This photo was taken in Mr MacGowan’s Kensington Hotel, by Mr O’Boyle and his mobile phone. This would be during the early hours of Dec 23rd, following the Pogues’ last of three Christmas concerts in London. After the Brixton Academy staff had had enough of us, we retired to the hotel to continue the aftershow jollities. I can’t quite remember what’s going on in this photo, but I think I was having fun.
A clear, crisp, bright lunchtime. I indulge in my usual Christmas Day routine: feeding the ducks in Waterlow Park. Playing Santa to the coots.
I’ve rented out ‘Grand Hotel’ on DVD. A new catchphrase of mine is “Sorry, I can’t come to your gig / club / party / dinner. I’m having an attack of the Garbos”. They understand.
All by myself today. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
In an obligingly seasonal gesture, a small robin approached as I was feeding the ducks:
Close up:
Other photos taken today: the London skyline as seen from Highgate. It’s a Bright Christmas, though a little chilly:
A young man playing football in Waterlow Park:
The Christmas Day noonday sun:
Highgate Village High Street:
In the window of the local bookshop there’s a display of Schott’s 2006 Almanac, labelled “Local Author. Signed Copies”. So, there’s one more piece of trivia to add to the umpteen lists and facts contained within: Mr Schott lives in Highgate. You don’t have to be a bestselling trivia goose to live in Highgate Village, but it helps.
His original compendium, “Schott’s Miscellany” was quite fun when it came out a few years ago, but clearly it made too much money for him to NOT shove out something – ANYTHING – with his name on, every single Christmas since then. Well, at least it’s his own bandwagon he’s jumping on. I wonder how many people received a copy of this today?
A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS FROM DICKON EDWARDS
(Photo taken at The Boogaloo, Highgate, December 23rd 2005. Thanks to Liam and Marios)
Last Friday: perform with Fosca at the Purple Turtle in Mornington Crescent, with Tim Ten Yen and Exile Inside, as part of The Fanclub Christmas Party. A Parisian fan, Ms Sheridan Quaint, gives me a bunch of lilies two days before the gig. They look very nice in my room, but I feel their usage could be maximised. So at the gig, I tape the flowers to the top of the microphone stand, and as if that weren’t enough, I festoon the rest of the stand with tinsel. I’ve done this before at solo gigs, but this is a first use of lilies for Fosca. I rather think I should do this at all future concerts, as my concert signature. It’s certainly far preferable to sing into a flower than an unadorned dirty old SM58 saturated in the oral bacteria of every previous band to play the venue.
The sound is excellent (hats off to Mr Mark, the venue engineer), the gig goes okay, and Tom in particular is happy with it. He gets through his first gig as a Fosca member without making a single mistake, while the performances of the more seasoned members such as myself are a little rusty around the edges. Still, we did pretty well for our first UK gig in two years. We just need to play more often.
I certainly feel more comfortable playing as a four-piece than as a trio, as we tried in Sweden. I have a thing about symmetry and even numbers. I also insist on playing an even number of songs in the set list. This is of course, fuel for those of my friends who are convinced I have a mild form of autism. One man’s autism is another man’s boyish eccentricity, I retort. It’s The Curious Incident Of the Fop In The Night-Time.
At the gig, even though I have my lyrics on a music stand to aid my awful memory, I can never quite read and sing and play guitar all at the same time, and I still manage to fluff the occasional line. It would actually be far easier to, dare I say it, learn my own words to a comfortably safe degree of recall. Like most bands do. Too much idling on my part, I fear. It must stop. Next gig, no music stand.
But I get kind feedback from the crowd, and from messages received days after the show. Ms Hazel, Ms Groom and Mr Gullo attend from the Bohemian Cabaret side of my life, and Mr G throws a white glove to me while I perform. Mr O’Boyle and Ms Scanlon from the Boogaloo side of my life also turn up without my knowledge – I didn’t think they’d be interested and am quite touched by this. Given the concert happens on the most popular night in December for Christmas parties, I’m touched that anyone I know has come along at all.
