Let’s get this out of the way first. Boston’s Dropkick Murphys are by no means a cool band. They’re one of those bands that you heard the name of maybe seven years ago not because you liked them, but because a quite large subset of people were listening to them. Y’know, they were lumped in with bands like Less Than Jake or NOFX – tonight they’re playing with Mad Caddies, who even the hardiest third-wave ska fan would be loathe to admit ever liking – and did that whole fake-Irish shtick that was somewhat endearing if you ever took the time to read up about Boston’s immigrant population, but no one ever did. They just became musical shorthand for a bunch of heavy drinkers who play a bunch of fiddle-dee-dee music and sound like they’re soundtracking a bar brawl between one thick-necked dock worker and another. Hell, they’ve even played at Celtic’s Parkhead.

So tonight at a practically full Academy (hell, if a band with so little connection to the zeitgeist can almost sell out a 5,000-capacity venue then you can see that as either immensely heartening or incredibly depressing for music at large) it’s interesting to see how they’ll adjust to an ever-changing industry. There’s the same parade of Fat Wreck hoodies and PVA mohawks that have populated every gig since well before NOFX played the Astoria, the same legions of creaky old picture-postcard punks buying cider by the vat and – this is the crucial part – very, very few littl’uns. Seemingly gone are the days when every ankle-biting proto-popster would sell their grandmothers for a ticket to a gig for a band like this. It’s like before our very eyes an entire scene, an entire sub-genre has died on its arse. Except, of course, for the fact that almost 5,000 people have bought tickets for tonight’s gig suggesting that some bands just won’t die.

And it’s not like the Dropkicks have ever suffered a noticeable dip in quality. The songs aired tonight from their none-more-solid (and that’s by no means meant as a pejorative) Cooking Vinyl debut The Meanest Of Times, particularly ‘God Willing’ and ‘The State Of Massachusetts’ have the same zip and buzz as old favourites like ‘Boys On The Docks’. And it’s not like the crowd simply shuts up and heads to the bar during the new material, ever the curse of the established band touring well after its time, because the Academy continues to bounce. And when Spider Stacey from The Pogues comes on to gob his way through ‘(F)lannigan's Ball’ he’s greeted like an old friend because, let’s face it, at least half of the crowd is the same as that which gets drunk and chucks beer about every year as Shane MacGowan pays off another chunk of the mortgage.

‘Kiss Me, I’m Shitfaced’ sees the inevitable female-only stage invasion and ‘Fields Of Athenry’ is just as rousing as ever, and therein lies the ineffable charm of the Murphys. Yes, the shtick can be a touch annoying but at their core they’re just a bunch of guys playing rock ‘n’ roll the only way they know how – loudly, crudely and because they don’t want to go back to Boston and lay bricks for a living. Yes, there are times when it feels like you’re stuck in an endlessly massive branch of O’Neill’s but their authenticity is marked by their survival. They’re under no illusions about fashion trends leaving them behind because it’s not like there was a sudden rash of Celtic-themed bagpipe-driven bands inspiring Topshop clothing lines and they’ve continued to make albums and songs with the same desire that fuels their live shows. And if Marty Scorsese likes them, who the hell are you to sniffily assume you’re above them? One final question – how else would you like to spend a drunken Saturday night than in the company of a roomful of strangers jumping up and down and hugging one another? Sure, it’s not pushing the boundaries of, well, any kind of culture but isn’t there something comforting about that?