| December 23rd, 2005 09:05 AM |
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| FPM C10 |
The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn
Mccormack and richard tauber are singing by the bed
There’s a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head
There’s devils on each side of you with bottles in their hands
You need one more drop of poison and you’ll dream of foreign lands
When you pissed yourself in frankfurt and got syph down in cologne
And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone
Frank ryan brought you whiskey in a brothel in madrid
And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the yids
At the sick bed of cuchulainn we’ll kneel and say a prayer
And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil’s in the chair
And in the euston tavern you screamed it was your shout
But they wouldn’t give you service so you kicked the windows out
They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains
So you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again
At the sick bed of cuchulainn we’ll kneel and say a prayer
And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil’s in the chair
You remember that foul evening when you heard the banshees howl
There was lousy drunken bastards singing billy is in the bowl
They took you up to midnight mass and left you in the lurch
So you dropped a button in the plate and spewed up in the church
Now you’ll sing a song of liberty for blacks and paks and jocks
And they’ll take you from this dump you’re in and stick you in a box
Then they’ll take you to cloughprior and shove you in the ground
But you’ll stick your head back out and shout we’ll have another round
At the graveside of cuchulainn we’ll kneel around and pray
And God is in his heaven, and billy’s down by the bay
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| December 23rd, 2005 09:53 AM |
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| Joey |
quote:
Sir Stonesalot wrote:
GAH!
Sorry it took me so long to reply. I soiled me knickers and hadda put on fresh.
Ooooooppps.
I jes wet 'em agin.
That's what my little friends and myself running around the Plains of Nebraska with knickers on and stick ball bats in our hands used to call "Postin'!"
You're POSTIN' baby!
The Joey - As seen on the reality show "That's Postin'!", 10:00 PM CDT Sundays.
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| December 23rd, 2005 04:24 PM |
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| FPM C10 |
We love... The Pogues
Dec 23 2005
Gareth Morgan, Western Mail
IT was Christmas Eve, baaaaabe ... in the drunk tank ... an old man said to me, we won't see another one...
Not quite the stuff of merry Christmas hopes and dreams, but the unforgettable opening lines to arguably the greatest seasonal song ever penned.
At a time when our ears are filled with oral cotton candy about Santa hurrying down the chimney and love and understanding, Shane MacGowan and the Pogues offer the perfect antidote.
Their Christmas classic, Fairytale of New York, was an unlikely hit for the bunch of London-Irish folk-punks in the mid-1980s.
And ever since it has been a guaranteed tear-jerker for Irish emigrants, or indeed anyone who does not quite feel filled with festive joy at this time of year.
It reached number two in the charts in 1987, beaten only by what one member of the band described as "two queens and a drum machine" - The Pet Shop Boys and their cover of Always On My Mind.
The song has an almost symphonic quality, from the delicate opening piano bars to the reeling Irish-style passage that forms the bulk of the tune.
Add in the late Kirsty McColl's stunning duet with MacGowan, and you have the perfect antidote to Christmas sentimentality.
Although the song is not devoid of romanticism, drawing literally on fairytale images of an imagined Ireland and an imagined New York as its inspiration.
But the Pogues were more than one-hit wonders and although Fairytale of New York is being re-released this week, they should be remembered for more than just this one song.
Emerging from the tail end of the London punk scene, they produced a genuinely fresh sound by merging the speed and delivery of punk with the lilt of Irish folk groups like the Dubliners and the Fureys.
Whereas many rock groups have used Black American blues as their source of inspiration, The Pogues looked to a lesser-mined vein of rock heritage in the tunes of historic Ireland.
MacGowan's slurred delivery and wild-man antics only added to the group's reputation as they played London clubs in a time haunted by IRA bombings, when it definitely was not considered cool to be Irish.
"For every club that we got barred from, we seemed to get a bit more famous," remembered the singer.
In August 1984 Stiff Records released their debut single, Dark Streets Of London; two months later, came their debut album Red Roses For Me. But it was the band's striking second album, Rum, Sodomy and The Lash, that really stood out. It featured a jawdropping rendition of Eric Bogle's The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, still the Pogues' most poignant moment.
