***
By 1988 The Pogues
had released three excellent albums, each one surpassing the other.
Regardless, Peace
and Love is, for this writer, the finest moment of the London-Irish act’s
career. No mean feat it has to be said, but I appreciate that there won’t be a
swathe of fans agreeing with me.
In some ways, it
is a peculiar component of the Pogues’ canon, receiving bemused reviews in
Britain, although the response was generally better in the United States.
The demo sessions
apparently went well, but by the time they got into the studio Shane MacGowan’s
acid and alcohol intake had reached peak levels, affecting his voice. Producer
Steve Lillywhite, however, used his technical magic to hide its flaws. The
theme slanted toward London rather than their spiritual homeland Ireland, a
move that did not endear them to everyone.
Regardless of all
of this, it’s an album I can play over and over and not become tired of. Peace
and Love has a timeless quality; it beguiles and bewitches. It can also be
infuriating, but this doesn’t detract from its depth.
One of two
standouts was penned, not by MacGowan, but by veteran folkie Terry Woods.
‘Gartloney Rats’ adjoins ‘The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn’ (off Rum, Sodomy, and the
Lash) for its numerous references to alcohol, with the tale of a village band
that would “never get drunk but stay sober”. It clocks in at 2:32 but feels
much longer given its pace and endless lyrics that Woods rattles off sharply.
Woods and Ron
Kavana’s ‘Young Ned of The Hill’ is in the same vein, the speedy winger of the
piece, and one with some bite, cursing Oliver Cromwell who “raped our Mother
Land” but finding that, in the likes of “gallant men” like Ned Hill, Ireland
will always have an iron will.
MacGowan’s ‘Down
All The Days’ is about Christy Brown, “a clown around town”, who types with his
toes and sucks snout through his nose. Suitably, the song begins with the
clatter of a typewriter. The final verse includes the lines “I’ve never been
asked, and I never replied, If I supported the Glasgow Rangers” in reference to
the black and white nature of the green and the blue of Scotland’s largest
city’s twin towers of football.
‘Boat Train’
returns to binge drinking as MacGowan’s drunken character brings up most of the
booze on the gangway and requires help to get on the boat, before indulging in
songs and poker games as he somehow makes his way to London.
As with If I
Should Fall From Grace With God, the album released the year previous, the
musical influences hop from one area to another, with the opening instrumental
‘Gridlock’ easing out of jazz central; ‘Cotton Fields’ has a suitably calypso/Louisiana
feel; ‘USA’ – again set in the southern States – has a taste of banjo but
neither of the latter tracks are what you would consider indigenous music as
the Pogues very much put their own stamp all over it.
And then there’s
the tale of lost love in the magnificent ‘Lorelei’, written by Philip Chevron
with Kirsty MacColl on backing vocals and the mournful ‘Misty Morning, Albert
Bridge’ – both of these songs are among the best the band ever did.
Given the discord
that clouded over The Pogues in 1989 it’s remarkable that Peace and Love is as
good as it is; but perhaps this bedlam was what the band thrived on.
It was, in effect,
the last hurrah: yes, 1990’s Hell’s Ditch was better than the critics would
have us believe, but even then it couldn’t touch any of the four previous
albums. And that was effectively it, MacGowan was too fucked up to carry on and
the band plodded on, but really it was all over.
And before you
leave take a peek at the cover featuring the brylcreemed Scottish boxer, who
never made it out of the bottom of the undercard, and his right hand.
***
PS: (Intrigued by Craig's closing salvo, I did some
research on the story behind the cover photo and found these comments from MacGowan and Chevron
– Ed)
Shane MacGowan:
"Nobody seems to know who it is. He obviously wasn't very good cause he
didn't get very far (laughs). I like boxin', watchin' it. I don't like doin' it!
But anyway somebody, I forget who, found this glass negative of this boxer with
no name and we put peace and love on his fists. So he's like sayin' Peace And
Love or I'll bust your fuckin' head in.”
Philip Chevron:
“I'm a bit foggy on the details, but I think Simon Ryan, our designer, got the
picture from a photo library. The guy turned out to be a Scot, by then elderly,
but still alive and apparently not greatly chuffed by his new fame.”
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