Having never been involved in what I can only describe as “The Flogging Molly Experience” (not to be confused with the Jimi Hendrix Experience, that’s a different experience), I was surprised, dumbfounded, intrigued, amped up and entertained by the resulting shock-and-awe campaign put into motion.
This is accomplished by the band as well as the participation of the fans themselves, who demonstrate a total immersion into the music that makes Flogging Molly not only a seven-piece Irish-infused rock group, but one with a rotating line up of hundreds depending on what city they happen to be in. It’s something I’ve never really seen first-hand until last Sunday at the House of Blues, a band inspiring a sold-out crowd of drunken hooligans into a cult like fervor, all in synchronization, and all creating the atmosphere of an epic pub hoe-down, complete with crowd surfing and mosh pits.
By the time Flogging Molly took to their throne, the crowd was already jittery and pretty beered up. Fittingly, they came out with their classic, “Drunken Lullabies,” which instantly endeared them to their loving fans. A frontier of even faster songs followed, building up to “Speed of Darkness,” which got everyone going with its catchy ascension. I began to see the appeal of what was happening on the stage, as their Celtic-infused speed pacers were driven by the stage energy of the band members and singer-guitarist Dave King’s rapid-fire strumming and duckwalking.
He traded a look of joyous pain with the audience like he was getting alcohol rubbed on a wound, but loving it masochistically. These high energy bursts are complemented with introspective folk ballads of a soft-spoken Irish variety with Kings’s wife Bridget Regan switching off between her tin whistle and fiddle and layering that mystical, calming quality to the proceedings. She then took lead vocals on “Say a Prayer For Me in Silence,” which features a sweet, angelic melody.
The middle of the set featured a lot of down-tempo, thoughtful balladry that flowed quite naturally from raucousness to swaying and steady. As if they were going to keep this pace all night, a ballad transforms itself into an anthemic sing-a-long and the crowd gets rowdy once again. Everyone in the place from the front to the very back seems to intently know every lyric uttered, many raise their fists and hands towards the stage, and others jostle each other in dance as they belligerently shout out the beloved words in an assumed Irish accent.
In between pagan romps, Dave King brings the charming Irish banter with the crowd hanging on his every monologue. The crowd chimes in with ecstatic chants of “Hey, Hey, Hey” over and over as King and lead guitarist, Dennis Casey, get in each other’s faces and have something of a guitar dual. Casey wins, and is put in the spotlight as most of the band leaves the stage and the crowd goes wild as he unleashes a crazed, mind-bending improvised solo as the crowd handclaps along. A consummate showman, he shakes his guitar to death and grinds it into the monitor, smashing it in with his knee to get some good feedback. The band returns and segues the crowd into a shambly dance with the song, “Rebels of the Sacred Heart,” while a never-ending succession of crowd surfers makes their way to the front and back again.
A girl who survived the onslaught, turned to me, uttered, “Oh. My. God.” in astonishment and then just walked away. The crowd continues to get out their wild hoots, and like maestros, wave their arms in the air towards King, who points back to the crowd and shrugs his shoulders in a relaxed rhythm. They play one of their more notable songs, “What’s Left of the Flag,” starting a mass chant, and then delve into “7 Deadly Sins” with its chorus of “7 drunken pirates, 7 deadly sins” shouted out into infinity, filling up the rafters. He cuts his throat off and ends it abruptly, and they walk off, with the crowd shouting a group “Olé!” to motivate an encore.
Lo and behold, they come back, and King announces: “This is a song for all generations.” It turns out to be a cover of Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’.” With the lights dimmed over the married couple alone, it is a delicate two-part harmony that soon becomes a variation infused with Flogging Molly swagger. King then tells us, “It’s time to end it where it all began.” What transpires is a soft, traditonal sounding shout-along that takes on the duty of the closing number, a gullet smasher that has the band, and audience, energetically going through the motions before a final pound-out, an exclamatory finish. King and the band leave us on a dog howl of sorts, as he lovingly thanks the city of Cleveland; everyone gets out their last jigs as he lip synchs Monty Python’s “Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life.”
Supporting Flogging Molly were Texas ensemble Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears. They had a really varied sound that impressed me quite a bit, which incorporated soul, blues, and a distinguished punk rock injection; all three aren’t easy to pull off together, but they did it flawlessly. Upbeat soul explosions, classic blues jams and garage salvos were carried by singer-guitarist Joe Lewis’ mean guitar and out-of-this-world voice, which, with such an extremely talented range, seemed to be channeling a Little Richard/Stevie Wonder wavelength. They also covered a Dead Boys song and two Stooges songs, which had me at hello.
California trio The Devil Makes Three were also on the bill, starting the evening off the right way by practically lighting up the hearth and handing us the glass of whiskey themselves. Their warm, comfy blend of guitar, stand up bass, and banjo-encompassing bluegrass, honky tonk, and rockabilly all at once set the mood for a pretty diverse musical night.
To involve yourself in the Flogging Molly experience is a role play as well as a devotion. To see them is to witness and join in on fanaticism of the highest scale. You’re there to witness the music, you will be influenced by it, and in turn you will end up joining in and influencing the music yourself. When the show is over and the last note has exhausted itself, there’s not much left to do. You could sit down with your mates and order a pint in the corner, or you could play it safe and all decide to stumble back to your flats. But then, the shock kicks in, and you realize you’re not in Dublin… but you were damn near close.
Photos by Caroline Moore