Suddenly folk-rock was back in the limelight and the Pogues were leading the charge, but by the tail end of the decade MacGowan's wayward habits were becoming insurmountable.
To fulfil live commitments Clash front man Joe Strummer was brought in to substitute, and in 1991, MacGowan finally quit. The band persevered with 1993's under-rated Waiting For Herb, but subsequently split.
But this Christmas, the line-up have been back together for a series of live shows across Britain and Ireland, including stopping off at the CIA.
As was to be expected, their offerings were never polished gems and MacGowan's on-stage antics remained unpredictable.
Yet when the band clicks, as they first did more than 20 years ago, the Pogues remain the only outfit that can make you tap your feet and shed a tear at exactly the same time.
Page 2 - Essential Pogues listening:
Sally MacLenane
Half love song, half story about trying to make your way in the world, and a pinch of old folks shuffling off this mortal coil. Features the singalong, "Buy me beer and whiskey cos I'm going far away"
If I Should Fall From Grace With God
The classic, rollicking Pogues sound epitomised. And it's basically about dying and being buried, which is typical MacGowan material
The Band Played Waltzing Matilda
Penned by the peerless Eric Bogle this banjo-led track tells the horrific story of an amputee returning, disillusioned, from the front lines at Gallipoli
Fairytale of New York
The seasonal classic tells the story of two down-on-their-luck Irish emigrants having a right old barney on Christmas Eve. But like all good fairytales it means so much more...
Streams of Whiskey
One of MacGowan's most unapologetic drinking songs ever, including the line "When the world seems too dark and I need a light inside of me, I walk into a bar and drink 15 pints of beer"
Streams of Whiskey
Last night as I slept
I dreamt I met with Behan
I shook him by the hand and we passed the time of day
When questioned on his views
On the crux of life's philosophies
He had but these few clear and simple words to say
I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
I have cursed, bled and sworn
Jumped bail and landed up in jail
Life has often tried to stretch me
But the rope always went slack
And now that I've a pile
I'll go down to the Chelsea
I'll walk in on my feet
But I'll leave there on my back
Because I'm going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I'm going, I'm going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Oh the words that he spoke
Seemed the wisest of philosophies
There was nothing ever gained
By a wet thing called a tear
When the world is too dark
And I need the light inside of me
I'll walk into a bar
And drink fifteen pints of beer
Because I'm going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
copyright 1984 Shane MacGowan
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| December 23rd, 2005 05:15 PM |
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| mac_daddy |
pollstar has the pogues playing in dublin tonight - which would be right about now, woudnt it...
i wish i could see them...
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| December 23rd, 2005 06:28 PM |
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| FPM C10 |
Is Gazza a fan? He's been strangely silent during this thread.
I've spun out into total Pogues mode. Their songs have been running through my head all day.
As long as Shane is actually THERE and I can see him, that's all I expect of him. Although his great work is all behind him, and he's a total shambles, he's also a genius and I have a great repect for that.
If I should fall from grace with god
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I’m buried ’neath the sod
But the angels won’t receive me
Let me go, boys
Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
This land was always ours
Was the proud land of our fathers
It belongs to us and them
Not to any of the others
Let them go, boys
Let them go, boys
Let them go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
Bury me at sea
Where no murdered ghost can haunt me
If I rock upon the waves
Then no corpse can lie upon me
It’s coming up three, boys
Keeps coming up three, boys
Let them go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
If I should fall from grace with god
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I’m buried ’neath the sod
But the angels won’t receive me
Let me go, boys
Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
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| December 24th, 2005 12:54 AM |
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| FPM C10 |
It was christmas eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won’t see another one
And then he sang a song
The rare old mountain dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I’ve got a feeling
This year’s for me and you
So happy christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true
They’ve got cars big as bars
They’ve got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It’s no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold christmas eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of new york city
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night
The boys of the nypd choir
Were singing galway bay
And the bells were ringing out
For christmas day
You’re a bum
You’re a punk
You’re an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy christmas your arse
I pray God it’s our last
The boys of the nypd choir
Were singing galway bay
And the bells were ringing out
For christmas day
I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can’t make it all alone
I’ve built my dreams around you
The boys of the nypd choir
Were singing galway bay
And the bells were ringing out
For christmas day
[Edited by FPM C10] |
| December 24th, 2005 01:43 PM |
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| Gazza |
quote:
FPM C10 wrote:
Is Gazza a fan? He's been strangely silent during this thread.
of their music - yes
of them and their politics, er..no!
