I first met Shane MacGowan, whose funeral is today, in the late 1990s, way after the glory days with The Pogues. I’d see him around town at various functions and gigs, always with his partner, Victoria Mary Clarke, always sat on their own, no one bothering with them. Although emanating a dark charisma, he looked tired and sad to me. There appeared to be a cloud of depression and lonesomeness above him, even when surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on.
So one night I went up and introduced myself, and we just got on. It was easy. I found him a gentle soul, quite shy actually, not like I’d imagined him at all. I’d admired him as far back as Gabrielle, by The Nips. That was his first band, but his songs with The Pogues were on another level. I was always in awe of his talent as a songwriter: his songs were highly literate stories of oppressed and downtrodden people marginalised by society; full of empathy and compassion for ordinary working men and women and their daily struggles – not forgetting the junkies and the drunks.
Like his idol, Lou Reed, his songs were a mix of contemporary street vernacular and a real traditional poetic sensibility. It was clear he was gifted. My favourites are the obvious ones. The beautiful ballads A Pair of Brown Eyes, A Rainy Night in Soho, The Old Main Drag, and Fairytale of New York. Each a perfect little movie full of unforgettable images, drama and compassion. Songs to make you cry and raise a clenched fist of defiance in the air at the same time.
His raucous songs such as Transmetropolitan, The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn, Sally MacLennane, Streams of Whiskey, Boys From the County Hell, are all riotous celebrations of a life well lived, filled with crazed humour and ecstatic joy. Songs that make you want to get drunk and raise hell. Tom Waits once said The Pogues played like “sailors on shore leave” – a perfect observation.
But he did not take praise kindly. I remember one time at a party in my house during summer 2000, when I proclaimed him the best lyricist in contemporary music; that no one, not Nick Cave, Morrissey nor Mark E Smith came close. Shane snarled back: “It’s not a competition!” Lesson learned.
Whenever he was around my band, Primal Scream, he would sit quietly in the corner of the dressing room, making no fuss; just happy to hang out for the craic and enjoy the backstage vibe. I remember him sharing jokes with my dad, both of them chuckling away after a Primal Scream show in Glasgow when he’d got up and sung with us on Rocks, Loaded, and a cover of Born to Lose by The Heartbreakers. I remember the full force of his vocal dragging the band behind him as he tore into the verses of the song. When he sang he was a force of nature, all punk power and visceral emotion. A true rock’n’roller – and a Celtic soul brother of the highest order. “We’re Gaels!” He proclaimed to me once. Every time he sang with us, and he did variously in Glasgow, Dublin and London over the years, we were honoured. We loved him. The fact he dug our band meant the world to us.
My last memory of him is when I visited him in hospital in September. He was very poorly, and could see that I was upset to see him this way. Emaciated and weak-looking, his skin stretched taught over his face, cheekbones prominent. Fine, thick silver hair swept back, he looked handsome and strangely beautiful. His skin translucent, his eyes, ever alert and piercing, his keen intelligence still in place.
Also that day I saw the love that existed between Shane and Victoria. Shane had a fraught, frightened look in his eyes over a small drama with a hospital orderly. Victoria took his hand in hers, like you would a wee boy’s, and gave him a kiss on his forehead, telling him that everything would be all right. He needed that reassurance. I felt slightly embarrassed about seeing such an intimate moment between two people so deeply in love with each other. Then I realised I was blessed to have been present at that moment. I was invisible to them; they were united in love. So beautiful to see.
Victoria was his rock. His guardian angel. Underneath the rock’n’roll, rake-at-the-gates-of-hell image, the role of the Brendan Behanesque poète maudit, Shane was a good old-fashioned romantic. He saw the beauty of the spirit and the flaws in people, celebrated them and identified with their struggles. He felt too much probably, saw too much with the poet and songwriter’s gift of vision. And maybe that’s what all the drinking and drugging was about. He had to numb himself to get through his life. His greatest songs exist to help the rest of us get through our lives. Thank you, Shane. Thank you for the music and the good times. May God rest your beautiful Gaelic soul.
Bobby Gillespie is a Scottish musician, and the lead singer of Primal Scream
