The Saint Patrick's Day From County Hell
My Weekend with the Pogues
By Ben Carlin
It was well after four a.m., when Mikey Palms, the owner of the local rock club told me that he may have an opportunity to book Shane MacGowan, the lead singer for Irish punk band The Pogues, to DJ a party on St. Patrick’s Day. At first I was skeptical as anyone with knowledge of Shane's track record would be. He was going to be in town to play four nights at the Nokia Theater with the Pogues, whom he had recently reunited with and the plan was for him to come to Southpaw, Mikey’s club, after one of the gigs. Shane had been doing a series of successful parties called Death Disco with a man named B.P. Fallon who had proposed the idea to put one on in Brooklyn while he was in town. I had been knocking back a few with Bill Carney when Mikey told us about it. Bill, who knows Mikey well from playing at the club in his various musical aliases, warned him against it. “The guys unreliable. Don’t risk your club’s reputation on him.” He summed it up with an emphatic, “Don’t fucking do it, Mikey!”
I had introduced Mikey to the music of the Pogues when we were kids and he knew that I was a huge fan. My position was, “But what if he does show and on St. Patrick’s Day? That would be a truly special thing for the club, the neighborhood and Brooklyn as a whole.” From the expression on Mikey’s face, I knew my argument had won the day, or the dawn as it were.
After dropping a few not-too-subtle hints that I wanted to be involved, the Death Disco party blossomed from an idea being tossed about to a reality. I was asked by Mike to help out. My job was to pick Shane MacGowan up from the venue in Manhattan and bring him to Brooklyn. Perfect.
The general sentiment in the neighborhood, as I gleefully told anyone who would listen about my assignment, was optimistically doubtful; ‘If anyone can get him there, you can.’ My thoughts exactly. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be successful. My arrogance had served me well in the past. ‘I’m Ben Carlin. I make things happen in this town.
Sit down by the fire and I’ll tell you a story to send you away to your bed, of the things you hear creeping when everyone’s sleeping and you wish you were out here instead - Sit Down by the Fire
In 2006, St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Friday. The first Pogues show was on Thursday. I went to the theater where B.P had left me an all-access pass at will call. The plan was for me to see the show, pass out some flyers for the gig in Brooklyn and, above all, to meet Shane so when I arrived the following night he would know who I was and be comfortable with me. I wandered about the theater getting to know the lay of the land and found B.P. backstage. I was introduced to Spider Stacey, another of my Pogues heroes and then I was pretty much left to my own devices for the duration of the show.
I was on line ordering a Jameson when I heard the Pogues take the stage. Shane’s unmistakable voice roared the lyrics to “Streams of Whiskey” and I took my drink and rushed into the theater. Shane looked remarkably healthy as he belted out song after song, plastic cup filled with gin and cigarette in hand the whole time. He never missed a beat. At one point, I don’t remember what song, Spider made a dedication to everyone in the audience unless their name was Ben. I mused on that for a brief moment but was soon caught up in the performance once again. They were great - it was one fuck of a show.
When the cocert was over, I made my way towards back stage but it was locked down. Even an all-access pass didn’t qualify me for entry. Standing at the stage door, feeling somewhat like an asshole, I ran into a woman friend whom I have known since Junior High School, who happens to be Jem Finer’s (the Pogues' banjo player) first cousin. Apparently family ties weren’t sufficient credentials either so we made our way to the VIP room for the after-party. Before long the members of the band made their way to the party. I met them all; still, no Shane and even more distressing, no sign of B.P Fallon. Ella Finer, Jem’s daughter, who sang “a Fairytale in New York” with Shane during the encore, was nice enough to go backstage to find B.P. for me. He found me and escorted me to Shane’s dressing room.
Entering this room was a truly bizarre experience. I found myself tip-toeing as if one misstep would blow the whole thing. There were several people milling about and it actually took me a moment before I noticed Shane, a pale shade of green, lying on a couch in the center of the room. B.P. introduced us and he invited me to sit. He laughed at me in a good natured way and said, “I know what you’re thinking. You think I won’t come. But me and B.P have done this a hundred times. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“I have no doubt,” I said and I started to relax.
Spider Stacey had joined us and I thought it a good opportunity to get to the bottom of the whole "unless-their-name-is-Ben" thing. As it turns out, I was indeed the Ben he was referring to but for no other reason than I was the last person he met before going on stage so the name stuck in his head and he thought it was funny. He apologized, unnecessarily, and asked what my favorite Pogues song was.