Shane's talent, especially as a writer, is never in doubt, but any time he's played here in recent years he's been an incoherent embarrassment and parody of himself. |
| December 26th, 2005 10:31 AM |
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| mac_daddy |
4th night added to nokia... get on it fpm!!!
[Edited by mac_daddy] |
| December 26th, 2005 11:24 AM |
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| FPM C10 |
What...Sunday the 19th? I'm in for that one. Me, Miss Youngblood, SS, our pals Brownie and Butterbean, and Glencar will all be attending the festivities. SS and I spent Friday night making sure everybody had tickets, drinking Guinness, watching "Live at the Town & Country" and listening to "If I Should Fall..."as we celebrated our luck.
In honor of the occasion I think I'll sing another Pogues tune!
I come old friend from hell tonight
Across the rotting sea
Nor the nails of the cross
Nor the blood of christ
Can bring you help this eve
The dead have come to claim a debt from thee
They stand outside your door
Four score and three
Did you keep a watch for the dead man’s wind
Did you see the woman with the comb in her hand
Wailing away on the wall on the strand
As you danced to the turkish song of the damned
You remember when the ship went down
You left me on the deck
The captain’s corpse jumped up
And threw his arms around my neck
For all these years I’ve had him on my back
This debt cannot be paid with all your jack
And as I sit and talk to you I see your face go white
This shadow hanging over me
Is no trick of the light
The spectre on my back will soon be free
The dead have come to claim a debt from thee
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| December 26th, 2005 02:21 PM |
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| FPM C10 |
from NME...I think this is about last year's shows...
Pogues : London Brixton Academy
Not mawkish, not cloying, just a time when you're happy to drink, smile at everyone and be glad to be alive...
When Shane MacGowan was kicked from The Pogues a decade ago drunk, desolate and out of control, he appeared to be in a hurry for an appointment with the grim reaper.
Through years with his patchy outfit The Popes and a slow-drip into semi-obscurity his refusal to become another of rock's premature dead has become a triumphant battle of endurance.
And though the Pogues carried on for a time without their incendiary, talismanic pissed-up leader, without him they were like a cigarette without a match.
Tonight's show, part of a weeklong get-together that will inevitably extend as long as MacGowan keeps showing-up, is much more than an attempt to cash in on his obstinate resilience. It's a reminder of some of the most essential sing-along punk songs ever written (don't be fooled by any Irish trad-rock tag), played by those who wrote them in the way they were supposed to be played. And unlike other hoary old veterans who crank it up again and again for the lure of filthy lucre, The Pogues sound just as visceral and vital as ever - if a little more tattered round the edges.
McGowan is a revelation. A little paunchier than a diet of pints of martini should allow and wearing the same suit he was given a week before at the start of the tour, he looks for all the world like a gloriously debauched Brendan Behan, gripping the microphone unsure whether he wants to fight or fuck it. Between songs he is incomprehensible, but during them he is note perfect, spitting out every word with the trademark deep-throated bark and venom he could never summon for the The Popes.
The band are incredible, whip-snap tight and ferocious in their drive, looking like lounge rats who have just beat the shit out of the Bad Seeds without spilling their drinks. They guide MacGowan through this greatest hits set - 'A Rainy Night In Soho', 'Thousands Are Sailing', 'Fiesta', 'Sally MacLennane', 'Dirty Old Town', 'Turkish Song Of The Damned' - though for all their charged musicianship they need him as much as he them.
Ten years ago this show would have been an excuse for republican rabble-rousing with a few ex-pats mindlessly flying tricolours and mumbling about how well the boys were getting on with their mainland offensive. Tonight, post-ceasefire, post September 11, it's simply a celebration. Not mawkish, not cloying, just a time when you're happy to drink, smile at everyone and be glad to be alive. And yes, they did 'Fairytale Of New York'. And yes, it was magical.
Paul McNamee
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