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Fuck me.
I've been waiting for some horrible news about one of the musical heroes of my youth—with Kirsty MacColl at Christmastime 2000 and Stuart Adamson (shut up, you in the back) at Christmastime 2002—and these things always happen in threes, don't they—for weeks I've been thinking to myself, "Watch your back, Bono!"
But no. They got Joe.
Goddammit.
This was a man who loved what he did: I only saw him the once, when he stepped in to front the Pogues after it became plain that Shane MacGowan's drinking was out of control but it was too late to cancel the tour. The band's future was uncertain: this was at the Orpheum in Boston, early in the tour, and there was a buzz and a tension in the air.
Then the lights came up and there were the Pogues, and there was Joe, front and center, all pompadour and black jeans and Beatle boots, oozing rock'n'roll presence, pounding on that old Tele with IGNORE ALIEN ORDERS sticker on it: "Shane MacGowan's not here tonight," he barked, "deal with it!" And all was right with the world.
He was holding it all together, he was. Shane used to leave the stage when somebody else sang a song, but Joe was a constant presence—hanging out by the drums, shaking maraccas, all grins and good vibes, giving confidence to a band that was sadly shaken. When a broken bass-drum pedal threatened to halt the proceedings for a few minutes, the band looked uncertain—until Joe began singing a raucous old folk song a cappella, with the Pogues gradually joining in, bringing it all home as the pedal was being repaired.
He never let the energy level flag. He never let us down—us in the audience, or the guys in the band. He radiated toughness and camaraderie: that's what they call charisma, I guess.
The Last of the Rock Stars.
Radio Clash, signing off, over and out. |
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