Shane MacGowan, best known as the singer for the London-based Irish-punk band The Pogues, has died at the age of 65. He’d been in the hospital since June, suffering from encephalitis, and only last week went home to live out his final days.

Macgowan, in The Pogues’ prime - their first three albums, Red Roses for Me (1984), Rum, Sodomy and the Lash (1985) and If I Should Fall From Grace with God (1988) – was as brilliant a poet as the world, and certainly rock and roll, has ever seen. His lyrics somehow combined the agony of deep heartache, the social injustices on and turbulent history of the Irish people, and the revelry found with good friends in pubs over whiskeys and beers. Like few other great poets in popular music, he found a rare and beautiful balance between the ugly, poverty-stricken streets of London and the joy of being alive. His words were delivered with a croaky, rough throat, hoarse from whiskey and endless cigarettes. Like Waits, his voice can be an acquired taste, and it adds significantly to the paradox. He anchors a Mount Rushmore of post-Dylan rock and roll lyricists that would also include Tom Waits, Nick Cave, and Leonard Cohen; each masters of words that look to find beauty in an ugly world.

My own history with The Pogues started one Wednesday night in early 1986, queuing up for a pitcher of beer at 10:00 Charlie’s, Marquette, Michigan’s only rock and roll bar. I was five years shy of being in there legally, let alone drinking beer, but that was somehow overlooked as my punk band The Regulars were playing the weekly open mic night. Two rapscallions next to me clanked beer mugs and, as if on-cue, broke into an acapella duet version of “Dirty Old Town” at the top of their drunken lungs, to the rest of the bar’s curious gaze. Nearly 40 years later and ringmaster Mike Burk is one of my closest friends, all going back to that moment. A few weeks later I’d connect the dots when I heard the song on MTV, during a Pogues’ profile on IRS The Cutting Edge.

Fast forward to the early ‘90s and my girlfriend (future wife) came home from a weekend up north with some old college friends with a copy of The Pogues’ debut Red Roses For Me under her arm. I stole her moment and seized the album and the band for myself, diving deep and obsessively in. Tommy, my partner in crime from those days, and I would sit around drinking Irish whiskey and obsessing over every lyric, every traditional song, and every historical reference into the morning hours. Those were good years, and not since The Replacements a decade earlier had I fallen so hard for a band.

I saw Shane and his solo band The Popes several times. Early on, in 1997-8, Shane was in the depths of addiction and could barely mutter a lyric. It was truly sad and pathetic to see him propped up on stage barely in control of his own faculties while frat-Bros looked at each other and jumped up & down like four-year-olds on Christmas morning: “Is he pissed? Is he pissed? He’s pissed! Yaaayyyy!” creating that inevitable and sad circle of expectations and self-destructive behavior that seemed a priority over the music to many. I saw him projectile vomit on stage at The Vic in Chicago, wipe it up with a towel that he then threw into the hungry crowd, as my friend Angie - an innocent bystander I’d dragged along - watched in horror.

In 1998, he refused to get on a plane from Chicago to Detroit because they wouldn’t let him smoke. He missed the Detroit show and a near-riot broke out with a drunken, aggressive crowd none too happy to hear the news throwing bottles and pint glasses at the band’s gear on stage at Saint Andrew’s. Those were dark days for Shane, and there are endless stories of the debauchery. But there were also nights like at the Majestic Theatre in Detroit in 2001, where he was on time, coherent, in good spirits, and sang really well.

A few years later The Pogues reunited for some Christmas shows in the UK and soon started to do North American runs. We saw them do multiple nights to adoring crowds in DC, Atlantic City, Chicago, Detroit, and a Saint Patrick’s’ Day weekend in Boston, all in the span of a few years. I’d developed a rapport with Pogues’ tin-whistler Spider Stacy and accordionist James Fearnley while running a Pogues’ fan website called Jer’s Pogues Pub, so I always had photo passes (as you can see, Annie Leibovitz I ain’t) and after-show drinks with the band. Shane was in great form for those gigs; singing well, moving around some, and seemingly having a gas.

After a while, things slowed down for the Pogues, and long-time guitarist Phil Chevron passed away. Shane was relegated to a wheelchair several years ago and his public appearances were increasingly rare, though his wife Victoria kept friends and fans up to date on her social media accounts, especially when photo-ops with celebrity friends like Johnny Depp and Bruce Springsteen - sensing their opportunities to say goodbye might be dwindling - presented themselves. In recent months, it looked like the end was imminent, and a sad and inappropriate photo was posted just last week as a frail and skeletal MacGowan left the hospital to go home. I knew then that we were very close.

Other tributes will no doubt talk about his early days as Shane O’Hooligan in the budding London punk scene, “Fairytale of New York,” (his most critically-acclaimed moment), his tombstone-like teeth, and the endless boozing & drugging that often made more headlines than the music. I could go on forever here.

Tonight, around these parts, we’ll put on Rum, Sodomy and The Lash, pour a Jameson’s Black, and raise one for Shane.

 Jeremy Porter lives near Detroit and fronts the rock and roll band Jeremy Porter And The Tucos. Follow them on Facebook to read his road blog about their adventures on the dive-bar circuit.
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