Shane MacGowan.

Morning, loves.

I’m working on the Althing today and I woke up to this news….mannnnn. First Sinéad, now Shane MacGowan.

Singer of The Pogues, formidable songwriter, stage-smoker, super drunk, super punk, free-wheeling, card-carrying hedonist/Dionysian.

Born where my grandfather was born: Kent, England…

a coastal town on the south shore of the UK, but he spent much of his growing-up time in Ireland.

My grandfather was a life-long alcoholic, too (he did get sober at 56).

I went to Kent (we scattered some ashes) in the 90s…I understood. I’m about to sit down today and write my monthly Althing. I’ve been thinking a lot about smoking, drinking, choices, trust, love and disintegration as I’ve been sitting for eight days straight with someone in a hospital.

In a hospital, you see time with your eyes and smell it with your nose.

Shane.

Like a painting of time.

His sparking eyes, daring you to feel joy; his teeth like threatening daggers, daring you to ask him to change. Just try.

I, like many artists, have sung “Fairytale of New York” at many a show with many a duet partner, and you can physically feel the light-darkness of Shane’s whole being flow through you when you sing that song.

The interplay of large-heartedness and nihilism. I have a feeling the Christmas airwaves will be ringing with it all season long, and it’ll feel right.

My favorite Shane story came from my old A&R guy, David Bason. Apparently he saw Shane day-drinking in a bar in NYC, he ran out to buy a pen and paper to get an autograph, and Shane indulged him…and spelled his own name wrong.

Sláinte, Shane. Thank you. Your smile and your music are still here, and we won’t let them go.

One of one, you are.

Listen to The Pogues today, please.

♥️🍀🍻

See you all soon in the Althing

Xxx

A