{Download PDF} Here Comes Everybody: the Story of the Pogues

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James Fearnley, who became their accordionist, picked up the soubriquet "Maestro" on account of his ability to tune the band's instruments. The frontman Shane MacGowan — dyspraxic, unhygienic a description of his pee-on-a-tree technique is, er, sobering , so world-weary that he refused to credit the existence of goodness — was key. His songs touched an audience that expected nothing. Yet banjoist Jem Finer, the son of a university lecturer, drove the band forward, as determined as MacGowan was detached. The Pogues' singularity was recognised by their inspirations. Dylan invited them to tour, and they collaborated with the Dubliners, whose Ronnie Drew broke a vow never to spend the night in Ulster when the RUC took him in for drink-driving. He awoke complaining about the terrible accommodation. It wasn't all such larks. Intelligent adults, some of them family men, the Pogues compared touring life to the U-boat movie Das Boot. The gay guitarist Philip Chevron fixated on whomever he was rooming with. Shane simply sank for good. Although the classic line-up is still alive, the old road-crew are not. The original band lasted less than a decade, yet even that seems miraculous. As for that Christmas song, the producer Steve Lillywhite sorted out the structure and suggested his then wife Kirsty MacColl as a vocal foil. Here Comes Everybody is a great tale, but be warned: Fearnley's thesaurus must have caught fire as he gathered his memories. You'll find no bald drunks here: such types are inactive of follicle, pellucidly inebriate. This can prove wearing, but one must surely forgive a man — to paraphrase Dorothy Parker — who once played the accordion and now does not. Already have an account? Log in here. Independent Premium Comments can be posted by members of our membership scheme, Independent Premium. It allows our most engaged readers to debate the big issues, share their own experiences, discuss real-world solutions, and more. Our journalists will try to respond by joining the threads when they can to create a true meeting of independent Premium. The most insightful comments on all subjects will be published daily in dedicated articles. You can also choose to be emailed when someone replies to your comment. The existing Open Comments threads will continue to exist for those who do not subscribe to Independent Premium. Due to the sheer scale of this comment community, we are not able to give each post the same level of attention, but we have preserved this area in the interests of open debate. Please continue to respect all commenters and create constructive debates. Please be respectful when making a comment and adhere to our Community Guidelines. Remember the Doors post-Jim Morrison? As Fearnley tells it, the story has a lovely full-circle completeness. Shane MacGowan, all rational expectation to the contrary, is still among us. In fact, recent pictures show him looking, if anything, better than he has in years. Whatever happens, James Fearnley has written a book every bit as recklessly and bitterly vital as the songs that made us care in the first place. But I digress. This website uses cookies to personalize your content including ads , and allows us to analyze our traffic. Read more about cookies here. By continuing to use our site, you agree to our Terms of Service and Privacy Policy. Main Menu Search montrealgazette. Postmedia may earn an affiliate commission from purchases made through our links on this page. We apologize, but this video has failed to load. Try refreshing your browser, or tap here to see other videos from our team. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. Article content continued Here Comes Everybody is filled with little set-pieces so well rendered that they could only have been conceived and crafted by a born writer. Article content continued Fearnley also shows a true flair for the evocation of time and place, capturing in a few deft strokes just how it must have felt to be in certain rooms on certain streets on certain days. Article content continued Observant readers may by now have noticed a preponderance of references and allusions to alcohol and the consumption thereof. Article content continued It made me want to follow Shane wherever he went. Here Comes Everybody | Faber & Faber

He brings to life the youthful friendships, the bust-ups, the amazing gigs, the terrible gigs, the fantastic highs and the dramatic lows in a hugely compelling, humorous, moving and honest account of life in one of our most treasured and original bands. James Fearnley was born in in Worsley, Manchester. He played guitar in various bands including the Nips with Shane MacGowan, before becoming the accordion player in the Pogues. James continues to tour with the band and lives in Los Angeles. Sign up for free to get first access to tickets. Free to join. The perks. Sign up. Already a Member? Sign in here. Here Comes Everybody. James Fearnley. Related Articles. Free to join Discover Faber Membership. The perks Exclusive Members' events Curated gifts and merchandise Literary news and competitions. He brings to life the youthful friendships, the bust-ups, the amazing gigs, the terrible gigs, the fantastic highs and the dramatic lows in a hugely compelling, humorous, moving and honest account of life in one of our most treasured and original bands. In his author's note, Fearnley, the Pogues' accordionist, remarks that he used "the tools and sensibilities of a fiction writer" in constructing this memoir. Perhaps it's no surprise then that the A founding musician in one of Ireland's most raucous, poetic and punk bands remembers the highs, lows and plateaus of the golden age of combat rock. It's really only the first half of a continuing James Fearnley. Here Comes Everybody by James Fearnley – review | Music books | The Guardian

