Review Summary: The Murphys extend their Guthrie worship for another year, with somewhat better results this time around
The typical shelf life for any punk band, even one that has become as much of a cultural cornerstone as Dropkick Murphys has for the Boston area, is probably at least somewhat short of the nearly thirty years they’ve been plugging away at their trade. The fact that they’ve leveraged their working-class, not-quite-plastic-paddy image into a longstanding place as New England’s ambassadors of union politics is impressive and fitting for this bunch of working-class Boston roughs. That their followup to the extended Woody Guthrie tribute that was last year’s
This Machine Still Kills Fascists, a continuation of that album’s use of Guthrie’s lyrics melded with their oi-tinged celtic punk, is probably the best shot that this band had to keep the old spark alive is made clear pretty quickly, as the Murphys sound more inspired than they have in years. Add to this is the fact that their attempt to write versions of Guthrie’s indelible working class anthems for the 21st century feels like an effort to have more of a legacy than being the band you’re going to hear at Boston sports events for the next 50 years, and you have at least the foundations for a late-career success. And the best part of the whole thing is that by continuing the focus on working-class politics and spiritual Guthrie worship of last year, the Murphys feel more vitalized and relevant than they have in years. That they’ve taken a more laid-back tack, at least compared to their bar-burning drinking anthem heyday, feels more fitting than it has in a while as well, as though that Guthrie’s folky influence had led to a more intentionally stripped-down, laid-back sound rather than the toothlessness of recent albums.
At this point, we may as well address the elephant in the room: the fact that the Murphys pulled this exact same move last year with
This Machine Still Kills Fascists. The risk of the whole Guthrie gimmick becoming stale the second time around is pretty obvious, especially since the former album was only mildly successful at revitalizing the Dropkick’s sound by peppering the album with occasionally convincing touches of blues and chain gang songs that read as an attempt to bring their sound more in line with Guthrie’s, but which felt more like a band flailing around for a new direction and being unable to make it stick. But on
Okema Rising, the move to Guthrie’s old stomping grounds of Tulsa and the titular reference to his birthplace feel more symbolic than anything, as the band has elected to return whole-heartedly to the well-worn Dropkick sound. The Dropkicks were always kind of constrained by the success of their gimmick; they never really had the versatility to break out of their green-beer and shamrock mold, as
Fascists pretty handily demonstrated. So returning to the sound that’s always been their calling card while renewing their focus on songwriting and a good belter of a chorus represents probably the best move they could have made at this point.
Ken Casey’s singing on this album still lacks much of the fire of the glory days (at times his gravelly punk shouts come across as forced and put-upon) but the change in tack towards a mellower overall sound seems to gel better with what Casey’s bringing to the table than it has in years. And yes, it’s true that much of the time, when everything clicks, its with a sense of nostalgia for the glory days, for when the band could belt out barroom anthems with the best of them. But the Guthrie theme, done once again with the full approval of his estate, and the storytelling in the lyrics that Guthrie was a master of, allow the band to take a back seat, to take the focus a bit off the fact that there’s probably not another Kiss Me I’m Shitfaced or Finnigan’s Wake in the boys’ future. By allowing Guthrie’s words to take center stage, the Murphys bring the kind of spirit to them that Guthrie himself would have no doubt appreciated, their sound lending the kind of grit and verve to them that the working-class left is in desperate need of nowadays. The anthemic hopefulness of My Eyes Are Gonna Shine, where Casey belts Guthrie’s hopes for the future, the buoyant grit of the life of the itinerant worker on Watching the World Go By, the sheer fun of Run, Hitler Run, it all makes clear that the band is doing their absolute best to live up to the material of one of their most respected forefathers. If it doesn’t always completely succeed, if it sometimes becomes clear that the band is shooting for a fire that may be harder for them to stoke nowadays, it doesn’t really rankle that much. What matters here is the new life they’ve been able to breathe into Guthrie’s words, and the fact that they’ve been able to find an inspiration there that, for the most part, has given them a renewed sense of purpose.
That the high point of the album is an out-and-out retread of their most notorious track feels fitting; after all, Shipping Up To Boston was the band’s first lifting of Guthrie’s lyrics, and their most successful. The Dropkick Murphys would never have gotten where they are today without understanding the importance of a good anthem, and its pretty clear that their political side would have gained precious little traction without them knowing their way around a good hook, an understanding that both they and Guthrie share. The reworking of their perennial encore piece, peppered with harmonica and fiddle, keeps the acoustic mood of the rest of the album without losing any of its fire, and if it makes one wish that the rest of the album could do the same, it’s still a great way to close out this chapter of the Murphys long and storied career. If
Okemah Rising doesn’t quite live up to Guthrie himself, it at least makes for a more than serviceable tribute that breathes life into not just his words and politics, but also the sound of the band eulogizing him.
