|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Over the past hour and 20 minutes, the following events have occurred under this roof: a) one of the finest songwriters of the past 15 years -- who will not be herein insulted with the word "poet," though many have called him such in the past -- has mangled the English language virtually beyond recognition; b) the performer -- who boasts approximately zero front teeth, seems barely able to open his eyes (much less stand), and spent this entire evening cradling a beer, a cigarette, or (most often) both -- has once again proven that the difference between a hopeless barfly and a legend is a few great songs; c) numerous people have crowd-surfed, pogoed, and generally gone outer-limits nutbar to...the Irish ballad "Dirty Old Town"; d) in an informal poll, at least one attractive woman has admitted that, faced with the prospect of said mumbling toothless minstrel lying naked in her bed, she would without further introspection "do him"; and, most importantly, e) his set, which contained several good songs from a record that has as yet been prevented from release, has indirectly exposed wayward idiocy in the music industry.
All of which is to say that Shane MacGowan stumbled through town. Certainly no column that calls itself Bad Teeth could let such an occurrence pass unnoticed, for MacGowan boasts the most inspired set of errant chompers in all of rockdom -- a rogue collection of stumps, gaps, and general rot that's somehow admirable in its sheer disdain for comeliness. Here is a smile that evinces no misplaced vanity. Here is a smile that says, I have done unspeakable things to your four-out-of-five-dentists, and I mock all five. Here is a smile that suggests a mind focused upon far weightier matters.
Like for example: How it happens that MacGowan, whose boots would be insulted if most rock songwriters could get close enough to lick them, ended up without a record deal for Crock of Gold, his latest album. How it happens that, in a world where cut-out bins now have their own cut-out bins, a record that's actually good can't get released. How it happens that, in a world where such soul-crushing songs as "Sex and Candy" pass for original thought, the author of "Turkish Song of the Damned" has to declare on Late Night with Conan O'Brien that he's looking for a deal.
Here, according to a source close to the singer, is how it happened: Crock was released overseas late last year by his British label, ZTT. But according to the source, label bosses caught wind of MacGowan's desire to leave ZTT and, as a result, essentially stopped looking for a U.S. label to release it. Despite the interest of such labels as Rykodisc, and despite a previous relationship between ZTT and Warner Bros. -- which handled the Stateside release of MacGowan's 1995 solo bow The Snake -- Crock remains unreleased in the States, save a few over-priced import copies. "They fucked him," the source says. (A source at Warner Bros. confirms that ZTT, and not WB, nixed a deal on the new record; as one might expect, MacGowan himself dutifully blew off several scheduled interviews.) Indeed they did.
It would be easy -- far too easy, in fact -- to blame MacGowan's woes on his widely reported fondness for foreign substances of any available stripe. From his early days in the Nipple Erectors to his ascendance as the lead singer/songwriter in the Pogues to his current solo career, MacGowan has cultivated a reputation as the latest in a long line of terminally soused artistes, and if you consider only a few of his myths, the man starts to make Scott Weiland look like a prudish novice: Hasn't passed a sober day since he was like 14. Has snorted anything that didn't snort him first. During one stretch, did somewhere between 10 and 50 tabs of acid (depending on the grapevine to which you subscribe) -- daily. Reportedly jumped out of a speeding car to prove himself immortal (and damned if that didn't work). Has, in sum, treated his body with the kind of respect generally reserved for the likes of the Spin Doctors.
Most notices concerning MacGowan overemphasize his chemical trivia, but to rely on such mythologies is to reduce him to a caricature -- a role he might capably fill if he wasn't such a talented songwriter; he may indeed be a drunken louse, but he's as fine a drunken louse as has ever graced a stage. That contradiction was everywhere evident tonight. His between-song banter consisted almost exclusively of the words "aaangah" (translation: "thank you!") and "disneston's cauld" ("this next one's called..."); when he was feeling particularly baroque, he'd liven things up with something like "fugallwud" ("fuck Hollywood"). His onstage antics could be fairly described as non-existent: Occasionally, he'd slowly and methodically rock the microphone back and forth, with no apparent regard for the song's actual rhythms; he briefly broke into something approximating the Twist at one quarter its normal speed; and, at the end of the set, had worked up enough energy to bang on a few cymbals. And during the encore, even the band -- a six-piece aggregation billed as the Popes -- lost him several times amid hopelessly muffed lyrics.
But unless you were wearing some bitchingly effective earplugs, you couldn't just play the thing for laughs; behind the veneer of incoherence lay an admirable collection of songs. Such original chestnuts as "Sally MacLennane," "If I Should Fall from Grace with God," "Bottle of Smoke," and "The Broad Majestic Shannon" sounded as vital tonight as they ever have, affirming that MacGowan's mix of Celtic tradition with rock's piss-and-vinegar was never a gimmick; his is no Cherry Poppin' Daddies costume party. But it's no news that MacGowan's older tunes are worth repeated listens; what's heartening is that his new ones turn the trick as well. In addition to displaying an obvious wit, such numbers as "Paddy Rolling Stone," "Paddy Public Enemy No. 1," "Lonesome Highway," and "Skipping Rhymes" all pass the baton of sturdy melody and literate simplicity quite nicely. The crowd, from the fist-waving yahoos to the glassy-eyed does, hung on MacGowan's every word (or approximation thereof), and staring at a train wreck scarcely commands such attention; without the songs, the show'd be over after five minutes.
Though it spent most of the evening singing along with the band, the audience could be forgiven for slacking during the above-mentioned new songs; they're all contained on Crock of Gold. The kind of short-sighted industry egotism that has prevented Crock's release is fine if it means avoiding a new Boston album for a few years, but when actual good records become pawns, it's time to start rolling heads. And Crock is a good record; MacGowan may not have too many teeth remaining, but he's still got plenty of bite left in that pickled frame.