It gave me the feeling that things were going to have a good outcome. I took a seat at the foot of the bed. We awaited the rest of the band. There was a smell of toothpaste in the room. Whenever there was a knock on the door, Jem got up to greet whoever it was, in the same way he had greeted me. Terry came into the room, carrying, as he did, a pair of glasses in a sturdy case and the book he was reading. He wore jeans and a dramatic black and red short-sleeved shirt, tucked out to hide his stomach. Though he wasn't a tall man, Terry exuded eminence. He was older than us by a few years. He had curls which were once boyish — a 'burst mattress', I used to tease him — but were now greying. He sat on one of the two chairs in the room, his hands folded over his book on his lap, his lips pursed, the expression on his face one of sad seniority, full of the expectation that his years in the music business would be put to use. Darryl came in and sat in the other chair across from the table, tapping his thighs. His cheeks were laced with capillaries. His bay hair, which he had now begun to dye, fell in brittle unruliness over his forehead. Fatigue had gouged a brown half-moon in the corner of each eye. Andrew lumbered in. He had grown his hair long. It was beginning to show filaments of grey. He sat heavily on the bed next to me and stared at the carpet. He began to turn his wrist in a hand ivied with veins. His mouth was a lipless line. Philip came in and wiggled his hand to have space made for him. He perched awkwardly on the corner of the desk-cum-dressing table with his legs crossed, a shoe tucked behind his calf, his frail arms similarly twisted. His hands trembled as he shook a cigarette out of a packet. His mouth was thin, recessive, dwarfed by his fleshy, slightly curving nose. His face was suffused with pink from tiredness. Spider was the last to knock on the door, apologising for being late. His lips were dry and, with his dark tousled hair, he looked as though he'd just got up. He had a boyish face, even more so this afternoon as he paced back and forth, a hand on his hip, his arm bent awkwardly behind him, the skin on the underside of his forearm wan and subtly grained with the blue of his veins. He clapped his long-fingered hand to the back of his neck, looked down at his shoes and paced between the bed and the wall. There wasn't a lot of room. We sat shoulder to shoulder on the ends of the beds or on the dressing table. Terry had the chair and Darryl the armchair by the curtains. By the time we were all gathered the atmosphere was almost funereal. In the course of the past two years, our gigs had been decimated by his fits of screaming, his seemingly wilful abandonment of his recollection of the lyrics, his haggard, terror-stricken appeals which we had mistaken for panicked requests for a cue, his maddening and petulant refusals to come out on stage with us. Jem lamented the fact that Shane no longer accompanied us anywhere, preferring to shut himself in his room, appearing only at show time, more often than not with seconds to spare and hardly in a condition to do much. He lamented the fact that, at one time, Shane would have loved to come to such a festival, the hotel so close, the people interesting, the organisers ready to bend over backwards to help. We all turned towards him. We knew Andrew well enough. The silence that followed was a precursor to something else. He lifted his eyebrows in weary anticipation of what he knew he was going to say next, resolved to the implications it would carry. I earn my living playing music. I can't do it any more with — him. Andrew fell silent long enough for us to know he had finished. We went round the room. Philip, Darryl, Terry and Jem were all of the same mind. I didn't want to let him go. It frightened me to lose what I had become used to, to relinquish pretty much everything I'd wanted since first setting a guitar on my knee and painfully framing chords on it when I was thirteen. I also wanted to punish him. I wanted to drag him round the world with us some more. I wanted to rub his face in his own shit to teach him a lesson. Jem was the perfect candidate. Free to join. The perks. Sign up. Already a Member? Sign in here. Here Comes Everybody. James Fearnley. Related Articles. Free to join Discover Faber Membership. The perks Exclusive Members' events Curated gifts and merchandise Literary news and competitions. Fearnley is brilliant at conjuring the milieu from which the Pogues sprang, a lost, down-at-heel demimonde of King's Cross squats and housing association flats. If he can't or won't tell you why MacGowan's decline occurred, he describes it in harrowing detail: the screaming fits, the vomiting, his skin "the colour of grout". Fearnley was a frustrated novelist when the Pogues formed, which rather shows. He has a great eye for detail, but he also has a touch of the epiphenomenal imbroglios: "we listened to the muffled crepitations coming from inside"; eyebrows "plicate" foreheads. The Pogues were certainly of a literary bent, but equally, they wore their learning lightly. All the plicating and muffled crepitations do jar a little with a band who featured in their line-up a man who kept time by repeatedly hitting himself over the head with a metal beer tray. In another sense, however, Fearnley's book fits perfectly with the Pogues: for all their earthiness, they were a band concerned with myths, from the Irish legends MacGowan's lyrics relocated to the back streets and pubs of north London to the persistent rock'n'roll fable of the damned, beautiful loser. There's nothing romantic about alcoholic self-destruction, as Here Comes Everybody makes clear, but a song as beautiful as "A Pair of Brown Eyes" can make you believe there is — at least while it's playing. Music books. Here Comes Everybody by James Fearnley — review. A memoir of the Pogues and their self-destructive frontman. Shane MacGowan of the Pogues.