“The Boys from County Hell.”
“Tomorrow night, St. Patrick’s Day, I will dedicate the Boys from County Hell to you.” He did. A nicer man than Spider Stacey you’ll rarely meet.
Shane sat up and offered me a drink from the bottle of rose wine he was using to chase his pint of gin. I gladly accepted. We sat there talking while B.P. walked around us snapping pictures with his digital camera.
“Ben,” he asked, “what’s your last name?”
“Carlin,” I replied pronouncing the first syllable like a pirate in a ludicrous attempt to make it sound more than Irish than it actually is.
“Good. Good. So, Ben, I’m a little worried about getting to the gig tomorrow.”
“Which gig?”
“This one. You’re taking me to Brooklyn, yeah?”
“Right. What’s your worry?”
“Saint Patrick’s Day in New York City.” He leaned in. “Making our way across town through the piss and the puke and the blood.”
“It’s been a while you spent a Paddy’s day here. It’s not like it used to be.”
“A bit tamer, yeah?”
“Well, for one thing, the cops aren’t drunk anymore.”
“That’s a good thing, yeah?”
“I guess.” We laughed. We touched glasses and drank. We got along.
I decided to leave with dignity before I got too drunk which, in hindsight seemed silly given the company, but the next night I would be there on official business. Before I left Shane stood up, a feat that seemed remarkable at the time, gave me a hug and looked me the eye.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Absolutely.” I left, elated - not usually the type to get star-struck. After several whiskies in numerous bars in two boroughs, I went home and listened to Pogues records way too loud for my neighbors taste. In the wee hours of the morning, I finally slept.
So drunk to hell, I left the place, sometimes crawling, sometimes walking. A hungry sound came across the breeze so I gave the walls a talking. - A Pair of Brown Eyes
Friday would have been unbearable if not for the adrenaline that coursed through my veins. If I could bottle it and sell it as a hangover cure, I would surely be a millionaire. I arrived at Southpaw around nine in my black suit, black shirt with a black silk pocket square in my breast pocket. Written into the delivery contract was for an off-duty police officer to escort Shane. Through a detective friend of mine I enlisted the services of one of his colleagues, Vic, who met me at the club as we waited for the limo. B.P. was running around like a madman, barking orders at various flunkies and sorting out the bands he had booked to play the early part of the gig. When the limo arrived I asked him if there was anything else I needed to know.
“Just remember, if anyone asks you anything, you don’t know anything,” he said. This confused me as I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that I wasn’t supposed to know. I never found out. “Sean Fay, Shane’s cousin, he isn’t a very nice man. He’s jealous of me and my friendship with Shane, so watch out for him. Also the rest of the band doesn’t want him to do the party. That’s all. Off you go. Good luck to ya.”
I successfully suppressed the unmistakable feeling of impending doom. I had a job to do. Vic and I got in the black SUV limo and headed for Times Square. I had secured two all-access passes the previous night so getting into the club wasn’t a problem. Our timing couldn’t have been better. The band was playing the last song of the encore, “Fiesta,” as we approached the stage door. I called the road manager on his UK cell which seemed to be the only phone in the world that got service in the venue - slightly ironic in a place called the Nokia Theater. He let us in and told us to wait in the family room. He was extremely helpful. I saw Spider, the Finer girls, the rest of the band and they all greeted me warmly but kept their distance. This I attributed to two things - the imposing cop figure I was with, who clearly had no interest in the Pogues or anyone else in the room, and, more likely, the job I was there to do. I felt like an invader; an unwanted disruption in an otherwise tranquil camp; a saboteur. I felt like Yoko Ono.
I was receiving mixed signals from different people - some who said he was going to Brooklyn and some who said he wasn’t. A story came out about paramedics having to come backstage after I had left the previous night. I was consistently prevented from going into Shane’s room but when faced with an un-monitored opportunity, I slipped in. Shane was sitting upright on his couch talking with a woman. I sat in a chair across from him.
“Hello, Shane. Remember me?”
“Of course I do. You’re the fella’s taking me to Brooklyn, yeah? Ben. You’re looking a bit sharper than you did last night. But I think you need a tie. You want a tie?” He took the green tie that was draped from around his neck and handed it to me. I thanked him and draped it around my own neck, concealing the thrill and maintaining my focus.
“So we are going to Brooklyn, then?”
