Among its moving parts is, of course, 'Fairytale of New York'. When first released, it seemed like a breath of fresh air: a song about Christmas that didn't partake of the of usual festive clichés. This held true the first several dozen times I heard it; and even, some years later, when it began to creep into mainstream Yuletide playlists. Now, though, I've heard it so many hundreds of times that it's become a cliché despite itself, and I personally won't be too sorry if the controversy about the f-word in its lyrics nudges it back toward unfamiliarity.
I don't think I've listened to either this or Rum, Sodomy and the Lash more than once apiece in the last decade: at this point it keeps a place on my shelves more as a memento of a former enthusiasm than anything else. There was a time I might have said The Pogues were my favourite band: I certainly can't recall a finer evening's entertainment than the one they provided at Wembley Arena (despite its being a cavernous, soulless shed of a place) when I saw them there in December '88.
Comments
Post a Comment