With the death of singer Kirsty MacColl, the legendary Irish punk-traditionalists The Pogues were looking for a new guest singer.

In this story for The Independent, accordionist James Fearnley puts us at the scene when Katie Melua shows up (some excerpts): (H/T to Kevin)

We don't expect to be seeing Shane MacGowan. He's in Morocco, or on his way back from Morocco. It's a mystery how he gets there without help, since Joey [Cashman, his manager] had not accompanied him, so we're told. It's a further mystery how he gets back. He's instantly referred to as The Caliph, and it's difficult not to imagine him, for the time being, without a silk turban and shoes that curl over at the toe.

We're not going to see The Caliph until tomorrow, when Katie Melua shows up, too, to rehearse "Fairy Tale of New York". We have no idea about Katie Melua. I live in a cultural bubble in the United States. We want to protect Kirsty MacColl's memory, that's for sure. Consequently, and prejudiciously, I find myself imagining a sultry, predatory young woman with an agenda and records that sell well, and I know I'm not going to like her. But that's tomorrow and I'm not going to worry about it. ...

It's now Wednesday. When I arrive, early - because it still feels as though there's a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in - there's a guy crouched at the foot of the Christmas tree by the back door with a screwdriver, putting a plug on the lights, which he hasn't yet strung over the branches.

We're here early to run through a few things, because, in a couple of hours, Katie Melua's going to turn up. We've got a documentary team filming us at the moment. It's weird having a camera pointed at you all day, but you soon get used to it. ...

Katie Melua is a diminutive, spry, canny young girl with igneous eyes, wearing a Peruvian hat with earflaps. She seems altogether too young for us hoary old tars. Then, Shane arrives and Mike Batt's eminence is suddenly and completely dispelled. Shane's wearing a coat that you might expect to find in the theatre wardrobe labelled "Dickens". It's filthy and black and is redolent of dripping alleyways and rat-runs and standpipes and influenza epidemics and prison-ships. In the departure lounge at Stansted, on the way to Bilbao, in September, he looked youthful, and slenderer, with his hair newly done and dyed the colour of soot. Now, after three months, the crown of his head is sprouting hair that's the colour of cigarette-ash, pushing the chimney-flue colour before it. But, he's on time.

 I say, "You're on time!" He sits with a heavy thump on the chair in front of the bass drum, which is his sort of throne when it comes to rehearsals, dropping his clanking bags next to him and then taking in the room to see who's paying attention, a grin on his face. He says, as if it were a matter of principle of which I need reminding: "I'm never on time."