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First a word about the Mean Fiddler. Whosoever you favourite band may be, under ideal conditions, this is where you would like to see them. It holds only a hundred or so, and so delivers an intimacy lost in the caverns of Brixton Academy or the Kentish Town Forum. The band are RIGHT THERE, you can see the whites of their eyes, you can even lean over the barrier and light their fags (quite popular), and most importantly, four licensed bars means getting an alcoholic top-up is a swift and simple formality.
Shane MacGowan and the Popes - Irish London's Men in Black - claimed the stage at around half-past-nine and were greeted with the customary roar and craning of necks needed to confirm that he was indeed he, Paddy Rolling Stone up there, and that he was also, indeed, alive and kicking. To dispel any lingering doubts MacGowan gargled a 'hello' into the microphone and then slurped from a pint of vaporous clear liquid garnished with a single slice of lemon. Instruments where shouldered, microphones were tapped and then 1-2-3-4 'If I Should Fall From Grace With God' erupted from the stage like Mount Etna. >From the start, the business in hand was clearly rocking out LOUD and STRONG. The people wanted to dance and the band, all evidently born with methedrine for blood, obliged, delivering most of the set at speeds of interstellar overdrive. The tunes - 'Boys from the County Hell', 'The Body of an American', 'Sick Bed of Cuchulainn', 'Church of the Holy Spook', and 'Rock'n'Roll Paddy'- straddled MacGowan's long career and tonight stood testament to his towering songsmithery. Rest stops were few and far between, but his recent not-quite- smash-hit single (!) 'Lonesome Highway', the grand singalong 'Dirty Old Town' and the gorgeous 'Broad Majestic Shannon' where all aired for the benefit of those low on ceilidh stamina.
But what of MacGowan himself? In two words: fine fettle. And, indeed, peculiarly fine fettle for a man whose skin is a disturbing shade of magnolia. While the clowning around of the Pogues days has been replaced by one of the finest impressions of a statue I've seen from a stage performer, MacGowan seemed in good spirits, sparred and shook hands with the crowd between numbers and had a clear and confident vocal delivery absent from many of his terminal Pogues performances. Throughout the gig, MacGowan's eyes were screwed shut tight as he sang, perhaps preferring to picture the banks of the River Shannon in his mind's eye rather than confront the heaving swamp of humanity not two feet before him. This, perhaps unsurprising from a reputedly shy man who once complained: 'why would anyone want a job where you have thousands of people staring at you ?'. Well exactly. (And while I'm here, I would like to draw attention to his trousers and the lower half of his shirt which are torched by so many fag burns that it wouldn't be amiss to classify the entire area as gutted by fire. For the sake of his other-half it can only be hoped that he wears asbestos underpants.)
Judging from the faces on stage it appears the Popes have undergone some line- up changes recently, but reassuringly the band were still flanked by the awesome Banjo Man (who looks something like a grizzly bear in a fright wig) and the equally awesome Guitar Man (more about this character later). But most pleasingly of all the vacant post of tin-whistler has been filled by - big drum roll - ex-Pogue Spider Stacey. Any nostalgia generated by seeing Shane and Spider on stage together was swiftly eradicated by the musical firestorm these two can still kick up in 1998, a full decade after the heady days of Wembley Arena and their number two hit 'Fairytale of New York' (damn those Pet Shop Boys!). And when MacGowan ambled off backstage, and temporarily passed the reins to his old Pogue partner, the crowd granted Spider a spontaneous ovation welcoming him back into the fold. And the response? A rocketing medley of whistle-driven instrumentals. With MacGowan off-stage the spotlight inevitably shifted to his so-called backing band and it is only then that it can be seen what an incredibly tight and skilled unit they are. Little wonder they have recently released their own MacGowan-less single.
And so to the Guitar Man. My God, his boss might sing about being 'a rockin boppin lunatic' but for anyone out there unsure of what this means exactly, this man will freely demonstrate. And in doing so on Sunday, he beautifully dissolved the barrier between audience and performer. Evidently tired of beating fuck out of his guitar during one breakneck thrash he simply removed the offending instrument, and fired himself like a cannonball into the scrambled tangle of heads and limbs before him. Needless to say the audience was taken somewhat by surprise as he surfed over them (I don't ever recall Kirsty MacColl flinging herself into the mosh pit?), before dozens of hands cast his body back onto the stage, whereupon he sprang upright, strapped himself back in, and played on... From then on he spent much of the gig leaning so far off the edge of the stage that eager audience hands were reaching his guitar and strumming the power chords for him. Finally he bowed to their desires completely and with a dissonant howl from the amps launched his electric Gibson into the crowd. A weary smile escaped the otherwise stoic MacGowan as the guitar surfed off while Mr Guitar Man simply stood back beaming like Ronald McDonald. At this point confusion could be seen twitching in the eyes of the bouncers. You could almost read their thoughts. What is this man doing? Is he out of his mind? Doesn't he want the instrument? err... retrieve the instrument... RETRIEVE THE INSTRUMENT! Soon a tug of war was in full-swing over the barrier and eventually the ravaged instrument was ripped from the audience's clutches. Quite unrepentant, Mr Guitar Man then sacrificed his acoustic to the baying crowd.... Good God man, haven't you read the safety regulations!
The show roared onwards and upwards climaxing with 'The Irish Rover' which, judging from a glimpse of the set list, is known to the band as 'Dog' (!) and featured Shane's only concession to on-stage physical performance. Yes, long- time MacGowan watchers will be delighted to know that the Patent Shane MacGowan Finger Twirl used to illustrate the lyric '..turn nine times around..' continues to thrive. Go on Shane!
MacGowan and company then abandoned the stage to a squall of banjo feedback before returning to belt out 'Greenland Whale Fisheries' and 'Bottle Of Smoke'. Watching the Banjo Man pluck the introduction to Bottle Of Smoke is like watching the fuse burn on an enormous firework: stand well clear and wait for the explosion - which duly came. MacGowan hollered the words into his mic but even his amplified growl could not drown out his roaring congregation: twenty fucking five to one me gambling days are done / I bet on a horse called the Bottle of Smoke and my horse won! Well, he may have just entered his forties, but isn't that when life begins? The High Priest of the Holy Spook still delivers right on time.