Here Comes Everybody: The Story of the Pogues by James Fearnley, Paperback | Barnes & Noble®

We had survived impecuniousness, evictions, sickness and destitution. We had fused our fortunes together in a series of confined spaces: passenger buses, ferry-boats, bars, dressing rooms, cabins, restaurants, pubs, hotel rooms. I had lived with these people longer than I had with my own parents, Jem pointed out to me once. I closed the door to my hotel room behind me and climbed the echoing stairwell up to Jem's floor. He opened the door. Light from the net curtain at the window lit the corridor. I couldn't help but try to detect a certain hesitancy or a hint of pessimism in the smile which puckered the corners of Jem's eyes and revealed the minute serration of his front teeth. In the ten years I had known him, the genuineness of his smile had always been reliable. He stood against the wall to let me in. Even under circumstances such as these, there was a formality about Jem, an understated attention to the matter of putting one at ease. It gave me the feeling that things were going to have a good outcome. I took a seat at the foot of the bed. We awaited the rest of the band. There was a smell of toothpaste in the room. Whenever there was a knock on the door, Jem got up to greet whoever it was, in the same way he had greeted me. Terry came into the room, carrying, as he did, a pair of glasses in a sturdy case and the book he was reading. He wore jeans and a dramatic black and red short-sleeved shirt, tucked out to hide his stomach. Though he wasn't a tall man, Terry exuded eminence. He was older than us by a few years. He had curls which were once boyish — a 'burst mattress', I used to tease him — but were now greying. He sat on one of the two chairs in the room, his hands folded over his book on his lap, his lips pursed, the expression on his face one of sad seniority, full of the expectation that his years in the music business would be put to use. Darryl came in and sat in the other chair across from the table, tapping his thighs. His cheeks were laced with capillaries. His bay hair, which he had now begun to dye, fell in brittle unruliness over his forehead. Fatigue had gouged a brown half-moon in the corner of each eye. Andrew lumbered in. He had grown his hair long. It was beginning to show filaments of grey. He sat heavily on the bed next to me and stared at the carpet. He began to turn his wrist in a hand ivied with veins. His mouth was a lipless line. Philip came in and wiggled his hand to have space made for him. He perched awkwardly on the corner of the desk-cum-dressing table with his legs crossed, a shoe tucked behind his calf, his frail arms similarly twisted. His hands trembled as he shook a cigarette out of a packet. His mouth was thin, recessive, dwarfed by his fleshy, slightly curving nose. His face was suffused with pink from tiredness. Spider was the last to knock on the door, apologising for being late. His lips were dry and, with his dark tousled hair, he looked as though he'd just got up. He had a boyish face, even more so this afternoon as he paced back and forth, a hand on his hip, his arm bent awkwardly behind him, the skin on the underside of his forearm wan and subtly grained with the blue of his veins. He clapped his long-fingered hand to the back of his neck, looked down at his shoes and paced between the bed and the wall. There wasn't a lot of room. We sat shoulder to shoulder on the ends of the beds or on the dressing table. Terry had the chair and Darryl the armchair by the curtains. By the time we were all gathered the atmosphere was almost funereal. In the course of the past two years, our gigs had been decimated by his fits of screaming, his seemingly wilful abandonment of his recollection of the lyrics, his haggard, terror-stricken appeals which we had mistaken for panicked requests for a cue, his maddening and petulant refusals to come out on stage with us. Jem lamented the fact that Shane no longer accompanied us anywhere, preferring to shut himself in his room, appearing only at show time, more often than not with seconds to spare and hardly in a condition to do much. He lamented the fact that, at one time, Shane would have loved to come to such a festival, the hotel so close, the people interesting, the organisers ready to bend over