MUSIC: Murphys Law at the Hard Rock

    “We’re having a pool pa-a-a-a-h-h-t-y,” he said in a Boston accent thicker than a vat of clam cho-o-o-w-d-a-h.
    And Ken Casey couldn’t have looked more out of place, dripping sweat at the Hard Rock pool on Friday, buttressed by palm trees and beer slingers in bikinis, their paper-thin hips possessing less girth than one of the dude’s meaty forearms.  
    But there the Dropkick Murphys bassist was anyway, busting out the plebian jams in the most patrician of settings, a clenched fist in a land of blown kisses.  
    The place was packed, and when the Hard Rock pool is near capacity, it’s just about the worst place to see a show in Vegas –- scratch that, I wouldn’t know ‘cause I couldn’t see anything other than lots of perspiration-drenched neck tattoos and glow-in-the-dark shamrock earrings.
    As such, the crowd was restless, stomping through the flowerbeds, spilling beer and jostling for precious legroom like drunk, warring jackals.    
    Still, it was a sight to (sort of) behold, as the band hit the place like a keg tossed into a bathtub.
    The Dropkicks are the most proletariat of modern day punk bands, a group that takes pride in their callused hands and equally shopworn livers. 
    They’re pro-whiskey, and pro-union.
    “Will you be a lousy scab or will you be a man?” Casey asked on the full-throttle, heart-in-the-throat working man’s missive “Which Side Are You On?”
    Care to guess who Casey’s allegiance was with on this night? 
    At the Hard Rock, the band veered from blue-collar pub rock anthems celebrating the joys of punching other dudes in the face (“Barroom Hero”), to tunes that pined for simpler times (“Famous for Nothing”).
    The Murphys are nothing if not a nostalgic bunch, and it was hard not to join in on the sentiment and romanticize the past a bit, you know, those salad days when punk rock shows took place without a cabana in sight.