The Pogues – O2 Academy, Birmingham, – Friday 2nd May 2025

Don’t ever change

So shouted a clearly overwhelmed Spider Stacy, his words directed at the audience and this city, given the frankly bonkers reception given he and this hugely augmented big band celebration of the iconic band. “You’ve been the best audience yet“, he hollered, which, on day 2 of the tour may come as somewhat a sot to the citizens of Leeds, but, London aside, is there a more Irish city than Brum, the diaspora spread thickly here over the centuries?

It was clear something was up, as the streets around the station filled up with gentlemen of a certain age, nailing their often somewhat stretched colours to the mast. But enough about me, what was surprising was the range of ages, with many, very many unlikely to have even been a glimmer, back when the band were first strutting their stuff. Sure, there were also many who must surely have squeezed into The Powerhouse, actually just around the corner, or it was, 39 years ago, for a shocking introduction to the frenzy and fol-de-rol of Shane in his prime, but I was less expecting their grandchildren. But they were all welcome, the camaraderie and good humour spilling over, like the pints shaken and splattered stageward, as the mosh commenced.

No prisoners and no fools

But, before that there was the matter of who could possibly provide adequate or appropriate support. I have to say that Stick In The Wheel were an inspired choice. In duo mode, Nicola Kearey and Ian Carter, with occasional drums and percussion from Siân Monaghan, seldom can so much sound emanate from so few. Kearey takes no prisoners and suffers no fools, her poker face and unflinching stare even a concern to herself: “I should smile more, they say“, she deadpans, unable then to quench a wry and unselfconscious grin.

With what looked a hybrid guitar/dobro, Carter thrashed his instrument into a layered feedback of submission, over which Kearey could snarl her barbs. (Can you snarl sweetly? She can.) With around 40 minutes to play with, the concentration was on shorter and punchier songs, although the visceral onslaught was leavened with a reading/recitation offered by Kearey as balance. With little overt traction between the sound of their style and the band they were supporting, it was irrespective a marriage of spirit and temperament, to which the respectful audience gave full attention.

OTT ejaculations of delight

Respect then went out the window, as the lights dimmed, the room lurching as one, into a maelstrom of mosh, all doused liberally with the cooling shower of hurled drinks. This was mob mentality of adulation and awe, a gang wrought by glee. Onstage, there were loads of ’em. Taking on the role of MC, Spider Stacy handled most the stage announcements, introductions and OTT ejaculations of delight.

The more studious looking figures of Jem Finer and James Fearnley, similarly booted and suited, beamed in the spotlight, each seeming a little bemused. Stretched about them were a mass of microphone stands, chairs, a drum kit with the biggest old bass drum you have ever seen, a harp and Lord knows what else. Recognisable figures included Lankum’s Daragh Lynch, on acoustic guitar, with female bassist, Holly Mullineaux, from Goat Girl, falling into Cait O’Riordan’s footprint. (With all due respect to the late Darryl Hunt, Pogues bass seems better with a woman at that helm.)

MOST CERTAINLY THERE ON STAGE

Wasting no time, it was straight into the music the ensemble burst, with The Sick Bed Of Cúchulainn, the opening track from the anniversary album. Pandemonium!! Stacy clearly registering this, immediately he made sure we knew who here was present this night, introducing those already on stage. And, if I got this correctly, this was Jordan O’Leary on banjo, a sitting Fiachra Meek, uillean pipe and whistles, and John Dermody behind the kit, or kits, there seeming several.

There were a number of women on stage too, welcomed as Nadia Shah and Iona Zajac, adding their vocal chorale to the sway. But, unsurprisingly, the biggest cheer came for the elephant so clearly not in the room, whose passing arguably was the blue touch paper to legitimise this gathering, at least amongst the hard core faithful; Stacy gave praise and thanks to Shane MacGowan, citing that he most certainly was there on stage with them all. And, you know, it would be hard to deny.

IN THE ABSENCE OF CRYSTAL CLEAR HI-FIDELITY…

Giving the sound and fury of the opener and the introductions no time to bed in, it was straight into the mania of instrumental Wildcats Of Kilkenny that followed, instrumntal, that is, beyond the curdling screams and hollers from all concerned. Fearnley’s accordion was already getting stretched wider than an albatross wingspan, amidst flailing guitars and banjo, and it was as if the intervening years were but yesterday. Vocal duties shared out between Stacy and the guests, it was Shah who took up pole position for A Pair Of Brown Eyes. Did she deliver, for this most plangent of MacGowan’s compositions? Probably, is the best I can suggest, as all standing, either side the lights, were too singing it all too, word perfect.

