Come On Up To The House

So I’m getting myself in the mood a touch, listening to some Grandmaster Flash and Dropkick Murphys. I haven’t listened to Al Barr, Spicy McHaggis and the boys in literally years, and they bring back some hilarious memories of my punk days. That is, I listened to punk rock, I never would have classified myself as a punk. Good grief alive, no. If I had, then no doubt my days would be spent ligging along with the likes of these, dressed in nought but shabby jeans, bovver boots and a wife-beater vest. As it happens, I’m wearing a stripy shirt and fairly smart trousers, but then I am at work: no doubt later my clodhoppers will come out.

The Dropkick Murphys, to me, are endearing in a somewhat aah, bless ‘em kind of way. Known first and foremost for their pride in their Boston-Irish heritage (why don’t you just get Americans?), the Murphys are also charming in their wilful, and often a touch comical appropriation of working class values and causes.

Take Sing Loud, Sing Proud! for instance. On the cover is a South Boston mural, imitating those found in Belfast and around the island. On the record you’ll find not only Irish traditionals like The Wild Rover and the Rocky Road To Dublin, but a collaboration with a slobberinhly incoherent Shane MacGowan. There’s also The Legend Of Finn MacCool, carefully avoiding the giant’s most notable misadventure, running away from his Scots counterpart. You’ll also find the raised fist in support of trade unionism and other such token, working mens’ causes. It’s all rather quaint, especially if you were to compare the tough-talking rabble with bands such as Crass, or Rage Against The Machine or the like, who actually make some effort to change things rather than just whining about them. Although, that sort of attitude could potentially wipe out the greater part of the music industry…

Tomorrow, I’m all about the playgrounds of West Philly, and Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. Or, on the other hand: not.