Shane McGowan
Watched a sad documentary on the former lead singer of the Pogues, the brilliant lyricist who wrote “Fairytale of New York”:
It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
Toothless and seemingly lobotomized by drink, his wife seemed like a care-giver to a retarded person. She laughed at his incoherent gags and jokes and it was painful to watch, painful because it juxtaposed by interviews when he was young and sane and coherent and full of potential. But at the same time inspiring given his wife's unconditional love. Now he lurches from bar to bar, followed by cameras over period of months. So sad that his lyricism and sublime voice were purchased at the cost of so many brain cells. Art is a jealous god, more taking than giving.
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