“I said I was going, yeah? I’m going. Just have to go back to the hotel first and have a bit of lie down.” I didn’t like the sound of that.
I was discovered and ushered from the room. Everyone who had seemed so forthcoming previously suddenly ceased to be helpful in any way. While I was being given all sorts of contradictory information and told where to go and what to do they managed to get Shane out of the theater. I had been duped. I felt conflicted. I understood the opposition to Shane’s trip to King’s County and I couldn’t completely disagree with it. But I had made a commitment. Vic and I rushed to the limo and recalling a hazy conversation I had had with Jem Finer the previous night, I told the driver where to go. “Downtown. The Rivington Hotel.”
“Where is it exactly?”
“On Rivington. I’ll find out.” I tried to call information but apparently, the hotel is actually called Hotel Thor on Rivington. Who knew? We raced downtown, the hilarity of being in an SUV limo chasing Shane MacGowan’s bus through the streets of New York on St. Patrick’s not lost on me. Luckily enough we found the hotel without difficulty. When we got out, the doorman assumed we were the band.
“Welcome back, Gentlemen.”
On the ground floor of the hotel, there is an awfully pretentious bar and we had to go one flight up for reception.
“Shane MacGowan’s room,” I said to the woman behind the desk.
“How do you spell it?” I told her. “Room 1426. Fourteenth floor.”
We got in the elevator. That was when I took stock in our appearance - me in my black suit and Vic in his three quarter leather trench coat, tight black t-shirt, slicked back slightly receding black hair. Needless to say, the security at the Hotel Thor was not wielding a mighty hammer. We looked like move hit men and we could have easily whacked the Pogues.
When I knocked on the door of Shane’s room, his cousin Sean answered and he was not happy to see us. “Wait downstairs. We’re just getting some food in him. He’ll be down.” There was nothing to do but comply with his instructions.
“This guy ain’t coming down,” Vic said. “Did you see how fucked up he was?” I tried to explain that, yes he was indeed extremely fucked up but he does function on that level more often than not. There was still a chance.
When I got downstairs I saw various members of the band and crew heading out for a nightcap or a bite to eat. They were all friendly though clearly surprised to see me there. The doorman asked me if I could put in a good word with the band to visit his friend’s bar around the corner. I told him I would see what I could do. I waited downstairs for almost two hours during which time I tried a variety of things including sending the woman I had seen him talking to in his room up for him and most notably, calling B.P. at the club and giving him Shane’s room number. He told me he thought calling him at that point would only aggravate the situation. Some partner. This little leprechaun’s credibility with me was dwindling at an alarming rate. It was almost three in the morning. I had to take immediate action so I went into the bar and knocked back two whiskies.
I tried to go back up to the room but the elevator wouldn’t go upstairs. The manager told me that after hours if I didn’t have a key card I was not allowed upstairs. The doorman, who I had been chatting with, rushed to my aid.
“Do you have any idea who this guy is? He’s with the band. You have to let him up to fourteen.” The manager apologized, used his card and I was off. I knocked on Shane’s door loudly. I was pissed.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Ben from downstairs.”
“Who?”
“Ben from the Death Disco party.”
“Who?”
“I’m wearing your fucking tie!” A moment later, Shane MacGowan came to the door.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I can’t go.”
“With all due respect, Shane, I’ve been downstairs for over two fucking hours. Exactly when were you planning on telling me that?”
“I’m sorry.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Can you at least invite me in and give me a moment of your time?” He opened the door and stood aside, gesturing for me to come in. When I walked in the room, it was just him and Sean. On the table was a bottle of gin, a bottle of wine, a barely-touched bowl of pasta and an untouched bowl of soup. I lit a cigarette and sat next to Shane on the arm of the couch.
“Shane, I want you to know something, whether you come to the gig or not, you’ve been a huge inspiration to me. I’m a playwright. Last year I had my first play produced four blocks from the Nokia Theater. I never would’ve become a writer if not for you.” He dismissed this notion with a wave of his hand. “It’s true. Kids listen to your music because it’s cool and there you are singing about James Joyce, Brendan Behan, Sean O’Casey, Frederica Garcia fucking Lorca, and they want to know who these people are. You’ve gotten Irish kids all over the world to read books. You’re more than a rock star to a lot of people. There are a lot of those people in Brooklyn tonight - working people who shelled out a bunch of money that they can’t afford and spent their entire Irish holiday waiting for you, just to get a glimpse of their hero. I’ve got a car downstairs. I’ve got your wine in the car. It’s a ten minute drive. Get in the car, get on stage, say happy St. Patrick’s day, play a song, get back in the car and I’ll have you back here in a half hour. Please, Shane, show these people that you care.” I was proud of this speech. Had I known it was going to come to that moment and had taken the time to prepare a speech, I don’t think it would’ve been much different. I think I saw a tear well up in Shane’s eyes but it was hard to tell as they were fairly glazed over to begin with.
