Dropkick Murphys
Cain’s Ballroom
February 25, 2026
There’s a common coping mechanism for comment-section conservatives that you’ve probably come across: “the left are pu**ies that can’t fight.” A quick glance at Dropkick Murphys’ sold-out Cain’s crowd last month could disabuse the “sunglasses-inside-truck-selfie” clan of that notion.
The Boston Irish hardcore punk band celebrated its 30th anniversary with a tour stop at our city’s founding Klansman’s former garage, and there were “FUCK ICE” and “PUNCH NAZIS” shirts on view from the spring-loaded dance floor to the iconic rafters. Versions of those sentiments appeared across nearly every punk subculture present, from Chelsea cuts to crust vests, from combat boots to cabby hats.
Some on the left criticize the No Kings rallies as worthless and performative, and our President famously fantasizes in AI about dumping shit on their participants, but I find the events charming. People from all quadrants of the political compass are waking up to the fascist reality of our country and finding commonality in their fears through gatherings that undermine the right’s narrative that the left are all furries who need their own litter boxes. Outside of those rallies, there are No Kings cathedrals everywhere for those with eyes to see.
The Dropkick Murphys Tulsa show was one.
DKM incorporate Irish folk instruments into their Oi-informed working-class punk, but occupy a niche place on the celtic punk diagram. Less traditional than The Pogues, less campy than Flogging Molly, and just way more brutal than either. Boston hardcore has a long lineage of that brutality, with punk crews like FSU being included on FBI gang lists, and Dropkick’s founder, Ken Casey, running a boxing promotion. But that brutality is funneled into solidarity for the working class and marginalized people, and zero tolerance for the intolerant. I mean, the Boston Massacre kickstarted the American Revolution and made the Third Amendment necessary. If they weren’t quartering redcoats, why would they coddle ICE agents?
I missed openers Haywire and The Aggrolites (my partner was speaking at City Hall in favor of an Independent Monitor for Tulsa Police, which all bands on the bill would support) and arrived right before DKM walked onstage to Sham 69’s “If The Kids Are United,” an anthem of class solidarity. This was easily the most packed I’ve ever seen Cain’s, and there were satellite card-only bars serving Guinness to accommodate the proudly Irish (the author says sláinte). I asked a bartender if they were worried about running out; she replied, “Oh, no way. The Guinness reps are here.”
Dropkick Murphys took the stage to a sea of raised pints over the sound of Uilleann pipes before ripping into the punk brawler “Barroom Hero” off their debut album Do or Die. The set followed a hero’s journey trajectory, as if Finn MacCool himself were rising up amidst traditional folk soliloquies, then mid-tempo-stomping a causeway into the dance floor, thrashing the crowd into Kerrygold butter, and finally collapsing to a funeral anthem of tin whistle, accordion, banjo, bagpipes, mandolin, and bouzouki.
The most furious section of the set came with “Citizen I.C.E.,” a joint effort with show openers Haywire, whose singer joined Casey onstage for the tune. Late last year, Dropkick Murphys achieved new levels of virality with live videos of Casey confronting confused, MAGA-merch-wearing fans in their crowds. “People tell me, ‘You didn’t use-ta soapbox like this,’” he said to The Guardian. “Well, we didn’t use-ta be in the midst of an authoritarian takeover!” Even though he implies he hasn’t always soapboxed, you’d have to be an absolute moron to be a Dropkick fan and not realize they represent the long Irish tradition of standing against occupation (whether it be in the U.S., Ireland, or Palestine, which DKM join Irish group Kneecap in supporting).
DKM’s inclusion on The Departed soundtrack has possibly endeared them to some “the Irish were slaves too” fair-weather bootlicker types, which makes this new single more satisfying than a full Irish breakfast. I hope there was at least one confused schmuck in attendance who realized that lyrics like this were about them:
They've poorly trained an army for our kids to fear today
Take your masks and weapons and then be on your way
They're knee-deep in Proud Boys, the party never stops
Too scared to join the military, too dumb to be a cop
Have a bad St. Patrick's Day about it, numbnuts.
Though an Irish politician’s recently viral Cork accent has clued the globe into the Emerald and Caribbean Isles’ cultural exchange, the DKM crowd at Cain’s was whiter than Guinness foam. Casey’s talk about being against billionaires and oligarchs who seek to divide us along race, and how “Donald Trump is the biggest divider in our nation’s history,” drew ecstatic cheers from the crowd. You might not think of a Boston Irish hardcore show as a go-to “safe space” for some groups DKM vocally defend, but this was a beautiful night of solidarity and vibes, reminding me that there are so many more good people than evil ones.
As the band played their song from The Departed, “I'm Shipping Up to Boston,” for the folks who stayed through the speeches of solidarity against ICE and Trump, I asked the bartender a question.
They did, in fact, run out of Guinness.
