I’ve been meaning to write something profound (heh) for the past couple of weeks about squandered talent. This is tied, in some way, to the fact that no matter how drunk you may be at any given time, Shane MacGowan is, at that exact moment, more drunk than you are.
Shane is the exception to the rule that nobody wants to hear a drunk guy sing.
When The Pogues did their St. Paddy’s Day tour this year, there was an article about Shane in the New York Times and it made me sad. Any time I read anything about Shane, it makes me sad.
Because he squandered his talent.
There’s nothing romantic about having his abilities and, after a roaring start and a few good years, doing nothing with them. The rest of us, those of us who don’t have anything near these god-given skills, we’d love to have such talent. But we don’t.
When Shane kicks the bucket (Likely any time now, right? Or he could live to be 90. Whatever.) they better discover that his house is filled with stacks of note books full of unpublished unrecorded masterpieces. I have to know that he hasn’t been doing nothing but drinking for the past 20 years. I want tons of posthumous material from him. I want Nobel Prize-worthy poetry from him.
Better yet, of course, would be some brilliant new material, released while he’s still alive. But that ain’t gonna happen. And that’s sad.
2 comments:
yeah, he's heart breaking
I felt the same way about Hunter S. Thompson (somewhere, LP just threw up). A couple brilliant books -- "Campaign Trail," "Hell's Angels" -- and then getting caught up in his own image and deteriorating into crap.
For a long time, I was excited about any MacGowan appearance -- guest vocals, anything -- sure it heralded the beginning of a comeback. Now, I don't even know what he's done in the last few years.
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