Last night, as I’ve mentioned (nay, gushed), was my third Dropkick Murphys concert, and the precise anniversary of my first, and it went off like the perfect final installment of a well-planned trilogy. They came to my territory, for a change, and I came prepared. Normally, I’m content to stay on the fringe of the pit where there are plenty of people packed in, but not as much going on. I’m more and more aware, as I get older, of my mortality and the fragility of my favorite parts (namely, my eyes and ears), so I’m less prone to risky behavior. Besides, I’ve usually got a purse/camera/t-shirt-I-just-bought that would be cumbersome in the more active part of the crowd. Last night, though, I brought nothing but my ID (which reminds me: they didn’t card me at the bar. How friggin’ old do I look??) because I was ready to get down to dirty, sweaty business that’s only done right if it hurts in the morning.
One of my party was running late, so we missed the first act, Everybody Out!, entirely. Derreck picked up a CD to make up for it. It’s a little low-fi--most 6-track records at the merch table are--and I’m not sure I would like hearing the lead’s extra-gritty voice for extended periods, but they write/play a decent tune, and it works well on shuffle.
We didn’t catch much of Big D and the Kids Table, either (Evan was REALLY late), but I did like their last number, [something about] California. I’ll have to look up the lyrics or find the song because the acoustics in the Egyptian Room, especially at the back, are shite. Everything is badly distorted (to the point that it sounded like the Murphys were doing spontaneous, yet highly-coordinated key changes during their set). Anyway, I couldn’t help thinking that, from the back of the room, the lead singer looked like Chris Crocker (the “leave Britney alone” guy). It was a little distracting, and I’d appreciate if he’d shave his head or wear a scally cap in the future, so that I can focus on the music. (c: But I digress. The point is, I think I like them, and the mix of hardcore-style rants punctuated with horns was right up my alley. I didn’t pick up a CD (remember: this was a totally purchase- and camera-free show for me), but I am curious to hear more.
I noticed when we came in that there was a girl working the merchandise table that looked suspiciously like Stephanie Dougherty from Deadly Sins, but I just wasn't convinced it was her. Besides, she has her own band, why would she be hawking Murph gear? But later that night, lo and behold, Merch Girl got on stage and did "The Dirty Glass" with Murphys. My eyes may not be trustworthy, but my ears did not deceive me. Talk about work ethic! It has to be exhausting working the whole show, night after night. I love to see a bad-ass woman carving out her place in a male-dominated genre, and I admire hard work from anyone. I see only great things coming from her in the future.
Now that I've had my moment of feminist exultation, let me tell you what it feels like to have your face rocked off. Being now a veteran of their shows, I’ve figured out a few things. First, whoever thought it was a good idea to play a recording of “The Foggy Dew” (Sinead O’Connor and the Chieftains) just before the band goes on is a genius. That song, with its rolling thunder/distant cannon percussion, just starts you off feeling like something very big is hanging in the near distance. O’Connor's voice is raw, even breaking at points, and the instrumental section builds and swells, making everyone proud to be Irish (even if they’re not). Just as the climax is reached, the instruments cut out almost completely, and it’s just O'Connor’s voice standing between you and the Murph. At this point, the crowd has gone involuntarily nuts, and we're launched into Famous For Nothing.
Second: get as close to the stage as you can before the set is half over. I was about three people back during most of the show, which is as well as you can do without being in the front from the first act or really yanking someone out of the way. I am not dedicated enough to do either. It’s been a long while since I’ve gotten that far in, and it was the most fun I’ve had in ages. There a million things I love about the pit; it’s an enormous rush to be smashed in with all those people, all with a common goal of having our asses kicked and, of course, our faces rocked off. At 5’6”, I’m not a short girl, but you don’t find many ladies in the thick, so I was dwarfed by my mostly male companions. I spent a fair amount of time with my face planted firmly in the back/shoulder of this stranger or that, but I know what the band looks like, so who cares if I can’t see? Trying to recall at the end of the night, my friends and I realized that we didn’t really remember what they played while we were down front.
Je: "Tessie" was one of them.Otras Personas: Yeah, they played "Tessie." S---! What else?Ich: I have no f---ing idea. I was busy breathing and staying on my feet!
I could probably have recounted just that bit, and I’d feel like I’ve told you exactly what I love about these shows.
As usual, they played their newer stuff first (another reason I didn’t remember all of it: I just got the Meanest of Times album) and saved the older, better-known songs for the end. This is another smart move, since it gets the new music, which not everyone will know, out there. Then you reel them all back in with the stuff they undoubtedly know and can sing along to. It was also the first night that I got up on stage for Kiss Me, I’m S---faced. It’s a DKM tradition, toward the end of each show, to get all the girls who can reach the stage up for a big sing-along to Kiss Me (this is why you want to be up there by the half-way mark). They space it out with Shipping Up to Boston, then get the guys on stage for Skinhead on the MBTA. They do three or four more “standards.” (Last night, I think I remember Citizens’ CIA, Boys on the Docks, and Barroom Heroes, though not necessarily in that order.) The end result is that you leave the show at once exhausted and exhilarated. I like nothing better.
The final toll: a bruised ankle, a big knot behind my right ear, bruised sternum, bruised left arm, scuffed up Vans slip-ons, and some very sore muscles. I call it a toll, but I secretly classify it as part of the benefit. Even that harsh ringing in my ears all day today just serves to remind me that last night, for three hours, I lived as hard as I could.