“I gotta do the gigs, Ben - the big gigs at the theater. I’m sorry, Ben. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I had done all I could do. “Tell B.P. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to him. I’ll tell him myself.”
“I can make that happen right now.” I took out my cell phone and called the club. “Put B.P. on the phone. Shane MacGowan wants to talk to him.” The following phone conversation was slightly less amicable than I expected.
“I’ll do it tomorrow… fuck you, B.P. You want me to die? I could fucking die!...” When the conversation was over, he handed back my phone, looked me in the eye and said, “So, do you have a play up in the city that I can see while I’m here?”
“No,” I said. I had never felt so defeated in my life.
“You wanna come see the show tomorrow?”
“I gotta work at the pub tomorrow. But maybe there is something you can do. Maybe you can get me a few tickets for Sunday so I can bring a couple of the folks involved in the party tonight, maybe soften the blow a bit. Bring them backstage to meet you.”
“Sean, make that happen. Give him your number, yeah.” Sean, who had sat quietly the whole time and let us talk gave me his number and told me to call him the next day. I thanked them both and left the room, sick to my stomach with disbelief that I was leaving alone. During the ride home, I tried to convince myself that I had gotten further than anyone else could have. To this day I believe that’s true but it was small consolation. I was on my way to tell a nightclub full of people that I had failed them.
On the way back to Southpaw I teetered between rage and depression. I called Mikey, in Austin promoting events for the South by Southwest Festival, to break the news to him. Unbeknownst to me, his headliner out there, hip hop legend Big Daddy Kane, had just bailed on him. This news coming on top of that was too much for him. He broke down in tears and locked himself in his hotel room for a day while having a self-described nervous breakdown.
By the time I got back to the club, there weren’t many people left, as most folks had gotten wind of what was happening or had figured it out for themselves. I went on stage with B.P. who said something (I wasn’t really listening) and then I apologized on Shane’s behalf and told everyone that the club was refunding all their money and buying everyone a shot of Jameson’s. Everyone was very supportive and no one blamed me for the debacle,but it was impossible not to feel like I had let them all down. I then sat at the bar and after that another bar and drank myself into a stupor.
I took the jeers and drank the beers and crawled back home at dawn and I ended up a barman in the morning - Sally Maclennane
I spoke with Sean the following evening and as promised, he extended me every courtesy. My tickets and VIP passes awaited me at will call. At the show, my friends and I went into the VIP area, ordered drinks and waited for the show to start. Sean came up before the band went on to make sure we were all sorted out. Again, it was one fuck of a show. As drained as I felt, it was nice to not have to worry about anything other than having a good time. After the show, we went into the VIP room and drank with the band and their families and friends. The entire Pogues organization treated me with a great deal of respect, especially Sean Fay - the man B.P. Fallon had told me wasn’t a very nice man.
As the party dwindled down, Sean came and said that I could go back and see him with one other person. He chose my friend Jody for no other reason than her gender. I needed to look in the man’s face and know that he knew who I was. He did. Lying on his couch, I thanked him for everything. I introduced him to Jody (it took him four attempts to pronounce her name correctly) and told him she was the woman who had produced my play.
“But you said you didn’t have a play going on right now.”
“I don’t. It was the... Never mind. Cheers.” We had a drink and Sean took some pictures. We then rejoined our group and went out drinking. I awoke the next morning with a PM tattoo on my ankle (the symbol for their Pogue Mahone record label) and a hangover for the ages. In the end it was all worth it. I related this tale to a friend who remarked at how sad it is when one loses a hero. But I didn’t. I knew who the man was before I ever met him. I had heard the stories. Everything that he had done for me with his music and his words still held up - even more so.
I got an email from Sean Fay a few days ago announcing the Pogues upcoming U.S. tour. They’ll be in New York (you guessed it) Saint Patrick’s Day weekend. I’m getting tickets. I think I’ll just go as fan this time. Unless, of course, someone asks me to be something more.
