Yo Punk, the Gang's All Here

Q: How do you find an Obie at a punk show?

A: He/she/it is the normal-looking one. Need proof? Look no further than the Dropkick Murphys show at the 'Sco last Friday. At one of the most heavily-attended and intense shows in recent memory, it was easily apparent which attendees were Obies and which not. Fourteen-year-olds with three-inch red mowaks? Not. Shirtless skinheads covered in tattoos and sporting suspenders? Not. The well-coiffed, sytlishly tattooed and elegantly piereced? Yup - and for once, the Obies probably smelled better than the non-Obies. Well, for a while at least, before everyone just smelled the same - like a punk show, a combination of blood, beer, sweat and awful body odor.

Noticeably absent from that alchemy, however, was the stain of nicotine. One could tell from the number of pre-concert smokers inside the 'Sco that this was a mostly non-Oberlin crowd. Efforts from 'Sco staffers were largely unsuccessful - and then Sergeant Gary took to the mike. Noting politely but firmly the no-smoking policy, his announcement curtailed any indoor smoking for the evening.

And then it was time for the show. Opening for the Murphys were Boston-based punk compatriots Reach for the Sky. The large crowd was ready to rock. It wouldn't have mattered had Reach for the Sky played Barry Manilow covers, so long as they were fast enough with big drums. They did not disappoint, playing enthusiastic if basic punk to the receptive crowd, who formed in and out of mosh pits and open circles all night. Reach for the Sky played a perfectly acceptable set of revved-up, heartfelt punk rock, and got the crowd's blood flowing, elbows flying and sweat rolling. But as even they acknowledged, the real show was still to come.

After a half hour's break, the Dropkick Murphys took the stage to a great roar and squishing of bodies toward the stage. Everyone knew what was coming next, and yet not a soul was disappointed when the Murphys' (female) bagpiper burst into the opening chords of "A Cadence to Arms," the opening track off of the band's 1998 first full-length album, Do or Die.

And as on the album, after the bagpipes got everyone into a nice froth the band jumped right into the title track, a fast-paced real thrash of a song that likely saw a whole lot of cuts opened for the first (but not last) time in the evening for those fortunate/unfortunate enough to be in the general vicinity of the pit.

After a few numbers, it became impossible to actually see the band, as a human wall of exuberant punk rockers lined three- or four-deep in front of the stage, while a lucky few were actually damn near on the stage themselves.

Populists that they are, the Murphys did not disappoint with their choice of setlist-all the "old" (this is a four-year-old band) favorites were there. The boys from Boston put in tight versions of "Curse of a Fallen Soul" and "The Fighting 69th," both from last year's The Gang's All Here, in addition to a raucous version of the album's title track. Fabulous version of "Far Away Coast" and "Finnegan's Wake," from the debut album were also highlights. And the room very nearly combusted under the energy of "Fightstarter Karaoke" and "Barroom Hero." A cover of The Who also served to elicit smiles from those who recognized it.

As the show began to elbow its way toward the conclusion, lead singer Al Barr told the infamous Guinness rat story before a tribute to those rodentia in "Good Rats." The bagpipes came out again and Barr urged the crowd to sing along to "Amazing Grace," which they did, if you can call it singing. The Murphys' modern-day take on the 1940s protest song, "The MTA Song," "Skinhead on the MBTA," disappointed none when it was played as one of the last songs.

The band wrapped up, but the audience was having none of it, chanting "Dropkicks!" over and over until the boys came back for their encore. And so as the last "Oi!"s faded into the night, the crowd filtered home to their various Cleveland suburbs and the Oberlin contingent let the sweat and blood dry on their way back to the dorms, never knowing exactly whose sweat and blood it was.