McColgan and Barton split from the group after the first and second records, respectively. Barr came on board in 1999. Orrell and Lynch joined up in 2000, broadening the band’s sound. Bagpiper Spicy McHaggis and multi-instrumentalist Ryan Foltz came and went. Wallace and Brennan joined in 2003.
Over the band’s six studio albums, their playing has gotten tighter, the production crisper. There have been flirtations with more radio-friendly pop (e.g., the rollicking single “Sunshine Highway,” from 2005’s The Warrior’s Code), but by and large, the Murphys’ songs have hewed to the same formula: loud guitars, snare-tight drums, visceral melodies, and shout-along choruses, all imbued with the melancholy caste of Irish folk.
The only real change has been that each successive album is subtly but appreciably better.
And what started as a simple street-punk band playing venues like the Middle East and the Rat has slowly and steadily grown into a local legend, a globe-spanning goliath. They played 100 or so shows this past year, and have stomped stages in Europe, Japan, and Australia.
Their catalog has moved about 1.5 million units. Not shabby. And it’s a number that’s increased in recent months, spurred by the success of the titanic sea chantey “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” (long-lost lyrics penned by Woody Guthrie), which was featured in Martin Scorsese’s 2006 film, The Departed. That song has sold more than 250,000 copies digitally.
Which is cool, but not as cool as getting a shout-out from Marty himself on stage at the Academy Awards. “Another thing to add to the list of things to be grateful for,” says Casey. “I dunno how I’m gonna get that off TiVo and on to CD, Martin Scorsese thanking us at the Oscars. I almost choked on my soda.”
Then there are the other triumphs, like, say, the Red Sox’ World Series victory in 2004, an improbable curse reversal that some have ascribed in part to the band’s amped-up re-recording of the century-old Red Sox fight song “Tessie.”
Casey is flattered and grateful for all this success, which seems to be growing exponentially in recent years — Clint Eastwood was this close to using another Dropkicks song, “The Dirty Glass,” in 2003’s Mystic River — but he’s also realistic, and healthily self-confident. After all, what better band than theirs?
“The Red Sox wanted a local flavor for one of their songs,” he says wryly. “They come to us. Great. But at the same time, who else should have been doing it? You’re doing an Irish gangster movie in Boston. Who else should be doing it?”
Punk purists may scoff. (And many do.) But Dropkick Murphys are what they are. Unapologetically. They’re a beloved institution at home here in Boston, playing between periods of Bruins games, among the red-faced and green-tied pols at the Saint Patrick’s Day Breakfast, and the outfield grass at Fenway. They’re giants on the national and international punk circuit via the Vans Warped Tour, and their own tireless gigging. They’re also, not for nothing, seven of the nicest and most humble guys I’ve ever met.
“In terms of other mainstream acts, we’re still not big,” says Casey. “We sell a couple hundred thousand records; it’s great for what we are and what we do. Anything bigger than that might not be good for the band. But it has become what I thought it could become when we were playing to just these punk rockers and skinheads at the Rat.”
Yes, it’s true. The Dropkicks have a bigger and more diverse fan base than ever. From teenage skate rats to middle-age soccer moms to, well, Martin Scorsese. That more and more people are listening is a testament to the band’s talents but also to their unflagging work ethic.
“You can’t rest on your laurels in this business, or it’ll be over,” Casey says. “You gotta take every song you write and every album you put out with total earnestness, or you’ll fall on your face. The fans will see that and know you’re mailing it in. I never want to see this band go out that way.”
On their own
The release of The Meanest of Times represents what may be another huge step in Dropkick Murphys’ evolution. For the first time in almost 10 years, the band are no longer with Los Angeles indie label Epitaph/Hellcat. Instead, they’re putting the record out on their own label, Born & Bred Records, which they established through Warner Music’s independent-label group.
“With Epitaph, there were no hard feelings, but we always felt like a square peg in a round hole being on a West Coast label,” says Casey — who’s also made damn sure there won’t be any major-label horror stories for his band [from Warners]. “It’s very much set in the contract. They do some of the good stuff, but they’re not allowed to do any of the bad stuff. We’re very early into it, but no one’s come and tried to put us in funny clothes or make us do a silly dance yet.”
“Or play them demos and say ‘We don’t like these songs,’ ” says Barr. “We’ve been calling all the shots.”