"Now I bet we've got a couple of transplants in the audience - are there any Massholes out there?" Al Barr asked the rumbling crowd at the Dropkick Murphys concert last Thursday at Rams Head Live!.
The fans who'd gathered for the event appeared to be largely homogeneous. They were mostly men, as Barr suggested, reminiscent of a blue-collar Bostonian workforce. "I know there are, I can smell you," Barr added, answering his own question, and threw a bottle of water out into the crowd. Perhaps he figured that a shower was in order.
I think he was right - the venue was thick with the scent of sweat. And while Barr's query was met with scattered cheers, I got the impression, gazing around at the enthused attendees, that the majority of the individuals enjoying the Dropkick Murphys live wished they could respond in the affirmative.
The Murphys' arrival on stage was preceded by 10 minutes of sporadic chanting - "Let's go Murphys!" The crowd was lively, equally consisting of middle-aged men and young, carefully groomed troublemakers.
When the Murphys finally presented themselves, they made a show of it; a slow song began to play, a woman's tremulous voice was heard, and the crowd began to clap in time. Flickering yellow flames lit themselves across the stage and then, as the music reached an eerie climax, the band emerged at last, the crowd breaking into cheers.
The plain black backdrop was ripped away to reveal a fabric mural featuring three enormous shamrock-covered stained glass windows. The brightly colored lights flashed on and the Murphys broke into exuberant and almost immediately exhausting song.
They played a number of songs from their newest release, The Meanest of Times, including the sharp standout, "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya," which Barr bit out to great effect.
Shortly afterwards, having broken briefly to chat with attendees, the Murphys launched into a series of songs unpunctuated by commentary or crowd interaction, bleeding into each other as the audience showed their approval.
Their newer material went over well; the crowd tumultuously roared and roiled during songs like "Never Forget" and "The State of Massachusetts." The crowd screamed along with Barr and waved their arms. On the balcony, one pair of particularly enthusiastic fans thrust their torsos so far out over the edge, flailing and fist-pumping, that it seemed as if they would fall off.
The Murphys also rolled out the bread-and-butter hit parade, very serious about being angry on songs such as "Oi Oi Oi" and the Irish classic "Fields of Athenry." Just prior to heading backstage for the first time, they performed "Kiss Me, I'm S---faced," a song preceded by lead singer Barr shouting, "It's that time of the night!" and inviting all the ladies in the audience to make their way up to the stage for the duration of the song.
Despite the crowd's early enthusiasm, they put in a lackluster performance when it came to encouraging an encore. Although the band came back out, it hardly felt like the audience deserved it. The encore itself was arguably a highlight of the concert - the band blew "The Rocky Road to Dublin" out of the water and covered Bruce Springsteen's "Badlands" with more aplomb than I would have expected. Still, I was left wondering why such a staunchly Massachusetts-affiliated, Ireland-inspired band was paying tribute to the Boss and the Jersey scene.
They concluded with yet another homage to their closest homeland, not Ireland, but rather the home of the Red Sox. After inviting male members of the audience, this time, to join them on stage, they launched into "Shipping Up to Boston." Volunteers surged delightedly, and in most cases drunkenly, forward to stand alongside their heroes, until the band members, one by one, filtered away, leaving Barr standing alone.
Even he eventually sneaked off stage, creeping out through the fleeting gap in the crowd. As the show ended, only fans were left belting out an old favorite, barely noticing the absence of any actual musicians on stage.
There was something charmingly egalitarian about the gesture, especially for a band which seems to be the musical equivalent of the Ship of Theseus; the band still bears its original name even after all its parts have been replaced. The Dropkick Murphys have only one remaining original band member but continue to perform and produce music because they are, to a certain extent, owned by their fans.
The Dropkick Murphys are the Dropkick Murphys, regardless of lineup. Maybe they're never more themselves than when they're not even there - when a crowd of drunk and disorderly wannabe Bostonians have taken over their name and committed themselves, joyously, to singing a crowd of like-minded fans out the door.
We're all heading back to Baltimore, not Boston - but close enough because they both start with "B" and the Dropkick Murphys are in the replacement game anyway.
