A toddler dressed in a pink tutu takes a seat on the floor of MGM Music Hall at Fenway, Boston’s 5,000-seat venue located directly next to Major League Baseball’s oldest ballpark and home of the famed Green Monster. The girl’s father looks down at the child, both smiling, eyes alight, and joins her on the floor. A few feet behind them a boy, possibly mid-teens, dances solo in head-to-toe green, a voluntary uniform he shares with most of today’s pre-St. Patrick’s Day crowd, some of whom are wearing flashing shamrock headbands, tall leprechaun hats and flat scally caps, and lots and lots of Dropkick Murphys gear.
Kids are everywhere, in strollers or sitting on parents’ shoulders, large headphones cover most of their ears as they bounce along to the piped-in punk pre-show music.
It’s mid-afternoon on March 14, the fourth annual Dropkick Murphys kids Claddagh Fund matinee show, where the band plays a nine-song set of uplifting hits, lowering the volume and editing expletives to make this a true family event. A celebratory graphic of a crotchety scowling leprechaun shines from the back of the stage. Under his feet in bold it reads: “FOR THE KIDS…IN THE PIT.” His left hand is extended in a punky “V” sign—the two-fingered salute—just so you don’t mistake him for the cozy bedtime-story type.
Sinéad O’Connor’s haunting vocals on the Chieftains’ “The Foggy Dew”—DKM’s live lead-in/opener for over two decades—segues into a familiar rousing beat and the crowd jumps and claps in synch to Dropkick’s “The Boys Are Back.” (“The boys are back / the boys are back / the boys are back / And they’re looking for trouble…”) And this kicks off one of the most feel-good 40 minutes you’ll ever experience, with band frontman and founder Ken Casey reminding us throughout that this party belongs to the kids, extending the mic, encouraging them to talk and sing along.
When it’s over, everyone lines up for photos with the band, where they’ll also receive a signed poster. The meet and greet takes longer than expected this year, cutting into precious pre-show time—did I mention they have a show that evening?—but if they’re the least bit tired it’s overshadowed by a fierce commitment to giving this audience the time and attention they deserve.
All proceeds from the show go to the Claddagh Fund, the band’s nonprofit charity supporting “causes related to children, veterans, and addiction recovery.” Today, they’ve invited children and representatives from Franciscan Children’s, a Boston-based hospital that “has served children and adolescents with complex medical, mental health and special education needs” since 1949 to join the band onstage, to receive a donation for $60,000.
Maybe this is what a revolution looks like: community, gathering, music.
I caught up with Ken at the end of February, about two weeks before the kid-friendly charity event, but it might as well have been a world away, on a rare quiet moment on tour before a show in Des Moines. We chatted a bit about the then-upcoming free concert at the Palace Theatre in Saint Paul, Minnesota on March 6, neither of us knowing of the imminent firing of U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem, whose controversial initiatives were heavily protested in the North Star State. It seems a cosmic coincidence that Dropkicks—known for their outspoken politics as much as their Celtic punk label—are celebrating their milestone 30th year in 2026, and 20 years since The Departed made their 2005 single “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” a certifiable anthem, during such a politically polarizing time.
Discussion of the 30-year marker makes Ken “nostalgic,” considering Dropkicks formed in three weeks on a dare. “When I think about the intent in the beginning, which was just to have a laugh and win a bet, to becoming a career and a life and a ticket around the world, and to meet all these amazing people, it’s pretty mind-bending,” he smiles, noting he hopes the band will be remembered for their fans-first, true-to-their-roots pillars. And integrity. He wants Dropkicks to be known for their integrity: “As far as the band goes, it’s just staying the course and walking the walk and sticking to your guns. Just not changing with the winds and the times. Be it musically or philosophically.”
This naturally brings us back to politics. “We left it to the lyrics a lot more,” he says, of the band’s earlier days. “But we also weren’t facing the moment America is facing right now. To me, as the stakes ramp up, you got to ramp up your level of activism. I guess in some ways, I’d say it’s a shame that this would have to define us, but on the other hand, I almost feel like maybe the first 30 years was all just the warm-up for this moment. I’m all right with being remembered for putting what we believe in right ahead of what’s necessarily best for the band as a business.”
He’s referring to the cost that comes from speaking out. “We’re motivated to do it, and we also feel obligated to do it,” Ken says. “It’s not a burden. [It would] feel weird that if you’d be a punk band, and sung about the things we’ve sung about for 30 years—to not speak up, would just be incredibly cowardice.”
