Shane MacGowan and the Popes
Across the Broad Atlantic: Live on Paddy's Day: New York & Dublin

THE REVIEW

We are all emigrants. Our suitcase is full of memories, old photos, small objects that hold no value for others, but are precious to us. We who have been Irish, Italian, German, and now are Pakistani, Albanian, Ukrainian, Chinese. This is suggested by the faded family photos stuck outside and inside, a group with violins, boats in a harbor, a brawl among poor people, a holy card, a stamp with writing in Gaelic, the image of a large ship. "That" large ship, made, guess what, in the shipyards of Belfast. The suitcase has side studs with harps and shamrocks, to always remember where the journey started.

Among all the photos, one. A group of Irish travelers from the back, on the deck of a ship. In the distance, the Statue of Liberty. The Irish, like the Italians, fled en masse from their countries to try the path of those who no longer have roads: America. In 1845, Ireland suffered the greatest famine in its history, the Great Famine. Millions died, millions left. Millions of shadows that, I think, are still sailing... but here comes one, coming closer.

He has bad teeth, big ears, and a glass in hand, but he remembers the words of many books and when he sings or writes, there's no one like him. Welcome to New York City, Irishman.

In the emigrant's suitcase, the family jewels. You show them when you're among friends, or when you're too drunk and tend to become sentimental. "Hey you! Yes, you with that dandy shirt! Listen to this!" and you start with "Poor Paddy works on the railway," dedicated to the Irish like you, who worked on building the American railways. "And you haven't heard anything yet, fucking Yankee!" you yell, continuing to reel off wonders. Because you have plenty of wonders, old Shane: yours, like "If I should fall from grace to God," "A rainy night in Soho," "Aisling," "Sick bed of Cuculhainn," "Lonesome highway," and those ancient ones, that your family brought with their cardboard suitcase to London, and you now bring to America. Today in New York it's St. Patrick's Day, a holiday for all the "Paddies" scattered around the world, but you won't end up under a table like last year because this time everyone is standing for you.

For the saint, you must sing some traditional songs to dance, it's a bit like Christmas, so you let your Popes go with the instrumental jigs and smoke a cigarette. The acoustics are what they are, but no one cares: today it's about grinding notes and having fun. Good lads, the Popes, you think. Not like those others who went to the conservatory, these are more rough around the edges, but you're happy to go along. Actually, with them, you have even more fun. Fewer problems, fewer nuisances. Anyway, those others you'll encounter again sooner or later, for a jam session.

You start singing again, and there's still time to mock the Yankees ("Body of an American"), insult the English, gulp down whiskey ("Nancy Whiskey", "Streams of Whiskey"), get moved by a pair of splendid maiden eyes ("A Pair of Brown Eyes"), pay homage to the great Hank Williams and the Grim Reaper ("Angel of Death"), sing "The Irish Rover," the anthem of your favorite soccer team.
This year is special, there's the chance to enter the Guinness (in the Guinness, Shane, not in the Guinness beer, you're incorrigible...) book of records: in Eire, they've postponed St. Patrick's Day by two months due to an epidemic affecting livestock. You'll end up being the first Irishman to play twice for the same celebration, once in New York and once in Ireland. You've become a legend, now: would you ever have believed it, back in '77?

So you go home, in the end, and in Dublin, your mom Therese will also be on stage to sing with you "Fairytale of New York." Sure, so much swearing: is this what you make her sing? I've finally understood why you're so off-key, Shane: it's a family gift! But it's late, you're all drunk, mom included, it's time to head to Tipperary, where your pub is, and your friends are. It's been a long journey, but now there's some time to rest before looking for another gig, maybe to sing, maybe to build a railway.

We are all migrants, we would do well to remember that. Because we will all, sooner or later, migrate elsewhere. Shane MacGowan, Irishman from London, represents us all, and "Across the broad Atlantic" is his suitcase.