If a heartier slice of vinyl than this exists on the market at the moment, I don’t know about it. The Pogues could superficially be described as a “punk folk” band, but with anyone from Phranc to Billy Bragg strumming under that umbrella, that catch phrase hardly does them justice. A group of ’77 alumni devoted to their own raucously personal version of Irish music, the Pogues instinctively know the common ground between punk and folk is a matter of finding the right three or four chords to meld with a set of true-to-life lyrics and a melody suitable for howling along to at the top of your lungs.
Gifted with a ravaged yet warm voice to match his unforgettable face, lead singer Shane McGowan is a master of projection (a rare quality in vocalists). The intensity of his delivery applied to the band’s material is totally riveting; you roar along, or you shut up and listen.
His own numbers hold up well alongsidewell-chosen standards like “Dirty Old Town” or “Navigator.” The feverish lyrics conjured by his pen sound as if he had opened up his head and let the memories and tall tales spill forth in a passionate alcoholic stream of semi-consciousness. Around the voice swirls a crazed stew of instruments: accordion, banjo, mandolin, whistle, fuzz bass, drums, pipes, fiddles; and far more tone colors than the average band offers.
The songs themselves deal largely with poverty, wild drunken adventures, and the fates of soldiers dismembered in pointless wars. The best in the last category is a heart-wrenching rendition of Australian songwrietr Eric Bogle’s “And The Band Played Waltzing Mathilda,” one of the most dignified yet scathing antiwar ballads I’ve ever heard.
The Pogues approach all their material with equal portions of conviction and irreverence: writing tragic folk waltzes about drugged out rent boys in London, or using the haunting, catarrh-drenched rasp/whisper of female bassist Cait O’Riordan on “I’m A Man You Don’t Meet Every Day,” which comes off both moving and ironically hilarious.
That sort of attitude is certain to bug the hell out of folk purists who want old songs kept as proper museum pieces that are irrelevant to the here and now. But for anyone who knows the value of a good drink and a good song delivered with intelligence and emotion, the Pgues’ ransacking of these treasures is just what the bartender ordered.