It’s November 30, after dinner time in a hotel room in the town of Kumbakonam, Tamil Nadu, India. It’s not a pretty hotel room. And in a sketchy hotel. The town doesn’t boast a wide range of accommodation options and ‘well, it’s two nights only and I’m out most of the time anyway’. Like all days prior it’s been hot and humid in southern India today, the room’s fan is whizzing loudly. The puppeteer that makes the day’s laundry, hanging from the improvised laundry string that spans the width of the room, dance enthusiastically. Stretched out on the bed, I’ve laid my body to rest, tired from a day walking. Part of my daily routine while traveling through India for an extended period of time, is the end of day mobile phone indulgence. Messaging friends and family about today’s going-on and surprising food finds, cleaning photography clutter and a little toe-dip in the puddles of social media.
It’s there I read the message. ‘Oh Shane’. A social media note from a friend. Black backdrop, white letters, no picture, no explanation, but I instantly understand the meaning and a quick search confirms my fear: Shane MacGowan, The Pogues front man, has passed, age 65. His general approach to life and recent health concerns, it’s not something that comes as a big surprise, it’s a news update that fans and following have seen coming for a while, but it still hits me hard. Very hard. Maybe even harder than expected.
Shane and his The Pogues have been with me for a large chunk of my musical life. I sat with their music, I drank to their music, I often ran to their music too. It’s their unique sound, the energy, it’s Shane’s voice, and Spider Stacy’s tin whistle. It’s definitely all the beautiful band photography, and the stories too; stories of Irish displacement, the meaning of life, but also of pub brawls and booze. And of course, it’s the punk. Above all though, for me, it’s Shane’s writing. With his passing we lose one of the most profound writers of recent times. A writer of songs yes, but texts that don’t necessarily require instruments. Texts that carry the music in itself. Maybe that’s what poetry is.
‘Streams of Whiskey’ led me to reading Brendan Behan, another example of the Irish Voice. Borstal Boy, one of Behan’s prison memoirs, a wonderful book that easily stands the test of time and that still today could teach us all a lesson or two. Then take the lyrics of ‘A Pair of Brown Eyes’, followed by ‘A Rainy Night in Soho’ and within the course of a few minutes one stumbles through the pains of lost love and nostalgia, but also through appreciation for what is today, for dreaming and for everlasting love.
It’s December 16 when I write this. Is there ever a right time to start? The best ever Christmas song ‘Fairytale of New York’ rightfully tops this week’s Irish music charts, cold weather and snow have arrived here in Seoul and I’ve decided to share a bit of writing through this platform. Thoughts and musings like the above, about the things that strike (or bother) me, on what I come across while walking this immense city, and on photography too. Maybe more importantly, with photography too.
Early credits for whatever comes of this, are due for my friend Chris (find him here!) with whom I had a conversation and a few brews earlier this week. Ever the happy and humble guy he is, Chris is also one of the few people I know who is willing and capable of pushing others towards accountability. With the end of year looming and with a fresh, clean new year’s calendar awaiting us, what are your plans and when will you do it? I hear you Chris and I appreciate you for it.
So what better moment to write than now. Here’s to Shane MacGowan, to his pen and to the songs that will accompany me along the way.
Until next time,
Jitse
I'm not singing for the future I'm not dreaming of the past I'm not talking of the first times I never think about the last Now the song is nearly over We may never find out what it means Still there's a light I hold before me You're the measure of my dreams The measure of my dreams - The Pogues, A Rainy Night in Soho


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