Shane MacGowan's reputation precedes him. Past gigs in Glasgow have been cancelled due to missed flights and a tumble from a bar stool, and the atmosphere in the Barrowland is electric, in a sozzled sort of way. Choruses of Dirty Old Town ring round the downstairs bar, which gets busy and stays busy. When MacGowan eventually makes it on stage, clutching a large, lurid drink, it's the wrong side of 11 o'clock.
MacGowan is appearing as part of Glasgow's annual Celtic Connections festival, which describes him as "a peerless poet of contradiction". That the poet appears to be more than a little pissed should be unsurprising. Since first surfacing with the Nipple Erectors in the late 1970s, MacGowan has combined folk, punk and booze into a heady mix. The high points - the wonderful Kirsty MacColl duet Fairytale of New York and a series of 1980s albums with the Pogues that made traditionalism sound fierce and fruitful - are intoxicating. Sadly, the low points, among which this gig must number, loom just as large in MacGowan's history.
MacGowan cuts an addled figure, his eyes rarely rising from his own feet, his face indistinct and his chest bloated. He sips his drink. The crowd roar. He mumbles a bit. The crowd cheer earnestly. It all feels a little Pavlovian, considering the paucity of the performance: MacGowan lurches through Dirty Old Town and tosses A Pair of Brown Eyes away with an empty snarl. Folk music can offer a communion between artist and audience, but it's hard to see this as more than a ragged karaoke contest: the football chants that echo around the audience suggest that this gig is more about affirming the identities of those present than witnessing a genius at work.
MacGowan has picked himself up many times before, and a lovely A Rainy Night in Soho proves how powerful he can be. But indulgence is not a virtue, and alcoholism is an addiction, not a cause for martyrdom. The term "wasted genius" has never felt more appropriate.
· At Shepherd's Bush Empire, London, on March 17. Box office: 0870 771 2000.
