Pitchfork

You hear the ominous drone of a bagpipe playing the traditional "Cadence to Arms." "Neat," you think. "This reminds me of my old Big Country albums." You hear a distant voice scream "1! 2! 3! 4!" and then a wall of guitar distortion flies upside your head. "This ain't no Big Country," you think. "This scares me." This is the sound of punk rock the way it used to be: angry, aggressive and political. This is Dropkick Murphys.

Do or Die comes to us via Hellcat Records, a label run by the members of Rancid. While their employers borrow heavily from the Clash, the Boston- based Dropkick Murphys explore the sound established by the Pogues, where punk elements are seasoned with tin whistles and acoustic guitars and the melodies are derived from traditional Irish folk. Singer Mike McColgan was born and bred to front a quasi- socialist, Irish- American punk band, and the power of his expressive voice lifts the group above the more generic competition. Songwriting throughout is sharp, too, as Dropkick Murphys know that if you want to send a message you can either call Western Union or stick it in the middle of a fast, catchy, 2.5 minute blast of fury. A few dirge- like ballads are thrown in to give you something to sway your pint to.

Thematically, Dropkick Murphys focus on the plight of the common man. Lyrics about blue- collar pubs, unions, and taking pride in manual labor bring to mind a crude, less literate Billy Bragg. It's interesting to think about what would happen if the "regular guys" pictured on the album cover were to meet up with the bald- headed, tattooed band members. Do they break out the stout or start breaking (skin)heads? One thing is certain, the fairer sex stays home. As good as Do or Die is, it's hard to imagine women finding it appealing. In these songs, women are wives who are lumped together with kids as something "honest men" work to support and drink to escape. But the world of the skinhead punk is, and always has been, about testosterone. Or, as Dropkick Murphys put it, "Oi!"