REVIEW: Dropkick Murphy’s @ MGM Music Hall 3/15
Photo Credit: Jason Greenough
Review by: Callan Harris
I’ll be honest: when I walked into MGM Music Hall at Fenway on Sunday, March 15th, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was getting myself into. I know Dropkick Murphys by reputation, of course. They’re the soundtrack to Red Sox highlights and the anthem of Boston’s St. Patrick’s Day. Knowing a band and experiencing it, though, are two very different things. I left my comfort zone at the door and stepped into a world that was chaotic, loud, and absolutely electric.
Sunday night was the third of their annual St. Patrick’s Day hometown stand, and it had a specific purpose: “Red Bandana Night.” The show honored Welles Crowther, the Boston College alum and 9/11 hero, and the crowd came prepared—red bandanas scattered everywhere. I had no idea this was a whole thing, but seeing those bandanas tied around loops on leather jackets, tucked into back pockets, around heads and arms gave the night a sense of unity and purpose that I wasn’t expecting. The tribute to Crowther saw his mother, Alison, brought on stage to toss red bandanas into the crowd during the very fitting track “A Hero Among Many.”
Let’s talk about the actual show, though, because as someone who has never been to a punk show, it was a true shock to the system in the best way. The energy was unruly. No, that’s too polite. It was absolute insanity. And the most shocking part? It was completely welcome. The security guards weren’t there to keep the crowd off the stage; they were there to help catch them. It was like a conveyor belt of crowd surfers. Every thirty seconds or so, a pair of sneakers or boots would appear over the barrier, and a security guard would lower a grinning, sweaty fan to the ground, just for them to immediately run back around and dive back into the fray.
People were backflipping into the mass of bodies. A mosh pit churned in the center of the floor, a cyclone of flailing limbs and ecstatic joy. Ken Casey, the band’s frontman, was, of course, encouraging this. At one point, he even launched himself into the crowd for a surf of his own. To further illuminate the band’s symbiosis with the crowd, Casey invited a fan on stage to help perform “Chesterfields & Aftershave.” Apparently, this British fan named George came up years ago and blew the band away, thus they continue to invite him back up.
Another thing that surprised me was the demographic of the crowd itself. It was predominantly the expected middle-aged white men with mohawks or bald heads, but with a closer look, the audience was surprisingly diverse. There was a strong contingent of punk women, sporting colorful tattoos and dark eye makeup, holding their own in the pit. Then, there were the dads. There were so many dads with their kids— some of which looked to be maybe seven or eight years old, perched on shoulders or sporting tiny noise-cancelling headphones, witnessing their first punk rock concert. It was a surprisingly sweet generational handoff happening right in the middle of mayhem.
Dropkick Murphys were incredibly reminiscent and grateful for the 90s Boston punk scene that spawned them. They curated a 30-year set list, getting the crowd going for anthems like “Rose Tattoo,” “Tessie,” and “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya.” During these tracks among many others, Campbell Webster on the bagpipes and Tim Brennan on the accordion gave the show that iconic St. Paddy’s celebratory sound.
Before the encore, the band pivoted from feel-good St. Paddy’s anthems to a more serious, yet comedic note. As they launched into “First Class Loser,” six letters were plastered behind them: “FCL” and “FDT” (you can guess the acronym). Then, a montage began that was, frankly, iconic. It was a relentless assault of Donald Trump’s most embarrassing moments— spray tan close-ups and terrible golf shots, intercut with real, incriminating quotes from him and stark highlights from the Epstein Files. It wasn’t just a cheap shot. It was the kind of thing that makes you realize why punk still matters right now. I personally feel frustrated on a day-to-day basis about this administration. It felt good, cathartic even, to see Trump’s worst moments on a giant screen set to a head-banging soundtrack, and to scream about it along with hundreds of other frustrated people.
Of course, the Murphys closed with the one song I knew before entering the venue: “I’m Shipping up to Boston.” They brought out Boston College’s marching band to successfully amplify the moment; the place detonated.
Even though this isn’t music you’d typically catch me listening to on my morning commute, I had an absolute blast. It was impossible not to. The place was packed with people having the night of their lives, and that excitement was infectious. From what I’ve heard, every other night of their stand was just as packed, just as wild. I entered a curious observer and walked out with respect for chaos. Dropkick Murphys have cultivated a unique subsection of Boston’s music scene, and for one night, I’m so grateful to have been an honorary member.