By Ben Carlin
It was well after four a.m., when Mikey Palms, the owner of the local rock club told me that he may have an opportunity to book Shane MacGowan, the lead singer for Irish punk band The Pogues, to DJ a party on St. Patrick’s Day. At first I was skeptical as anyone with knowledge of Shane's track record would be. He was going to be in town to play four nights at the Nokia Theater with the Pogues, whom he had recently reunited with and the plan was for him to come to Southpaw, Mikey’s club, after one of the gigs. Shane had been doing a series of successful parties called Death Disco with a man named B.P. Fallon who had proposed the idea to put one on in Brooklyn while he was in town. I had been knocking back a few with Bill Carney when Mikey told us about it. Bill, who knows Mikey well from playing at the club in his various musical aliases, warned him against it. “The guys unreliable. Don’t risk your club’s reputation on him.” He summed it up with an emphatic, “Don’t fucking do it, Mikey!”
I had introduced Mikey to the music of the Pogues when we were kids and he knew that I was a huge fan. My position was, “But what if he does show and on St. Patrick’s Day? That would be a truly special thing for the club, the neighborhood and Brooklyn as a whole.” From the expression on Mikey’s face, I knew my argument had won the day, or the dawn as it were.
After dropping a few not-too-subtle hints that I wanted to be involved, the Death Disco party blossomed from an idea being tossed about to a reality. I was asked by Mike to help out. My job was to pick Shane MacGowan up from the venue in Manhattan and bring him to Brooklyn. Perfect.
The general sentiment in the neighborhood, as I gleefully told anyone who would listen about my assignment, was optimistically doubtful; ‘If anyone can get him there, you can.’ My thoughts exactly. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be successful. My arrogance had served me well in the past. ‘I’m Ben Carlin. I make things happen in this town.
Sit down by the fire and I’ll tell you a story to send you away to your bed, of the things you hear creeping when everyone’s sleeping and you wish you were out here instead - Sit Down by the Fire
In 2006, St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Friday. The first Pogues show was on Thursday. I went to the theater where B.P had left me an all-access pass at will call. The plan was for me to see the show, pass out some flyers for the gig in Brooklyn and, above all, to meet Shane so when I arrived the following night he would know who I was and be comfortable with me. I wandered about the theater getting to know the lay of the land and found B.P. backstage. I was introduced to Spider Stacey, another of my Pogues heroes and then I was pretty much left to my own devices for the duration of the show.
I was on line ordering a Jameson when I heard the Pogues take the stage. Shane’s unmistakable voice roared the lyrics to “Streams of Whiskey” and I took my drink and rushed into the theater. Shane looked remarkably healthy as he belted out song after song, plastic cup filled with gin and cigarette in hand the whole time. He never missed a beat. At one point, I don’t remember what song, Spider made a dedication to everyone in the audience unless their name was Ben. I mused on that for a brief moment but was soon caught up in the performance once again. They were great - it was one fuck of a show.
When the cocert was over, I made my way towards back stage but it was locked down. Even an all-access pass didn’t qualify me for entry. Standing at the stage door, feeling somewhat like an asshole, I ran into a woman friend whom I have known since Junior High School, who happens to be Jem Finer’s (the Pogues' banjo player) first cousin. Apparently family ties weren’t sufficient credentials either so we made our way to the VIP room for the after-party. Before long the members of the band made their way to the party. I met them all; still, no Shane and even more distressing, no sign of B.P Fallon. Ella Finer, Jem’s daughter, who sang “a Fairytale in New York” with Shane during the encore, was nice enough to go backstage to find B.P. for me. He found me and escorted me to Shane’s dressing room.
Entering this room was a truly bizarre experience. I found myself tip-toeing as if one misstep would blow the whole thing. There were several people milling about and it actually took me a moment before I noticed Shane, a pale shade of green, lying on a couch in the center of the room. B.P. introduced us and he invited me to sit. He laughed at me in a good natured way and said, “I know what you’re thinking. You think I won’t come. But me and B.P have done this a hundred times. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“I have no doubt,” I said and I started to relax.
Spider Stacey had joined us and I thought it a good opportunity to get to the bottom of the whole "unless-their-name-is-Ben" thing. As it turns out, I was indeed the Ben he was referring to but for no other reason than I was the last person he met before going on stage so the name stuck in his head and he thought it was funny. He apologized, unnecessarily, and asked what my favorite Pogues song was.