We perform a version of The Pogues’ Rainy Night In Soho, by way of a Christmas cover version. It’s not actually a Christmas song, but I associate December in London with freezing rain as much as snow, plus the arrangement of the original version is as sumptuous and colourful as Fairytale Of New York to my ears. Additionally, the author, Mr MacGowan, was born on December 25th. So you could argue all his songs are Christmas songs in a way. Actually, he shares his birthday with Quentin Crisp too.
For the gig, we tried rehearsing a version of Mr Cole’s Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire, but it didn’t really work. Whereas Rainy Night is pretty hard to mess up… though Mr Nick Cave’s version slightly annoys me. In his recording, I’m really not keen on the way he changes the scansion of the opening line:
“I’ve been loving you… a Long! (enormous pause) Time!”
When it should be sung quickly as if the two words were one, ie:
I’ve been loving you… a longtime…
I don’t know why that tiny detail annoys me so much, but it does. And who am I to talk anyway, as at the Fosca concert I slightly change the words, though I don’t actually realise it at the time. Instead of:
Covered in a cloak of silence
I change it to:
“Covered in a cloak of shadows.”
Ms Scanlon asks me about this afterwards, but I can’t answer. I thought I sang ‘silence’, but it came out as ‘shadows’. Perhaps it’s best not to dwell upon how my mind works.
Another reason for playing the song is as a way to say thank you to Mr MacG for his recent kindness toward me. But most of all, it’s because I just really, really like the song.
The audience contains the usual loud fellow shouting out things between songs. After we play the Pogues number, he barks “Who wrote that, then?”
Me: If you don’t know, why don’t you find out for yourself?
Drunk shouting man: Well, I’m asking you, now!
Me: Oh, someone else will tell you. Ignorance is nothing to shout about.
I was quite proud of this last anti-heckler remark, thought up on the spot. Though I did fear he might beat me up later. At another point, I reply to him (albeit I’m paraphrasing and embellishing):
“Just because you’re shouting out things from an audience, it doesn’t mean you’re more important than those who aren’t. Besides, I’m far more interested in quiet people. They’re the ones I write songs about. Here’s another one…”
(photos by Sheridan Quaint)
Snippets from recent press stories about the Pogues, making me feel like a ghost within the gossip.
Contact Music / Ireland Online, 8th Dec:
The Pogues frontman Shane MacGowan infuriated band members by taking an impromptu holiday to Morocco when he should have been rehearsing with them. MacGowan suddenly reappeared in London, just in time to record a new version of the Christmas track Fairytale Of New York with singer Katie Melua for UK chatshow Tonight With Jonathan Ross.
A source says: “Shane is a free spirit. He thought he’d rather be exploring Africa than rehearsing.
***
From The Independent (UK), 16 December 2005, Pogues accordionist James Fearnley’s diary:
[At their first December rehearsal] We don’t expect to be seeing Shane MacGowan. He’s in Morocco, or on his way back from Morocco. It’s a mystery how he gets there without help, since [his manager] had not accompanied him, so we’re told. It’s a further mystery how he gets back.
***
Barry Egan in the Sunday Independent (Ireland). Sun, Dec 18, 2005:
No one had appeared to know where Shane was. There were reports he was in Morocco. Or Spain. So this was like a tip-off from the CIA about the whereabouts of Bin Laden.
***
But what could I expect them to write? ‘Fairytale Of Tangier: Who Is Mystery Blond In Shane’s Life?’ Still, it’s all good press for the Pogues concerts, and indeed the re-release of ‘Fairytale Of New York’ this week, which I urge all my readers to buy. A couple of very good reasons: it’s a benefit single for both the Justice For Kirsty MacColl campaign and the homeless charity, Crisis At Christmas.
Also, the likes of the ‘X Factor’ drivel really must be stopped from grasping the Xmas Number One. Apparently the TV talent show puppetmasters have even selected someone called ‘Shayne’ to front their latest aural atrocity. A typo to the throne.
It’s also Mr MacGowan’s birthday on December 25th. A Number One single would be a pretty good present, particularly as ‘Fairytale’ was denied the top spot on its original release in 1987.
***
Tangier, Morocco, early December, early morning. I coerce Mr MacGowan into joining me for breakfast, if only to sample the hotel breakfast room’s incredibly ornate lampshades and decor.
He grabs one of the ubiquitous bottles of mineral water, Sidi Ali, and suggests a quick photo opportunity.
