No more waltzing matilda—RIP, Shane MacGowan.
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Tools: Sketcbook Pro + Affinity Photo
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Back in '86—fresh-faced, relatively innocent and toward the beginning of my gig-going career—I was parentally taxied, along with my even more fresh-faced younger brother, to the Reading Hexagon to see (with slight trepidation, if I'm being honest about it) anarchic Irish folk-punk band, The Pogues, who were busting onto the music scene and were already notorious. As younger bro, @steviec7T has a better recollection of the event, the following words are stolen from his insta-post: "...Just a mad, mad night, but brilliant nonetheless. The band came on, the first chord was struck. Half the band started playing one song, the other half another, and Shane - swigging from a whiskey bottle with no label - started to sing something else altogether. Three bars in everyone stopped, cursed each other and then launched into The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn - the place went wild!..."
As was customary within the mayhem of a Pogues' crowd, the beat was accompanied by the bashing of a beer tray over one's own (or neighbour's) head. Back then, mass performance-capture by smart-phones was a thing of the distant future—which was just as well as it would have seriously hampered all that self-administered head-banging. Sláinte! indeed.
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