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Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge espoused the inspirational qualities of such indulgences as opium, and 20th century writer Brendan Behan was renown for the inspiration he gleaned from whiskey (and Guinness, and anything else served by a bartender). So in the same great tradition, former Pogue and true late-20th century Irish poet Shane MacGowan sticks to the bottle and spews out some of the toughest, most poignant lyrics you're bound to hear. Of course, he also spews out his inspiration right there on stage, but more on that later.
Coming to Chicago for the first time in a few years (since the release of his great Warner Bros. solo debut The Snake), MacGowan is revered here by Celtic-rock fans. And for good reason: in a tight set of 21 songs, the stoic MacGowan, cemented at center stage, gripping onto his mic stand for nearly the entire show, energetically delivered the lyrical hopes and curses and dreams and disappointments that have made his music resonate so deeply with fans.
"If I Should Fall From Grace With God," "The Broad Majestic Shannon," "The Body Of An American," and the hyper "Bottle Of Smoke" -- Pogues songs all -- sounded great, the rough 'n' tumble Popes, looking more like a biker club than a band, providing muscle and swagger to some of MacGowan's best songs. Solo cuts like "Donegal Express" and "Railway" were given equal bite as MacGowan, looking paunchier and less obliterated then I'd ever seen him previously, barked out each lyric with age-old piss and vinegar.
Having seen MacGowan many times over the past decade or so, his somewhat stable appearance Saturday night was something new. But "never judge a book . . ." right? After belting out an inspired version of The Pogues' classic "Sally Mac Lennane," MacGowan stepped back from the mic, leaned forward a bit, and blew chow (not much chow, really -- mostly his inspiring hooch). He returned to the mic, then stepped away again quickly a reprised his involuntary protein spill. After the mess was cleaned up -- and the Popes guitarist tossed one of the nasty towels into the audience, where a scrum ensued for possession of the bile-soaked rag -- MacGowan ripped into a killer version of "Railway," a solo cut from The Snake, never missing a beat. A few songs later, "A Pair Of Brown Eyes" -- with the lyric "drunk to hell" -- and "The Sick Bed Of Cuchulainn" took on more meaning than they normally would have. Despite the stomach purge, I must say that I'd never seen MacGowan give such a controlled performance, and it made this show one of the most consistent I've yet to see from him
Chicago's The Tossers, an ideal opening band for The Popes, impressed with their acoustic traditional Irish mix, something the crowd made evident from their warm reception of the band. Tosser Tony Duggins, lead singer and mandolin man, has an aggressive delivery and less-than-Shane-scratchy sound, which fused well with the band on such classics as "I'll Tell Me Ma." The seven-piece band did something few opening bands really do: won the crowd over and made you forget that the headliner was still a ways off.