Shane MacGowan made it through Friday night’s show alive — and standing. Photo by Joe McCabe.

One of the risks of hero worship is the constant prospect of their unmasking. When you realize they’re just as human as you are, and often much less. In the case of The Pogues, and of Shane MacGowan in particular (I’ve always called him the Sid Vicious who refuses to die), the potential for a thoroughly devastating fall from grace has always been present, as MacGowan’s alcoholism and drug use threatened to take over.

After firing him in 1991 because of his troubles, the band steadily declined into breakup by 1996, depriving millions of fans of their singular Irish folk punk, seemingly forever.

Fourteen years later, that move has proven almost clairvoyant, and the full eight-member band proved as much at the Ogden Theatre on Friday night with a resplendent performance of more than 25 songs that more than wiped the slate clean.

MacGowan, with a full set of new teeth, looked paunchy – even hefty (so different from the skinny, near-toothless punk we’ve all come to know and love over the years) – and seemed much more worn than his 53 years.

He was surrounded by the band’s seven longest-lasting members. Spider Stacy played the tin whistle with perfect speed and beauty, and offered lead vocals on a few tunes, as well as (merciful) translation of MacGowan’s characteristically drunken slurred banter between songs. Phil Chevron, a legend in his own right and, with his flat-rimmed hat, a charming second focal point on the stage, anchored on guitar. James Fearnley filled any gaps in melody with the accordion, and performed wild gesticulations all over the crowded stage that left a permanent sheen of sweat on his bald head. Terry Woods and Jem Finer both played mandolins, banjos and guitars, and Finer belted out a mean saxophone on one tune.

All of this was piled on top of bassist Darryl Hunt’s and drummer Andrew Rankin’s brilliant rhythm section.

MacGowan started the night weakly, and sort of hilariously, as he
stumbled out to find his microphone and drink table, puffing on two
cigarettes – one in each hand. He wore an ugly striped sweater that appeared a few sizes too big (but still had some trouble hiding his spare tire), black jeans and sunglasses. From the first unrecognizable slurs, he was a swaying, stumbling near-somnambulist. Still, never
once did his vocals seem off, or even slow – just unintelligible.

After sets of three or four songs, he would stumble backstage – he was caught a few times just before collapsing – as the rest of the band stayed out front to play a few. And every time he returned, he seemed more awake, and would pour into the next set with familiar abandon until he was worn out again.

At one point, he stuffed a lit butt up in his sunglasses, by his temple, and crooned for the remainder of the song (still puffing away between lines on the second smoke in his other hand). After its end, he reached up, pulled the still-lit butt from his temple and finished smoking that one as well. It kind of fed the idea that he often had little notion of where he was. Yet he made it through the entire show, and left with the band at the end, in contrast to many stories.

(Last time in town, with The Popes, he legendarily threw up onstage the vocal break of a song, then continued, not missing a beat.)

The Pogues played what amounted to a “greatest hits” set for over two hours, mostly from the first three albums, to the over-packed audience’s delight. The set list included “A Pair of Brown Eyes,” “Fiesta,” “Thousands Are Sailing,” “If I Should Fall From Grace With God” and “The Sunny Side of the Street,” as well as many, many other familiar tunes. As each one started, the audience nearly exploded with applause, then danced, jumped, screamed and spun throughout. They burst in laughter and screams as they ended.

The band members themselves, during one of the multiple encores, applauded the audience for their participation, and thanked us all.

Of course, no Pogues show could be truly complete without a rendition
of “Dirty Old Town,” and the band obliged with an unforgettable version on Friday night. The song grabbed the audience so completely that even many in the never-ending barlines paused and turned to watch.

It may have taken more than 30 years for an entire, cohesive version of this band to play to Denver, as Chevron pointed out toward the beginning of the show, but the wait proved well worth it.

The question under everyone’s breath now was whether they can ever make it back, complete with a living MacGowan.

If that happens, it’ll no doubt be a feat that no one would have believed possible before seeing this show.

It seems almost downright likely, now.

View a full photo gallery of this concert here.

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Billy Thieme is a Denver-based writer, an old-school punk and a huge follower of Denver’s vibrant local music scene. Follow Billy’s explorations at DenverThread.com, and his giglist at Gigbot.