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A barefoot karate-kickin'-hooligan-skinhead playing the guitar, a timid boy playing the tinwhistle , and a hairy giant, last seen as a motorcycle-revenger in the Coen-brothers comedy "Arizona Junior" playing the banjo. And in the middle, in a white singlet and black cap, the leader himself like a zombie in his own horror cabinet.
Welcome to circus MacGowan, and take my word for it, you don't want to join these fellas backstage. It's enough to see them a good few yards from the stage, and then this special ensemble is surprisingly entertaining.
The strange thing about MacGowan is that it is completely impossible to hear what he spits out between the songs. But as soon as the good band starts playing old Pogues classics and highlights from his own, new soloalbum, his voice is as strong and rough as in the good old days. The highlight: A moving "Rainy Night in Soho" , one of MacGowan's finest moments of songwriting.
The man is a survivor. And with him looking more and more like an orthodox-lrish Paddy, you might imagine him in a bar in 25 years time, ruddy, with a pint in his hand, poetry in his eyes, and his blessed talent in constant fights with the devil. Who would have though that?