#i'll light a digital candle for ya shane. rest easy.

[tuesdaynightmusicclub]

Today is the first anniversary of the passing of Shane Patrick Lysaght MacGowan. His is only one name in the incredible tradition of Irish song, but brightly does it shine among that long, long list.

His body of work is not enormous, his songs being peppered across 5 albums with the legendary Pogues and 2 with his subsequent band, The Popes. Even then, his original compositions lie nestled with renditions of trad classics and band member contributions: his actual musical bibliography is not large at all.

And yet, he is acknowledged by most as one of the finest poets and musicians this island ever produced.

More than perhaps any Irish and Irish-descended band or artist (and 80s music in the UK had p-l-e-n-t-y), Shane MacGowan and his bandmates were the voice of the Irish diaspora. Many of their songs are about Ireland, and living in it, or leaving it, or coming back to it. Formed mainly by the children of Irish immigrants to Britain, the members of the Pogues, guided by Shane's astonishing musicality, built a strong early following in Ireland as well as among the London Irish: people who left Ireland to find life and work, or whose parents and grandparents did. This would build abroad as they toured the world, finding homes in the hearts of anyone forced to leave Ireland for a chance of better things. Of course, they also found many fans in people who just liked great music, which the Pogues' discography overflows with.

Their musicianship displayed on record and on stage is frankly amazing, mixing technical skill with imagination for a richly flavoured sound. Their bread and butter was a sensational mix of traditional Irish folk and rude punk energy, appalling the auld fellas of the folk establishment like Tommy Makem and Ewan MacColl (side note, it will never not be funny to me that MacColl's daughter Kirsty would duet with Shane on the band's biggest hit lmao). They did branch out at times, drawing inspiration from the musics of Spain, Turkey, Germany and Tin Pan Alley, best shown on their best album If I Should Fall From Grace With God. They also used an impressive array of instrumentation in their work, complimenting the usual accordions, banjos and tin whistles with balalaikas, saxophone and flamenco guitars. As much as Shane gets the focus, the greatness of The Pogues is a band effort. The likes of Spider Stacy, Jem Finer, Philip Chevron, Cait O'Ríordan and plenty others helped steer this ship when Shane was drunk at the wheel, and indelibly shaped the music that made them famous. To the open-eared, the results are undeniable.

The lyrics though remained more or less MacGowan's domain. Influenced by literature from a young age, his songs allude to the verse not just of Ireland, but all over: you'll not hear many bands quote Federico García Lorca and reference Irish mythology in the same show. By the band's second album (my personal fave, Rum, Sodomy and the Lash, which today's entry is from), he cultivated a talent for evocative scene setting, poignant observation and intertextual imagery, often all in the same song, with a few slurred but carefully crafted lines. A true romantic in all meanings of the word, Shane's best songs captivate with their bittersweet details and rousing tunes. You can comfortably cry during the verse and sing your heart out during the chorus with zero tonal disparity.

Speaking of, 'The Sick Bed of Cúchulainn' is not among their well known hits, but does show off what Shane and co. did so well. Lurching forth with queasy strumming before launching into roar-along choruses, they paint a sloppy and luminous portrait of an Irishman who fights and drinks across Europe, attempting penance back home before doing it all again. This seems on the surface funny and colourful for its own sake, but a careful listen reveals the depths MacGowan put into his work (both are typical of the finest Irish trad songs: catchy enough to sing and dance to, yet having hidden depths for the sober hours). The narrating character, compromised by drink though he may be, is likely one of the international volunteers who joined their Spanish comrades in the valiant effort against Franco's fascists in the latter 1930s (the Frank Ryan mentioned being a leader of this faction). Our narrator could be one of many who turned to decadence to cope with loss from war, memories of home haunting his delirium in references to Irish tenors and Christian abbeys in the old country, thrashing out the grief and aimlessness, finding uneasy solace in tankards and pint glasses as many Irish have. The pictures Shane MacGowan paints with a few lines and chords could hang beside the likes of Caravaggio or Repin or Séan Keating in a gallery if they were on canvas. The words he selects to evoke those memories belong in books beside any lauded poet: Heaney, Boland, Joyce and Shane are fingers on the same ink-marked hand to me. Even the title is a witty reference: the legendary warrior Cúchulainn died on his feet, tied to a rock with sword in hand, repelling his enemies as the light behind his head faded. Our protagonist rotting in bed desperate for drink is a bleakly humourous inversion. Honestly, for all my literary talk, The Pogues can just make you laugh as well. Or retch for that matter. The group's name does come from 'póg mo thóin', literally 'kiss my arse' in Gaeilge. Gotta stay punk after all.

Irish culture is rife with artists gone too soon, especially in its music. Shane held on longer than many anticipated, thankfully, but the gawky young man who screeched up a storm on wax and stage faded quickly. It's difficult not to feel somber, remembering the toll his living had on him. It's also difficult not to feel enraged by begrudgers who held his habits against him, quick to condemn what they refuse to empathise with, only to sing his praises when the man finally died. But forget those two-faced bastards. Shane MacGowan's life was also his work, his dreams built in and around his music. Born on Christmas Day, his life at its best is a gift to those who hear their own voice in his songs. He captured the lives of so many as any great writer does. Though how many have their words quoted beer in hand, arm around the person adjacent, united in singing? Eat your heart out, Yeats. Go sit with the other Blackshirts.

Tuesday Night Music Club No. 53 - 'The Sick Bed of Cúchulainn' by The Pogues