what are you laughing at?

I had heard the stories. I had heard the live recordings-the ones where he forgets the words and slurs his way through the chorus hoping the all-knowing loyal-to-the-end audience will fill in the blanks. I had even seen the pictures, like this one here:

or here:

or here:

but not until you see it in person will you ever know the true nature of a Shane McGowan performance. I say "a Shane McGowan performance" and not "Shane McGowan" because I don't know the man and I am losing tolerance of fans and critics assuming they know a person under the spotlight of public attention beyond what is shown in the actual spotlight.

The Shane McGowan performance is one that is experienced in stages:

First: Horror. What makes the sight of this sad, drunk man horrifying isn't that he falls off the stage, takes his pants off, pees on the accordion player, or calls all the women in the front row whores. Because, he doesn't do any of that. Perhaps he did at one point in his youth when his liver allowed for more vibrancy, but he didn't do it last night at the 9:30 Club.

No, if he had actually done these things, the reaction wouldn't be so much of horror, but rather of redundancy. The horror comes from the stillness, the calm, the resignation of the rest of the band to the slobbered, slurred rants, the random walks offstage and the overall sense that this man really may not know where he is. The horror also comes, at least in my case, from the fact that this talented songwriter and vocalist (when sober) sounds like complete and utter shite, forgetting the words at least 25% of the time and mumbling out the rest in an incoherent blaze of rasp and spittle. After the first song, I felt overwhelmingly grateful that I hadn't spent my own money on the ticket.

Second: Anger. If I had spent money on the ticket I have no doubt that the feeling that would have inevitably blocked my enjoying the rest of the concert would have been anger. Anger at the cost of the damn thing. Anger at the fact that I came out of my nice warm home to deal with a large crowd that never fails to trigger my anxiety. Anger at the fact that this is a really good band (and the rest of the band did a really terrific job) that is being overshadowed by their trainwreck of a frontman.

Third and final: Pity and sadness. Finally, after an hour or more of spouting telepathic curses at the poor man, your ire relents and, looking around at the crowd shaking their heads in patronizing good-humour (Oh, Shane) and laughing outright at his between song outtakes, you realize that this whole situation is really truly sad. I know I may sound like an old stick in the mud, and maybe Mr. McGowan doesn't want my pity/support/defense but jesus christ, the man needs help! Now, I know that sounds naive because obviously the man has been through rehab, been kicked out of the band and experienced numerous other ramifications due to his lifestyle, but it is my feeling that because of that knowledge, these so-called fans are the credulous ones. What kind of support is it to simultaneously cheer and jeer a man broken by addiction? This kind of "fan-base" smacks reminiscent of Britney Spears "fans" reading US Weekly and watching TMZ in wait for the next commando flash or paparazzi love affair.

Now, I know what some of you will say: you love the music, you are supporting the band. I get it. A lot of musicians I have supported over the years have dealt with similar issues. I guess what I'm railing against most of all is the crowd's reaction to and treatment of the issue. Doesn't anyone else see the line drawn between happy-go-lucky pint-swigging Irishmen and a man battling the demon of alcoholism?