How many New Model Army fans does it take to change a lightbulb?

It's strange how the music of your younger days re-emerges. Both the blogs I have started began by referencing the Whisky Priests, and I'm desolate to say that their website is now down. I've acquired an album by Gary Miller, accompanied by German accordionist Ralf Weihrauch (the link is worth following just for the subtlety of Ralf's website's title). When you think that Gary's fellow Priest, not to mention twin brother, Glenn also specialises in the squawk box, you have to wonder what's gone on between the two of them.

But it's not so much elegies for the North East of England that are recurring just now as rants from the post-industrial West Riding. I used to have the changing lightbulbs dance off fairly well, and I still own a pair of para boot clogs, but I didn't expect to come across New Model Army lyrics outside of one of my own posts. But one song is doing the waiting for buses thing; I do like Yorkshire Soul's montage. As one of his commenters says, it was published nigh on twenty years ago, but it's still sadly all too relevant. Plus ça change, as our near neighbours and new favourites of our masters would doubtless say.

While we're in this era, I did promise some time ago to talk about the influence of ICT on Shane MacGowan. Two examples immediately spring to mind:

Where the e-mails,
and the she-mails,
paraded in style

from The Old Main Drag, and the soundtrack to the Irish remake of War of the Worlds, as filtered through the last line of The Broad Majestic Shannon:

Where we once watched
the robots landing,
On the broad
Majestic Shannon.

Given the amazing Morricone pastiche the Pogues managed for the soundtrack to Straight to Hell, you'd have to put money on them giving Jeff Wayne a run for his money.

But the last lyric that has sprung to mind is of a much fluffier vision. When I was first listening to New Model Army and the Pogues, it was the time when I'd be doing things like staggering hungover down Queen's Road while belting out the lyrics only I could hear on my Walkman. Cassettes, eh? Them were t' days. This, you understand, would be on my way to school, late for the assemblies where we'd sing, or goldfish more like, venerable lines from Hymns Ancient and Modern. I don't know how much glorious things are spoken of Zion these days, but back then I used to picture a warm, nay, sun-baked old stone in the middle of a gently burbling stream, just right for stretching out your feet and catching rays in a self-satisfied manner:

On the rock of ages founded
Thou mays't smile at all thy toes.

And that's not far off my own view of paradise.

Ignore this, it's just a tag: The Pogues
Ignore this, it's just a tag: New Model Army
Ignore this, it's just a tag: Whisky Priests