Let’s start with the easy bit: Gogol Bordello play punk rock with accordions and fiddles.
Then consider that’s the easy bit.
Midway through “Not A Crime,” the guy who had been playing bongos suddenly takes the vocals, and all hell breaks loose.
Put it this way: you’ve never heard anything like “Wanderlust King” because nothing like it exists. If hell has an oompah band, this is it. They are sensational in every sense of the word.
Sergey Ryabtsev takes the lead vocals for the start of “My Companjera,” but Ukrainian native Eugene Hütz is soon joined by special guests for “Dance Around The Fire,” swelling the number of people on stage to something close to the cast of Gladiator. Yet Hütz remains the brilliant ringmaster of this circus, presiding over the chaos with effortless charisma.
The women on stage turn out to be Puzzled Panther, a band from NYC with whom Gogol Bordello wrote the multicultural anthem “From Boyarka To Boyaca”—a definite highlight of the night.
Pedro Erazo abandons his bongos to become a full-on hype man for “Immigraniada (We Comin’ Rougher),” a track that could start a mosh pit in a morgue, while “We Mean It Man” feels like their mission statement.
Like some Eastern European drug den with a nightmare soundtrack, they launch into “Start Wearing Purple,” and it feels less like a suggestion and more like an order.
Everything about this show feels gloriously urgent. Music like this is meant to provoke a reaction. You’ll either love them or hate them – MV LOVED them – because Gogol Bordello don’t exist in the margins.
Just before the lights go down and Sham 69’s “If the Kids Are United” starts, they pipe Billy Bragg’s version of the old folk song “There Is Power in a Union” through the PA. Does anything better sum up the Dropkick Murphys?
Is there a band that embodies that working-class spirit, that sense of togetherness, better than the boys from Boston?
A few minutes later, “Captain Kelly’s Kitchen” is bathed in green for their Celtic roots, but “The Boys Are Back” and “Prisoner’s Song” are glorious reminders of the last time the band was, well, back here.
For all their messaging, they’ve never taken themselves too seriously, and “Mick Jones Nicked My Pudding” is as fun as it gets.
Now that Ken Casey is the sole vocalist, he whips up the first mosh pit on “Going Out in Style.” “Bastards on Parade” is as jaunty as a Springsteen song, but it also brings the first crowd surfers of the set.
They are masters of the singalong—”Flanagan’s Bar” underlines that—and when “Which Side Are You On?” is dedicated to “Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and any other billionaire c**t,” it’s clear the years haven’t mellowed them.
They are ferocious, even by their own standards—”Sirens,” “Middle Finger,” and the rest—and if anyone has ever played “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya” faster in the last 150 years, we’ve never heard it.
That’s only the halfway point, and they’re still not at top gear.
Their folk side bursts forth on a cover of “Body of an American,” which contrasts sharply with the hardcore fury of “Fight to Unite.” And if fallen comrades are on their minds during “Walk Away,” well, they’re never far away anyway.
“The Hardest Mile” marches into battle, and Campbell Webster’s bagpipes signal the tour debut of “Barroom Hero”—the first song they ever wrote.
“It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll)” gives Casey a breather, allowing bassist Kevin Rheault to channel his inner Bon Scott—a reminder that AC/DC still rule.
Talking about “pacing a set” when the Dropkicks are in full throttle seems redundant, but “State of Massachusetts” signals a crescendo of sorts, especially when it’s followed by fan favourites “Rose Tattoo” and “The Irish Rover.”
They end the set with the singalong brotherhood hymn “Until the Next Time,” but let’s be honest—everyone knows they’re not done.
Because, of course, there’s that one about shipping up to Boston—the singalong to end them all.
Yet it’s “Worker’s Song” that rightfully closes the show. This most blue-collar, everyman band had to finish this way, sticking it to the fat cats just as they have for 30 years. More power to them.
Give or take a fortnight, it’s been three years since they were last on this stage. That night, MV wrote: “Any genre you can find always has a ‘best’ band, and when it comes to Celtic Punk, Dropkick Murphys are without peer.”
At the risk of repeating ourselves, that still holds true.
Or consider this: When they played “James Connolly,” Casey spotted someone gesturing to his nephew in the crowd. Thinking he was being challenged to a fight, Casey asked the fan what was going on—only to be told, “We’re all one family; I was inviting him to join us.” That’s the camaraderie here tonight.
They are the original. They are the best. And their unbreakable union is still full of power.
