The Omnivore: March

Come St. Paddy's day weekend, tipsy hipsters will pogo to the Pogues at the new House of Blues, and surely the Irish punk-folk legends will pack the house and deliver a fierce show, as always. These fans, it's safe to assume, won't like to admit how much they'll be mirroring the scene at the other end of Boylston Street. There, seated in the Wang Theatre's gilt interior, will be their parents, enraptured by the showboating of New Age–y quintet Celtic Woman.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Three years ago, the Pogues' reunion seemed like a miracle. Self-destructive frontman Shane MacGowan was back in the fold for the band's first stateside tour since 1989—how long could he even stay onstage? But somehow they ripped out renditions of "Dirty Old Town" and "Streams of Whiskey" as if it were their last performance: The Pogues were back, as good as ever!

Which, as it happens, is the rub. Every March since, the Pogues have conveniently toured the most steadfastly Irish-American cities, their relentless release schedule of repackaged compilations further dulling the glow. Celtic Woman, with its repetitive shamrock syrup, isn't that much more calculated than the Pogues' own $100 "rarities" box set and greatest-hits concert lineups. Vastly dissimilar keys? Perhaps. But this band, too, has become a museum piece, existing primarily to slake our thirst for an artificial Eire, as boozy as Celtic Woman's is bonny.