ONE would have thought that even the most sympathetic of fans would have given up on Shane MacGowan by now. Even people with a passing interest in his career are probably aware of how much his relationship with alcohol has debilitated his creativity - it's yet another sad story with peculiarly Irish twist. The queues down Dame Street proved this critic wrong, though, and the rafters-packed venue gave MacGowan a heroes' welcome.
It isn't difficult to understand why: MacGowan is quite possibly the last of Irish rock's truly gifted lyricists and rebel figures and when he croaks through the likes of If I Should Fall From Grace With God, Sally MacLennane, Fairytale Of New York, Streams Of Whiskey, and The Body Of an American one can glimpse a vision of Shane MacGowan when he really was a force to be reckoned with. Which is why - despite the bravura if ultimately shallow support of his band - watching him on stage last Saturday morning was, oh irony of ironies, a sobering experience.
Words normally used to describe on-stage activity from a rock act ("perform", "play", "sing", "presence", "passion", etc.) are rendered null and void in MacGowan's case. Quite simply, he looked and moved like death warmed up.
This was chaotic, festive entertainment - the guests were having a rare old time, while the host was stumbling and mumbling his way through party pieces that sounded ragged and somewhat the worse for wear and tear. The really sad thing about all this? No one seemed to notice . ..