In truth, had you wished to attend and witness any crystal clear hi-fidelity performance, this was probably not the night. Needing volume to be heard above the packed in punters, the strained sound system struggled to discern individual voices and instruments. As if anyone cared.

Pure Poguetry

Iona Zajac was called up next, with her harp transported from the back to the front of the stage, delivering first Billy’s Bones and then a righteously defiant Navigator, joined now by the impossibly tall figure of John Joseph Flynn, whose booming tone was strong enough to break through any earlier restraints. With the band not restricting themselves solely to Rum, Sodomy & The Lash, a couple of offerings from the terrific Poguetry In Motion EP, and more later, were shoe-horned into the set, not innappropriately, as later editions of the the album included both this EP and a couple of other b-sides from singles.

Suddenly it was apparent that Nicola Kearey was back on the stage, if unrecognisable on account her obvious pleasure. Staying for a couple of songs, The Gentleman Soldier was certainly a good fit. One of the more touching, and quieter, moments came with Zajac’s touching rendition of the traditional I’m A Man You Don’t Meet Every Day. Astonishingly, this was the first time I felt myself drawn to any comparison with the Sharon Shannon Big Band MacGowan tribute concerts of last year, which had given Cait O’Riordan a chance to reprise her original vocal performance. With no sense of competition, a score draw was declared, with little to compare. If anything, Zajac was able to emphasise more greatly any arguable innocence of the narrator.

NIGHT MADE

As the evening matured finely, a rousing version of The Old Main Drag, from Shah, and a (slightly more) delicate The Parting Glass, from Zajac had me beginning to look at my watch and recall the as yet unsung songs, given the non-appearance, thus far, of one hotly anticipated guest. As if to answer my concern, lo and behold, on then skipped a tiny and elfin figure. Yes, it was Lisa O’Neill, come to make my night, which she promptly did, taking a shared vocal lead for Dirty Old Town.

Even with the audience now upping the volume of their own rendition, her husky brogue just about broke through. We had also been introduced to a three piece horn section, sadly largely inaudible, bar an occasional blast. Peering through the haze to try and see them, the heroic figure of Finer could now be seen, giving it max to a hurdy gurdy, with some concentration in his fervour. Again, it was sadly more for appearance tonight, buried, too, deep in the melée of the mix.

MIGHTY AND MAGNIFICENT

Sticking with O’Neill, it was a wonderful Rainy Night In Soho that she then led, this at last allowing in some parps from the brass, as it built to glorious finale. Two or three more and it became apparent things were winding down. The last track on the record is the majestic Eric Bogle anti-war song, And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda. With Flynn taking charge, the whole stage was packed, and the version was mighty and magnificent. With dry eyes clearly last year’s thing, all looked a little expectantly around them, there seeming no suggestion anyone was about to vacate the stage. Throwing together a ramshackle London Girl, replete with “Poguette” bvs from O’Neill, Zajac and Shah, only after its conclusion did Stacy happen to mention it had been the last song, before they all trooped off.

Final full fusillade

Clearly that was not going to be allowed, cheers breaking out after an initial stunned silence. No suggestion of house lights sustained the demand for more, and, after a sufficiently polite delay, back they all came, sweatily satisfied all had seemed to go so swingingly well, for a final fusillade. Not the usual one or two songs, we were given a full five fingered handful, starting with, to raptures of delight, The Irish Rover. Streams Of Whiskey and The Boys Of County Hell showed of all the punk inherent in their celtic roll, ahead bringing the ceiling slowly back down, with Dark Streets Of London and a closing Sally MacLennane. What a wonderful, wonderful night, as they again melted into the wings, the capacity crowd too awestruck and agog to even ask for more.

Back again for the next anniversary? I don’t know, noting it still a year or three for If I Should Fall From Grace to reach the same longevity. That feels currently a very long time. We will have to see……..

Cheeky wee video

Here’s a cheeky wee video we found, from the night before, with thanks and credit to Ben Coffey.

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