I'm standing in the balcony of the Avalon Ballroom in Boston, listening to the gentle voice of Bob Marley advising: "Don't worry 'bout a thing, every little thing is gonna be all right," and I smile, hearing Larry Kirwan's* voice in my head, singing those very same words, albeit in a slightly different style.
The members of Rogue's March, following an excellent set, are taking away their equipment, while other folks are setting up for the next act, Shane MacGowan and the Popes.
Is Marley right? Are we not to worry? Will every little thing be all right?
MacGowan has a Reputation for late appearances and no-shows. Will this be another of those occasions?
Here in the balcony, other people join me in soothing themselves with Guinness. Nicotine clouds waft skyward. Everyone waits, and a half hour crawls by. The only activity on stage involves the moving and placing of equipment. As the reggae music continues, voices rise in conversation, and I hear bits and pieces, mostly concerns about whether MacGowan will really be there, whether he will be coherent, and, if both of the afore-mentioned factors are met, what songs will he do?
The lights drop a little towards the end of the half hour, and people start cheering, but it is only a false alarm. The lights brighten again soon after, and there are murmurs of disappointment. It happens once more, and again there are cheers and murmurs, but no musicians take the stage. Feet shuffle restlessly, and a man shouts, "Let's go, Shane!"
But Mac Gowan and the Popes are taking their time.
When the lights dim again, no one quite believes it, but then the stage goes black. Shadow figures are drifting into position like wraiths, and last, but certainly not least, a lean, tall one strides forward to the center mike, and the lights go up, and the band launches into a kick-arse rendition of "If I Should Fall from Grace with God".
It is good. Very good. Everyone is singing along, and the mass of people on the main floor writhe as one, unable to really dance in such a crush. The energy level in the room has just quintupled.
MacGowan is in excellent form, and from where I stand, he looks fantastic, and nothing like the wreck I had been cautioned to expect. The voice is clear and expressive, the lyrics easily understood, and I am secretly thrilled at his generous employment of the "f" word.
Behind the band is a black backdrop, upon which stars dance in alternating colors of light, and I can almost imagine that MacGowan is performing on some far-removed landscape. The electric fan someone has placed to keep him cool on stage heightens that effect as its breeze blows back his straight, longish hair.
I am delighted at the number of personal favorites he is treating me to tonight: If I Should Fall from Grace with God; Donegal Express; Paddy Rolling Stone; Paddy Public Enemy Number One; Sally Maclennane; Dirty Old Town; Sick Bed of Cuchulainn; Poor Paddy; A Pair of Brown Eyes; The Broad Majestic Shannon. There are others as well, and I wish could make note of them all.
Especially of interest is one song I have never heard before, which features MacGowan wailing away in a style that makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck, accompanied only by a tremolo guitar. I cannot understand the words, but I want to hear this one again and again. It is not on any of his recordings that I know of, and I do not know its title.
The other one I find particularly thought-provoking is the final song in the encore, a Hank Williams tune which challenges us all with the question of whether or not we will be ready to meet the Angel of Death at our appointed times. One senses that Mr. MacGowan has seen that Angel a few times over the years, and managed to bargain his way out of the inevitable.
May he have many years to grace us all with his great gifts, and when his time comes to meet with that Angel he sings of, may the Spook be with him.
*Larry Kirwan is the lead singer for the excellent group, Black 47. Highly recommended!
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C.P. Warner
© 3 December 2000
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