“The Boys from County Hell.”
“Tomorrow night, St. Patrick’s Day, I will dedicate the Boys from County Hell to you.” He did. A nicer man than Spider Stacey you’ll rarely meet.
Shane sat up and offered me a drink from the bottle of rose wine he was using to chase his pint of gin. I gladly accepted. We sat there talking while B.P. walked around us snapping pictures with his digital camera.
“Ben,” he asked, “what’s your last name?”
“Carlin,” I replied pronouncing the first syllable like a pirate in a ludicrous attempt to make it sound more than Irish than it actually is.
“Good. Good. So, Ben, I’m a little worried about getting to the gig tomorrow.”
“Which gig?”
“This one. You’re taking me to Brooklyn, yeah?”
“Right. What’s your worry?”
“Saint Patrick’s Day in New York City.” He leaned in. “Making our way across town through the piss and the puke and the blood.”
“It’s been a while you spent a Paddy’s day here. It’s not like it used to be.”
“A bit tamer, yeah?”
“Well, for one thing, the cops aren’t drunk anymore.”
“That’s a good thing, yeah?”
“I guess.” We laughed. We touched glasses and drank. We got along.
I decided to leave with dignity before I got too drunk which, in hindsight seemed silly given the company, but the next night I would be there on official business. Before I left Shane stood up, a feat that seemed remarkable at the time, gave me a hug and looked me the eye.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Absolutely.” I left, elated - not usually the type to get star-struck. After several whiskies in numerous bars in two boroughs, I went home and listened to Pogues records way too loud for my neighbors taste. In the wee hours of the morning, I finally slept.
So drunk to hell, I left the place, sometimes crawling, sometimes walking. A hungry sound came across the breeze so I gave the walls a talking. - A Pair of Brown Eyes
Friday would have been unbearable if not for the adrenaline that coursed through my veins. If I could bottle it and sell it as a hangover cure, I would surely be a millionaire. I arrived at Southpaw around nine in my black suit, black shirt with a black silk pocket square in my breast pocket. Written into the delivery contract was for an off-duty police officer to escort Shane. Through a detective friend of mine I enlisted the services of one of his colleagues, Vic, who met me at the club as we waited for the limo. B.P. was running around like a madman, barking orders at various flunkies and sorting out the bands he had booked to play the early part of the gig. When the limo arrived I asked him if there was anything else I needed to know.
“Just remember, if anyone asks you anything, you don’t know anything,” he said. This confused me as I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that I wasn’t supposed to know. I never found out. “Sean Fay, Shane’s cousin, he isn’t a very nice man. He’s jealous of me and my friendship with Shane, so watch out for him. Also the rest of the band doesn’t want him to do the party. That’s all. Off you go. Good luck to ya.”
I successfully suppressed the unmistakable feeling of impending doom. I had a job to do. Vic and I got in the black SUV limo and headed for Times Square. I had secured two all-access passes the previous night so getting into the club wasn’t a problem. Our timing couldn’t have been better. The band was playing the last song of the encore, “Fiesta,” as we approached the stage door. I called the road manager on his UK cell which seemed to be the only phone in the world that got service in the venue - slightly ironic in a place called the Nokia Theater. He let us in and told us to wait in the family room. He was extremely helpful. I saw Spider, the Finer girls, the rest of the band and they all greeted me warmly but kept their distance. This I attributed to two things - the imposing cop figure I was with, who clearly had no interest in the Pogues or anyone else in the room, and, more likely, the job I was there to do. I felt like an invader; an unwanted disruption in an otherwise tranquil camp; a saboteur. I felt like Yoko Ono.
I was receiving mixed signals from different people - some who said he was going to Brooklyn and some who said he wasn’t. A story came out about paramedics having to come backstage after I had left the previous night. I was consistently prevented from going into Shane’s room but when faced with an un-monitored opportunity, I slipped in. Shane was sitting upright on his couch talking with a woman. I sat in a chair across from him.
“Hello, Shane. Remember me?”
“Of course I do. You’re the fella’s taking me to Brooklyn, yeah? Ben. You’re looking a bit sharper than you did last night. But I think you need a tie. You want a tie?” He took the green tie that was draped from around his neck and handed it to me. I thanked him and draped it around my own neck, concealing the thrill and maintaining my focus.
“So we are going to Brooklyn, then?”
