp' recalled one friend. 'He had a brain that worked so much faster than most.' And when he applied it to song-writing, the results were magical.

Carol Clerk, a veteran music journalist and biographer of Hawkwind, Madonna and Ozzy Osbourne, effortlessly assembles the many parts of the Pogues' history and digs deep to get beyond the known unknowns. Despite my own feverish attempts to follow the twists and turns of the band's career over the last two decades this book reveals one scandal after another. At times, though, it seems like we get a little too much information, like an extended Alcoholics' Anonymous meeting where a statement is made by one member of the group after which everyone else gets to add their tuppenceworth to the gathering.

The band was composed of multi-talented individuals but MacGowan has always been the character who made everything happen. The awful post-Shane albums, Waiting for Herb (1993) and Pogue Mahone (1996) bare miserable witness to that reality.

The first two albums, Red Roses for Me (1984) and Rum, Sodomy and the Lash (1985) delivered a new sound which featured punked up traditional instruments lathered in MacGowan's drink-fuelled melancholy. The band enjoyed a reasonable level of success but their status as a live phenomenon trapped them in endless, tiring tours which in turn led straight to drugs and addiction.

By album three, If I should fall from Grace with God (1988), the Pogue alchemy turned to gold as a luxury tracklist produced gems like 'Bottle of Smoke', 'Fairytale of New York', 'Thousands are Sailing' and 'Streets of Sorrow / Birmingham Six'. The band were on top of their form and the future seemed bright. The Christmas anthem stormed its way to the top of the charts and Broadway really was waiting for them.

The Pogues looked like a band on the verge of a global breakthrough as Bob Dylan and U2 ushered them onto the stadium circuit to open their tours. It was a catch-22 bind, however, as the stadium setup sucked them dry and robbed them of the intimacy which made their live shows so special. MacGowan was miserable and had to be cajoled or bullied onto the stage until he found a more effective strategy and simply failed to get on the plane. Everyone wanted a slice of Shane, who found it increasingly difficult to reconcile his troubled, introspective character with the joker expected to preside over every drunken party.

The strength of this book is that the Pogues, in middle age, look back in honesty rather than in anger at the opportunities missed. It is a healing book in which past crimes are forgiven if not forgotten. The Pogues were cruel as families are cruel, ganging up on weaker members or picking on the odd-one-out. Cub member Darryl Hunt, who graduated from roadie to bass player, felt the sting of abuse while Elvis Costello, hitching a ride onto the Pogues' wagon, soon suffered the schoolboy shaming tactics.

This book in some strange way mirrors the rise and fall of the Pogues, getting off to a cracking start before maturing into a well researched beast only to fizzle out before the end, losing its spark as the joy unexpectedly departs the page. Maybe I was hoping the end might be different this time around.

Shane MacGowan has already bared his soul in a previous offering, A Drink with Shane MacGowan, an amusing fireside chat with his former partner Victoria Clarke. In this book Clerk wisely focuses on the other band members. The result is an exhaustive and exhausting book which could have done with a savage edit and which will appeal principally to the converted.

The Pogues' sound, described here as 'Celtic psycho', prompted a wave of substandard imitators like Black 47, the Dropkick Murphies and the Flogging Mollies. The Pogues were one of a kind and their likes will not be seen again.