“Here, take a photo of me with this. They could use it as an advert, heh heh.”
The bottle itself contained gin and tonic.
Mr MacGowan taking lunch on the terrace of the Hotel Continental.
DE on the same. Photo taken by Mr MacG.
Photos from DE and S MacG’s week in Tangier, early December 2005. I’ll upload one or two a day.
Here, Mr O’Boyle, landlord of The Boogaloo and general saint to fragile outsiders, joins myself and Mr MacG on the terrace of the Hotel Continental. He stayed for the weekend.
Here’s Mr MacGowan in his hotel room, re-reading Finnegan’s Wake. Deliciously, he was allocated Room 101 at the excellent ghost-ridden Hotel Continental in the Medina. Note that his bedfellow is not a person, but a pile of books. I get annoyed when some people compare Mr MacG to Ozzy Osbourne or the late George Best, as if all legendary over-indulgers are alike. I doubt those other two notably dissipated names are as literary-inclined as Mr MacG, whose collected lyrics were published by Faber & Faber. His travel bag included works by Joyce, Plato, Burroughs, Kerouac, Dorothy Parker, and the entire James Ellroy LA Confidential trilogy. There is decadence, and then there is Decadence.
One of Tangier’s late literary hooligans (either Mr Bowles or someone who knew Mr Bowles) described a local woman as walking ‘like a rope unwinding’. And this is how my mind feels today.
Mr MacGowan has not left his hotel room for two days. I insisted he let me in today, to check on his well-being. It’s difficult to tell. What’s healthy for him would be considered life-threatening for others. But he says he’s okay, really. And I feel relieved when Mr O’Boyle, the Boogaloo landlord and friend of Mr MacG for some years arrives to stay with us for these last few days. I go back to my biography about the Bowles’s scene by Michelle Green, “The Dream at the End of the World: Paul Bowles and the Literary Renegades in Tangier”. The page I’m on mentions Mr Kerouc not leaving HIS Tangier hotel room for days, trying to sleep with the noises of Mr Burroughs’s pederasty going in the next room. Later, I read this passage aloud to Mr MacG and he replies:
“I’ve heard worse things coming from a room next door, kkkksssssshhhhh….!”
I’ve come here with the Rough Guide To Morocco (bought, 2005 edition) plus the Lonely Planet guide for Morocco, Highgate Library’s copy. This latter turns out to be the 2001 edition and is therefore frequently out of date. I have now learned that you should always buy the latest edition of these things, even if they are a bit pricy.
But even the 2005 Rough Guide has errors. Of the two internet cafes it lists, one (Euronet) appears to now be a record shop, while the other (Cafe Adam) is tiny and dingy, the staff speak even less French than me, and I couldn’t get any of the machines to work. Instead, I heartily recommend the place I’m in now: Afrique Net, 4 Rue Imam Assili. Lovely well-lit LCD monitors, drinks and ashtrays and Mozilla Firefox ready to go.
Both guidebooks have different versions of street maps for parts of Tangier. Shops in Tangier do not sell street maps themselves, only road maps for travelling across Morocco. I got laughed in a Ville Nouvelle newsagent the other day for daring to suggest it might be an idea for a local firm to publish a proper multi-lingual detailed street guide to the city. If I were to move here, I’d definitely research and print up one myself: surely it would sell to tourists and travellers, even if the locals scoff at such an idea. To want to not get lost seems to be missing the point of Tangier. You come here to lose yourself.
Besides, there’s some debate as to what many streets are actually called – different versions in French and Arabic abound, and on top of that I’ve seen the names spelt entirely differently on official signs.
The Rough Guide is definitely the superior of the two guidebooks, at least for Morocco. Comparatively groovy, forward-thinking and non-judgmental, it even contains a Bowles short story at the back.
The Lonely Planet, on the other hand, can’t resist terse little judgements here and there, often bordering on the xenophobic. The writers come across like liberal backpackers fresh out of university who are secretly future Daily Mail editors. On the subject of Burroughs, Orton et al coming here to have sex with underrage boys in rooms off the Petit Socco, the Lonely Planet has this to say:
“There’s nothing quaint or romantic about paedophilia.”
Well, thanks for that searingly useful and enlightening tidbit, O Lonely Planet writers. Was that REALLY necessary to add? Here comes a moral bandwagon, you’d better jump aboard.