A fierce political stance naturally provokes fierce opposition, even in the form of threats. But to this, Ken merely states: “I’m not scared of nothing.”
The Minneapolis concert would go as planned—the day after Kristi Noem’s firing was announced in the press—at the memorial site for Alex Pretti, the 37-year-old intensive care nurse who was fatally shot by federal agents in January. “We’re so proud of how Minneapolis has stood up on behalf of all of America,” Ken said. “They are just such good, nice, kind people up there. That’s been our 30 years of experience, and seeing a lot of people who, it’s probably not in their nature to be out doing what they’re doing to fight back, but they did it anyway. They have stood up.”
He encourages everyone to speak up in the face of opposition. “That could mean in a circle of 10 people you know or that could mean in a way larger circle,” he says. “I was taught, in a lot of ways, if you don’t have people pissed off or hating on you, you’re probably not doing enough. Especially when we’re speaking about current times, I think silence is complicit at this point. I hate to say that because it sounds so dramatic, but fuck this, man, we’re about to lose all our freedoms. I think at this point in time, it’s not being dramatic at all. There’s so many people that say, ‘I don’t do politics,’ well, politics does you. When you lose your healthcare or maybe a relative loses their healthcare, they can’t afford it, or someone loses their career as a public servant because of fucking bullshit DOGE cuts by a South African billionaire, you better speak the fuck up.
“I’ll tell you what I’m scared of,” he says. “I don’t like to think about the future ahead for my children if they are going to be living in an authoritarian technofeudal system, which is why I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure we vote out these villainous scumbags.“
“Where it began…I can’t begin to know when…”
After L.A.’s the Aggrolites played a spirited, laid-back supporting set, the room shifts and fills, and over the PA comes the warm, familiar opening beats of the Neil Diamond classic—and Fenway Park anthem—“Sweet Caroline.” Haywire’s lead singer Austin Sparkman screams towards the crowd just as the song reaches the “touching me, touching yoooouuuuuu” crescendo. “Alright,” he commands, “I need everyone’s help! Front to back, side to side!” The crowd abides, swaying and singing. You might not know Haywire, but Boston definitely does. This is a band that fosters fanatics, and we’ll soon see why. After about a minute, once everyone’s past the obligatory “bom, bom, bom” ad lib, Haywire, without warning, explodes into their namesake single “Haywire,” a fiery mix of heat and frenzy that lays the groundwork for their entire performance.
Ken comes out to join them on “New England Forever” (from the New England Forever Dropkick Murphys / Haywire split 12” LP) and anoints them “The New Kings of Hardcore.” They remind Ken of Dropkicks way back when. While the afternoon’s little kids have long left the building, there are pre-adolescents all over who know every Haywire lyric. In front of me, a young girl, probably 10, sits on her father’s shoulders, hand raised as she fist-pumps while singing, and soon she’ll disappear—only to reappear safely crowd surfing towards center stage.
By the time Dropkicks take the stage with 2003’s “Worker’s Song,” Boston is more than ready.
“I think with the nature of the internet and 30 years of touring, a Boston show isn’t necessarily a thousand times better crowd-wise or anything like that,” Ken says, though the history and family ties create an undeniable specialness. “You can’t say that you’re not more inspired to put on a slightly better show when your oldest friends and your loved ones are watching.”
Near the end, before launching into their beloved, folky “Rose Tattoo,” Ken asks the crowd to make space for the women and girls in the center, and one-by-one they surf through the crowd, landing on the stage and jumping and running off, euphoric, muscling their way through the mob to do it again. “Having the pit for a song be just about women, I do think it empowers [them],” Ken says. “When I do that, they don’t leave after that song. They’re like, ‘We’re in here now, motherfuckers. We’re staying.’ It’s badass. It definitely just gives them a moment to just fucking be in charge.”
And then, after more than 90 minutes, Dropkicks close out their show and leave the stage. The lights come on—and Ken is still there. He leans forward towards the crowd, eventually coming down to ground level, shaking hands and smiling. He’s there so long, I leave before him, as do a lot of people, but so many stay. It’s a ritual he’s performed at almost every show for 30 years.
“I’m looking at these people in the face for an hour and a half… they’ve paid their money, they’ve come to support us over and over again. I just feel like a lot of them are people that I respect and care about because they’ve given us this opportunity. You also get great stories and feedback. You get to hear what it’s meant to people’s lives… It’s a different story all the time, and I said, ‘Man, I wouldn’t have never known all these things had I not had these conversations with people.’
“Then, other times, it’s just to say thank you.”
