"Which song would you like to be played at your funeral?" Or, if you are a little more cynical, "Which song would you like to hear at your funeral?"
I guess we have all played this game. My answer has been different at various points of my life, but at the age of 25 or thereabouts I finally settled on the answer: "A Rainy Night In Soho" by The Pogues. It had that wistful melancholia that would not depress the mourners to death. It had that certain something that only Shane MacGowan could conjure. That breathtaking epiphany which only a drunk Irish poet could make real.
Oh I do remember how I first came across The Pogues: in an old-fashioned house in the North of England, on a record shelf, in-between The Proclaimers and Simon & Garfunkel. All of a sudden, a timid, toothless smile of Shane MacGowan. On a whim, I chose to play "Sally MacLennane", and was blown to pieces within seconds. This was not quite "Bridge Over Troubled Water" or "Letter From America". This was fucking primordial, and ruthlessly poetic, and full of great energy I had never experienced before.
And I would love him forever. At Christmas I would never get sick of the NYPD choir or the ringing bells. During one of the most brilliant episodes of The Wire, I would be charmed by a sudden but very appropriate climax of "The Body of an American". During my fascination with Irish literature, The Pogues would be the soundtrack. After University classes, I would come home and dance across the room to "If I Should Fall From Grace With God". And then, while playing that funeral game, I would always know what to say. "A Rainy Night In Soho", obviously, by Shane MacGowan.
Later on, there would be plastic punks and cheap imitators - but he was the only one. The original one. The poet, the songwriter. Rest in peace.
