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The Dropkick Murphys @ The Hollywood Palladium 2/20/09
Photos by Jessi Duston /LAist
The dress code for a punk show has not changed in about thirty years. It is also a very simple one to follow: when in doubt, wear black. Black pants, black shirt, black shoes, black hair, black eyeliner, and a black tongue ring and you're good to go. With the exception of a Dropkick Murphys show in which case green is the new black. The Hollywood Palladium was lit up in green lights which reflected off the Murphy fans' Celtics jerseys fans with a sort of ominous glow. Almost everyone in the place was wearing Boston regalia, be it Celtics jerseys, Red Sox caps, Patriots jackets, and the occasional Bruins jersey. And why not? This was after all the Dropkick Murphys All Roads Lead to Boston tour.
Although I was a little concerned that some fool would yell out "Go Lakers!" in ill-timed hometown pride. Because these esteemed patrons of the Dropkick Murphys were not going to take any shit from anyone. They were drunk, they were beefy, and they were itching to stomp anyone who even mentioned the word Kobe. I had this terrible vision of some fan being dragged off and maimed for talking about the Kobe beef burger he had for lunch.
Do I exaggerate? Maybe a little, but there is a very thin line between having pride in your town and your heritage and having disdain which may manifest into great loathing for anyone who isn't. Which is not to say that the Dropkick Murphys themselves have any sort of prejudice or hatred in their music. They don't. They've combined Irish sea shanties , bagpipes, and punk music into a ferocious, delicious, hard hitting sound. But and here's the but...when you're around hundreds of Bostonians chanting "Go Red Sox!" and stomping their feet for no apparent reason at a punk show...you check whatever pride you have in your hometown at the door and shut up.
Before the Murphys even went on they played an Irish ditty over the loudspeakers that whipped the Irish-proud audience into a frenzy that can only be described as bagpipe lust. I've never seen so many grown men excited by bagpipes. Then the Murphys took the stage. In this band, anyone who is near a microphone is obligated to sing. The drummer and the piper were exempt, but the bassist, and two guitarists howled along with the lead singer, Al Barr, which made each tune sound like a boozy bar song sung by longshoremen.
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Barr himself sounds like a hoarse demon, who is determined to claim your soul. Not one of those scary demons that show up and set fire to you, but one that will mischievously lead you astray with booze and sex and gradually pull your soul from you bit by bit. He ran up and down the stage with a frantic energy that was mesmerizing. The Murphys sang about women who had done them wrong, men who had climbed higher than them socially, violent altercations, and drinking. Mostly drinking. The crowd raised their glasses and sang along with every syllable radiating from their sozzled lips.
The show ended on a romantic note, with the Dropkick Murpheys letting every good looking female in the room on stage for their raucous song Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced. It was packed with good girls, bad girls, and really confused girls, who were not quite sure how they had gotten there. But there they were dancing and singing along to the chorus which went:
So kiss me, I'm shitfaced.
I'm soaked, I'm soiled and brown.
In the trousers, she kissed me,
And I only bought her one round.
Ah, l'amour.
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