backwards to help. We all turned towards him. We knew Andrew well enough. The silence that followed was a precursor to something else. He lifted his eyebrows in weary anticipation of what he knew he was going to say next, resolved to the implications it would carry. I earn my living playing music. I can't do it any more with — him. Andrew fell silent long enough for us to know he had finished. We went round the room. Philip, Darryl, Terry and Jem were all of the same mind. I didn't want to let him go. It frightened me to lose what I had become used to, to relinquish pretty much everything I'd wanted since first setting a guitar on my knee and painfully framing chords on it when I was thirteen. I also wanted to punish him. I wanted to drag him round the world with us some more. I wanted to rub his face in his own shit to teach him a lesson. Jem was the perfect candidate. Jem had been the one whose opinion Shane had once sought, and with a meekness which bordered on the reverential. Jem was the one who had badgered him to write, who had set everything up, organised everything. Jem had been the one on whose resolve we had all depended. In the end though, the task of letting Shane go fell to Darryl. It felt like an act of cowardice, to give the most recent member of the band the job of releasing our singer. But, overriding that, Darryl had the least history with Shane, had less of an axe to grind, was the least judgemental. Of all of us, Darryl was the nicest. When the time came, I was shocked that Shane should arrive at the door with such alacrity. Jem got up to let him in. Shane nodded at us all and stood dithering in the short vestibule between the toilet door and the wall. It was a greeting that was as familiar as it was ridiculous in such a context. There was an endearing vulnerability to him as he turned this way and that, sniffing, taking us all in but unable to meet eyes with any of us with the exception of Jem. Shane followed Jem with a devoted gaze, as he returned to his seat on the end of the bed. Shane's hair was filthy. His beard was blasted. His face was the colour of grout. A bib of necklaces, beads and talismans hung from his neck. October ABC, Culture Club, Shalamar and Survivor dominate the top twenty when the Pogues barrel out from the backstreets of King's Cross, a furious, pioneering mix of punk energy, traditional melodies and the powerfully poetic songwriting of Shane MacGowan. Reviled by traditionalists for their frequently fast, often riotous interpretations of Irish folk songs, the Pogues rose from the sweaty chaos of backroom gigs in Camden pubs to world tours with the likes of Elvis Costello, U2 and Bob Dylan, and had huge commercial success with everyone's favourite Christmas song, 'Fairytale of New York'. Yet, the exuberance of their live performances coupled with relentless touring spiralled into years of hard drinking and excess which eventually took their toll - most famously on Shane, but also on the rest of the band - causing them to part ways seven years later. Here, their story is told with beauty, lyricism and great candour by James Fearnley, founding member and accordion player. He brings to life the youthful friendships, the bust-ups, the amazing gigs, the terrible gigs, the fantastic highs and the dramatic lows in a hugely compelling, humorous, moving and honest account of life in one of our most treasured and original bands. James Fearnley was born in in Worsley, Manchester. He played guitar in various bands including the Nips with Shane MacGowan, before becoming the accordion player in the Pogues. James continues to tour with the band and lives in Los Angeles. Sign up for free to get first access to tickets. Free to join. The perks. Sign up. Already a Member? Sign in here. Here Comes Everybody. https://files8.webydo.com/9589960/UploadedFiles/8590083F-AA14-CAC1-4335-24A21C59D4A4.pdf https://files8.webydo.com/9587995/UploadedFiles/94FE5D1A-1D82-548C-0AA0-809935DDF66F.pdf https://files8.webydo.com/9587661/UploadedFiles/E8BDFB6C-BF32-A6B4-49D8-41F53C340D5B.pdf https://uploads.strikinglycdn.com/files/21830062-ffb1-49f8-99bc-fa545b05ad2a/zentralblatt-fur-gynakologie-volume-31-issues-1-26-222.pdf https://static.s123-cdn-static.com/uploads/4645176/normal_6020c26218007.pdf https://static.s123-cdn-static.com/uploads/4641274/normal_602091c69cd29.pdf