“I said I was going, yeah? I’m going. Just have to go back to the hotel first and have a bit of lie down.” I didn’t like the sound of that.
I was discovered and ushered from the room. Everyone who had seemed so forthcoming previously suddenly ceased to be helpful in any way. While I was being given all sorts of contradictory information and told where to go and what to do they managed to get Shane out of the theater. I had been duped. I felt conflicted. I understood the opposition to Shane’s trip to King’s County and I couldn’t completely disagree with it. But I had made a commitment. Vic and I rushed to the limo and recalling a hazy conversation I had had with Jem Finer the previous night, I told the driver where to go. “Downtown. The Rivington Hotel.”
“Where is it exactly?”
“On Rivington. I’ll find out.” I tried to call information but apparently, the hotel is actually called Hotel Thor on Rivington. Who knew? We raced downtown, the hilarity of being in an SUV limo chasing Shane MacGowan’s bus through the streets of New York on St. Patrick’s not lost on me. Luckily enough we found the hotel without difficulty. When we got out, the doorman assumed we were the band.
“Welcome back, Gentlemen.”
On the ground floor of the hotel, there is an awfully pretentious bar and we had to go one flight up for reception.
“Shane MacGowan’s room,” I said to the woman behind the desk.
“How do you spell it?” I told her. “Room 1426. Fourteenth floor.”
We got in the elevator. That was when I took stock in our appearance - me in my black suit and Vic in his three quarter leather trench coat, tight black t-shirt, slicked back slightly receding black hair. Needless to say, the security at the Hotel Thor was not wielding a mighty hammer. We looked like move hit men and we could have easily whacked the Pogues.
When I knocked on the door of Shane’s room, his cousin Sean answered and he was not happy to see us. “Wait downstairs. We’re just getting some food in him. He’ll be down.” There was nothing to do but comply with his instructions.
“This guy ain’t coming down,” Vic said. “Did you see how fucked up he was?” I tried to explain that, yes he was indeed extremely fucked up but he does function on that level more often than not. There was still a chance.
When I got downstairs I saw various members of the band and crew heading out for a nightcap or a bite to eat. They were all friendly though clearly surprised to see me there. The doorman asked me if I could put in a good word with the band to visit his friend’s bar around the corner. I told him I would see what I could do. I waited downstairs for almost two hours during which time I tried a variety of things including sending the woman I had seen him talking to in his room up for him and most notably, calling B.P. at the club and giving him Shane’s room number. He told me he thought calling him at that point would only aggravate the situation. Some partner. This little leprechaun’s credibility with me was dwindling at an alarming rate. It was almost three in the morning. I had to take immediate action so I went into the bar and knocked back two whiskies.
I tried to go back up to the room but the elevator wouldn’t go upstairs. The manager told me that after hours if I didn’t have a key card I was not allowed upstairs. The doorman, who I had been chatting with, rushed to my aid.
“Do you have any idea who this guy is? He’s with the band. You have to let him up to fourteen.” The manager apologized, used his card and I was off. I knocked on Shane’s door loudly. I was pissed.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Ben from downstairs.”
“Who?”
“Ben from the Death Disco party.”
“Who?”
“I’m wearing your fucking tie!” A moment later, Shane MacGowan came to the door.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I can’t go.”
“With all due respect, Shane, I’ve been downstairs for over two fucking hours. Exactly when were you planning on telling me that?”
“I’m sorry.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Can you at least invite me in and give me a moment of your time?” He opened the door and stood aside, gesturing for me to come in. When I walked in the room, it was just him and Sean. On the table was a bottle of gin, a bottle of wine, a barely-touched bowl of pasta and an untouched bowl of soup. I lit a cigarette and sat next to Shane on the arm of the couch.
“Shane, I want you to know something, whether you come to the gig or not, you’ve been a huge inspiration to me. I’m a playwright. Last year I had my first play produced four blocks from the Nokia Theater. I never would’ve become a writer if not for you.” He dismissed this notion with a wave of his hand. “It’s true. Kids listen to your music because it’s cool and there you are singing about James Joyce, Brendan Behan, Sean O’Casey, Frederica Garcia fucking Lorca, and they want to know who these people are. You’ve gotten Irish kids all over the world to read books. You’re more than a rock star to a lot of people. There are a lot of those people in Brooklyn tonight - working people who shelled out a bunch of money that they can’t afford and spent their entire Irish holiday waiting for you, just to get a glimpse of their hero. I’ve got a car downstairs. I’ve got your wine in the car. It’s a ten minute drive. Get in the car, get on stage, say happy St. Patrick’s day, play a song, get back in the car and I’ll have you back here in a half hour. Please, Shane, show these people that you care.” I was proud of this speech. Had I known it was going to come to that moment and had taken the time to prepare a speech, I don’t think it would’ve been much different. I think I saw a tear well up in Shane’s eyes but it was hard to tell as they were fairly glazed over to begin with.
