The Pogues @ Birmingham Academy – 16th December 2009
It’s their seventh year Christmas tour itch to, yet again, stitch themselves into the tapestry of Q’s one of the top fifty live bands of all time (and who are the others, pray?) The Pogues thump the boards and enchant the hoards of giddy up-for-it punters whose stage barrier rib-crunching jiggery Pogueries are bathed in a phosphorescent blue. Scanning the age range reveals an ever-growing youthful fan-base who could only have been but twinkles in their parents’ illicitly shared Rum, Sodomy and Lash fueled heavy petting 1980’s eyes.
Twenty years on and still counting; hence the 02 roars in adulation as the band hit the stage. And, yes there’s yer man in decidedly slack, non-designer black, Shane MacGowan, himself in the flesh: ponder on that thought for a moment. He exits stage right several times handing over to Spider sporting the zootist suit imaginable, for sterling work on vocals. All the favourites are there and then some. Pair of Brown eyes, Body of America, Dirty Old Town, Sally MacLennane, Streams Of Whisky. All of them grubbed and mugged with Gaelic bravado and cliche free paddywhackery. Sadly no haunting uilleann pipe skirls but mosh-pit goading mandolin winds, silly-billy banjo picking and plaintive tin-whistle airs create a Devil may care filddle-de Faustian pact. James Fearnley had obviously not mugged-up on the beginner’s guide to accordion for the shy and self-effacing; performing just about every dexterous musical manipulation conceivable, including a passible attempt at shagging an imaginary albatross. And as for the four piece horns of plenty? Well toot, toot and parp. We’re nearly there, and yes we know what you’re waiting for; be patient! Fiesta was a Tex-Mex party bonanza that had even the balcony heaving: imagine Rage Against The Machine covering the Birdie Song.
And here’s what we’ve been waiting for: Enter Ella Finer, daughter of Jem Finer, band mate and co-author of Fairytale of New York. Her role of course evokes poignant memories of Kirsty MacColl (whose family, only recently, conceded that formal legal action against those responsible for her death is unforthcoming). And it all goes completely mental. The stage is snow struck, Finer and MacGowan embrace for a waltz and we’ve all had the best Christmas present ever.
As James Fearney knee skids through the stage snow and, with heroic irony-free rock n’ roll abandon, attempts to elicit feed back from his sqeezebox, a bloke gives the writer a gentle nudge, “ And what are ya writing in ya little book for when the band are playing a blinder?’ A review, mate, ‘Ah, and what would that be about, then?’
Review – John Kennedy
Photos – Christine Tellier