Mr MacGowan turns to the photos of the book’s researchers.
“No wonder. Just LOOK at these idiots. No wonder they’re lonely, kkkksssshhhh.”
The Moroccan hotel manager looks concerned.
‘Votre ami: il est malade? Vous voulez un docteur?’
‘Non, merci. Il est bien. Vraiment. Il est souvent comme ca. C’est de rien. Alors, c’est de rien pour lui.’
**********
An internet cafe, Blvd Pasteur, Tangier, December 2005.
This is going to take some getting used to, the fake-blond man thinks. And some time to type.
The fake-blond man, feeling like the world’s most naive Englishman, which he very possibly is, struggles slowly with the unfamiliar computer keyboard. Where’s the button for the full-stop? Oh, up there, press and hold SHIFT plus the semi-colon key. Must be less used here. The temptation to just type away as one would on a – he stops himself saying ‘normal’ – British keyboard is overwhelming. He types his own name without looking at his fingers:
Dickon Edaqrds;
In Tangiers, most people speak Moroccan Arabic, then maybe French or Spanish in that order. Putting it very nicely indeed, his French isn’t too good, and his Spanish and Arabic is non-existent. His travelling companion and employer has been here before and can speak a bit of Spanish, though on some days he barely speaks at all. Today the friend is confined to his hotel room, sleeping, reading, smoking and drinking. Mostly sleeping and drinking. The unitiated are often distressed, even upset to see him like this, but the fake-blond man is used to it. The Irishman may no longer be a heroin addict, but he’s still a gin and tonic and cigarettes junkie. To stop those, he says, would kill him.
Besides, as the Toothless Junkie told his Toothsome Secretary the previous day, ‘I didn’t come here to wake up.’ And he giggles his rattlesnake giggle: ‘KKkksshhhhhhhh.’
The friend, who has treated the Englishman to an impromptu week’s paid holiday here, is a famous Irish rock star. Or at least, famous to those who have heard of him. In Tangier, only what really matters really matters. People here earn a tiny fraction of the average Englishman’s wage, even a tiny fraction of the non-average Englishman’s wage, like the fake-blond man. He may be a housed beggar in his home country, but here he has the spending power of a minor aristrocrat. Which is what he always thought he was anyway. He feels wealthy, vulnerable and lost, but doesn’t mind too much. This is Tangier, city of dreams according to all of those dead literary hooligans connected with the city, whom he feels connected to himself: Paul and Jane Bowles, William S Burroughs, Jack Kerouc, Truman Capote and all their decadent pals.
What must the locals think of this pair? The nervous fake-blond younger Englishman in the white suit is older than he looks, but mainly because he hasn’t really begun to live. The older man with black hair in the big black coat gets annoyed when hearing himself referred to as English or American (‘I’m Irish! Irish!’); he looks and acts like he’s lived several dozens of lives. English and Irish; White Suit and Black Coat; Yin and Yang; Innocence and Experience.
Tangier is another planet, even more so than Tokyo. Which is perhaps why so many Western science fiction movies and TV, from Star Trek to Star Wars to Serenity, imagine that most settlements on other planets look like Tangier. People in scarfs, cowls and hoods mingling with the modern, ululating howls from exotic temples, streets which are really one-person corridors in buildings, desert and ocean vistas around the corner, drugs and street hustlers, the bizarre and the bizaars; indecipherable but beautiful alphabets, indecipherable but beautiful everything.
The Englishman sniffs away at the beginning of a cold, and stops typing in order to find a piece of tissue with which to blow his nose. Is there ‘une Kleenex’ pres d’ici? The place does have a toilet, but no toilet paper. He asks for some, and they smile and laugh as if this is an entirely unreasonable demand to make. You buy your own, you bring your own. He does have a pocket handkerchief, but it is only for show. Serves him right, really.
The Englishman decides to check his email. To be continued. He will be back in London on Tuesday. He has to rehearse with his band, just as his employer has to rehearse with his. Both men are known, if known musically at all, for their lyrics. One is playing at the Camden Purple Turtle, the other is headlining Brixton Academy.
Till then, he feels a little like the butler at the end of Citizen Kane.