“I gotta do the gigs, Ben - the big gigs at the theater. I’m sorry, Ben. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I had done all I could do. “Tell B.P. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to him. I’ll tell him myself.”
“I can make that happen right now.” I took out my cell phone and called the club. “Put B.P. on the phone. Shane MacGowan wants to talk to him.” The following phone conversation was slightly less amicable than I expected.
“I’ll do it tomorrow… fuck you, B.P. You want me to die? I could fucking die!...” When the conversation was over, he handed back my phone, looked me in the eye and said, “So, do you have a play up in the city that I can see while I’m here?”
“No,” I said. I had never felt so defeated in my life.
“You wanna come see the show tomorrow?”
“I gotta work at the pub tomorrow. But maybe there is something you can do. Maybe you can get me a few tickets for Sunday so I can bring a couple of the folks involved in the party tonight, maybe soften the blow a bit. Bring them backstage to meet you.”
“Sean, make that happen. Give him your number, yeah.” Sean, who had sat quietly the whole time and let us talk gave me his number and told me to call him the next day. I thanked them both and left the room, sick to my stomach with disbelief that I was leaving alone. During the ride home, I tried to convince myself that I had gotten further than anyone else could have. To this day I believe that’s true but it was small consolation. I was on my way to tell a nightclub full of people that I had failed them.
On the way back to Southpaw I teetered between rage and depression. I called Mikey, in Austin promoting events for the South by Southwest Festival, to break the news to him. Unbeknownst to me, his headliner out there, hip hop legend Big Daddy Kane, had just bailed on him. This news coming on top of that was too much for him. He broke down in tears and locked himself in his hotel room for a day while having a self-described nervous breakdown.
By the time I got back to the club, there weren’t many people left, as most folks had gotten wind of what was happening or had figured it out for themselves. I went on stage with B.P. who said something (I wasn’t really listening) and then I apologized on Shane’s behalf and told everyone that the club was refunding all their money and buying everyone a shot of Jameson’s. Everyone was very supportive and no one blamed me for the debacle,but it was impossible not to feel like I had let them all down. I then sat at the bar and after that another bar and drank myself into a stupor.
I took the jeers and drank the beers and crawled back home at dawn and I ended up a barman in the morning - Sally Maclennane
I spoke with Sean the following evening and as promised, he extended me every courtesy. My tickets and VIP passes awaited me at will call. At the show, my friends and I went into the VIP area, ordered drinks and waited for the show to start. Sean came up before the band went on to make sure we were all sorted out. Again, it was one fuck of a show. As drained as I felt, it was nice to not have to worry about anything other than having a good time. After the show, we went into the VIP room and drank with the band and their families and friends. The entire Pogues organization treated me with a great deal of respect, especially Sean Fay - the man B.P. Fallon had told me wasn’t a very nice man.
As the party dwindled down, Sean came and said that I could go back and see him with one other person. He chose my friend Jody for no other reason than her gender. I needed to look in the man’s face and know that he knew who I was. He did. Lying on his couch, I thanked him for everything. I introduced him to Jody (it took him four attempts to pronounce her name correctly) and told him she was the woman who had produced my play.
“But you said you didn’t have a play going on right now.”
“I don’t. It was the... Never mind. Cheers.” We had a drink and Sean took some pictures. We then rejoined our group and went out drinking. I awoke the next morning with a PM tattoo on my ankle (the symbol for their Pogue Mahone record label) and a hangover for the ages. In the end it was all worth it. I related this tale to a friend who remarked at how sad it is when one loses a hero. But I didn’t. I knew who the man was before I ever met him. I had heard the stories. Everything that he had done for me with his music and his words still held up - even more so.
I got an email from Sean Fay a few days ago announcing the Pogues upcoming U.S. tour. They’ll be in New York (you guessed it) Saint Patrick’s Day weekend. I’m getting tickets. I think I’ll just go as fan this time. Unless, of course, someone asks me to be something more.
