You can tell that Victoria Mary Clarke loves her husband Shane MacGowan for his faults and virtues equally, telling of long nights discussing Irish poetry and evenings of passing out in his food at restaurants with equal vivid relish, but its that level of starry eyed love that derails this book.
Shane MacGowan is a formidable subject, from his early days as a punk exemplifier to his reign in The Pogues, where he made Irish music un-corny for a brief moment. His lyrics are filled with backs stories that deserve mining (I'm sure there is an entire novel of hilarity and sadness behind "Bottle of Smoke" for instance), and his own narratives about his life growing have their stirring moments.
But, Clarke has a bit of the long-suffering wife in her, posing the unasked questions of "what's a yoga-and-vitamin-enthused gorgeous sweetheart like you doing with a unbathed, drunken wretch like this" to herself, and then answering to herself "Yeah, but I love him anyway." I mean, good on her - I'm sure he's a lovable bastard when you get to know him - but the narrative by which we could do that is probably better told by someone less enamored.
Link
No comments:
Post a Comment