You know that feeling when a song starts and you can practically smell the salt air and stale beer of a South Boston dive bar? That’s what happens the second that banjo kicks in. Honestly, The Dropkick Murphys State of Massachusetts isn't just a track on an album; it’s a cultural shorthand for an entire region's identity.
It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s incredibly sad if you actually listen to the words.
Released in 2007 on the album The Meanest of Times, the song did something most punk tracks fail to do: it broke into the mainstream without losing its grit. It peaked on the Billboard Modern Rock tracks, sure, but its real legacy is in the rafters of the TD Garden and the speakers at Fenway Park. If you’ve been to a Bruins game in the last fifteen years, you’ve heard it. You’ve probably screamed along to it. But there’s a massive disconnect between the high-energy "stadium anthem" vibe and what Ken Casey was actually writing about.
The Gritty Reality Behind the Bagpipes
Most people think it’s a celebratory song about being from the Bay State. It isn't. Not even close.
The Dropkick Murphys have always walked a line between Celtic punk revelry and working-class storytelling, and this track is the pinnacle of that. The lyrics tell a devastating story about the effects of drug addiction on families. Specifically, it touches on the foster care system and the "state" (as in the government) taking children away from parents who have spiraled out of control. When they belt out "The State of Massachusetts," they aren't just naming the location; they are naming the entity that now has custody of the kids.
It’s dark.
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Ken Casey has talked about how the song was inspired by people close to the band—real families torn apart by the opiate crisis that has ravaged New England for decades. It's a heavy subject for a song that usually gets played while people are spilling $12 drafts on each other. That irony is part of the song's DNA. It captures the dual nature of Massachusetts: the fierce, outward-facing pride and the internal, often quiet struggle of the working class.
Why the Banjo Hook Works So Well
Musically, it’s a masterclass in tension. It starts with that lone, frantic banjo line played by Marc Orrell (who left the band shortly after this era). It’s nervous energy. Then the drums hit. Then the wall of guitars.
If you analyze the structure, it doesn't follow a standard pop-punk formula. It’s got that traditional Irish folk backbone—what some call "jig-punk"—but it’s played with the aggression of 80s hardcore. The production on The Meanest of Times was intentionally raw. They wanted it to sound like a basement show even though they were playing arenas by then.
Interestingly, the song became a massive hit right as the "Boston sports Renaissance" was in full swing. The Red Sox had recently broken the curse, the Patriots were a dynasty, and the Celtics and Bruins were winning titles. The song became the soundtrack to that winning streak. It provided an edge to the city’s brand. You couldn't watch a NESN broadcast without hearing those opening notes.
The Cultural Impact and the "Departed" Effect
A lot of people confuse this song with "I'm Shipping Up to Boston," mostly because they both feature prominently in the Boston-centric media boom of the late 2000s. While "Shipping Up" got the The Departed bump, The Dropkick Murphys State of Massachusetts became the more "authentic" choice for locals. It felt less like a movie soundtrack and more like the actual sound of the MBTA at 11:00 PM on a Saturday.
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The music video reinforces this. Filmed at the empty Westover Air Force Base, it features the band playing in a cold, industrial setting. No flashy lights. No models. Just guys in flannels and flat caps looking like they just finished a shift at a warehouse.
What People Get Wrong About the Lyrics
Let’s look at the chorus:
"For the shadows of the ones who've passed... / For the ones who've stayed behind / The State of Massachusetts has / Taken another life."
That last line is the kicker. It’s not a "woo-hoo, Massachusetts!" moment. It’s a mourning of a lost soul to the system or the streets. When the crowd bellows that line at a festival, there’s a weird catharsis there. It’s the band taking a localized tragedy and turning it into a communal scream. It’s basically folk music in its truest form—documenting the hardships of the people in a way that’s meant to be shared.
The Evolution of the Band's Sound
By the time this song dropped, the Dropkick Murphys had transitioned from the Al Barr/Ken Casey vocal trade-offs of the Sing Loud, Sing Proud! days into a more melodic, yet still heavy, territory. The Dropkick Murphys State of Massachusetts showcased a band that had mastered their instruments. The layering of the mandolin, banjo, and accordion over the distorted Gibson SGs was seamless.
It’s worth noting that the band has always been active in charity work through their Claddagh Fund. This song isn't just "poverty porn" for the sake of an edgy lyric; they’ve spent millions of dollars supporting addiction recovery programs in the very neighborhoods they sing about. That gives the song a level of E-E-A-T (Experience, Expertise, Authoritativeness, and Trustworthiness) that you just don't get from a generic rock band trying to sound "street." They live this stuff.
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Comparing "State of Massachusetts" to Other Anthems
| Feature | State of Massachusetts | I'm Shipping Up to Boston |
|---|---|---|
| Primary Instrument | Banjo | Accordion/Tin Whistle |
| Lyric Content | Family/Drug Crisis | Finding a wooden leg (Woody Guthrie) |
| Vibe | Aggressive & Melancholic | Pure High-Energy Hype |
| Best For | Driving through the city | The 9th inning of a baseball game |
The song’s longevity is honestly wild. Most "hit" songs from 2007 have faded into nostalgia acts. But you can go to a Dropkick show today—whether it's at the MGM Music Hall at Fenway or a massive European festival—and this song will still get the biggest circle pit of the night.
It crosses generations. You'll see a 60-year-old union guy and a 19-year-old skate punk both losing their minds to the same riff. That's a rare feat in modern music.
Practical Takeaways for the Fan or Musician
If you’re looking to understand why this song "works" from a songwriting or cultural perspective, keep these points in mind:
- Contrast is King: Pairing a upbeat, major-key-adjacent folk riff with devastatingly dark lyrics creates a "hook" that stays in the brain longer than a purely happy or purely sad song.
- Hyper-Localization: By being incredibly specific about Massachusetts, the band actually became more relatable globally. People in Dublin, London, or Tokyo might not know the exact foster care laws in MA, but they recognize the feeling of a "state" failing its people.
- Instrumentation Matters: The use of the banjo in a punk context was revolutionary for the time. It added a percussive, metallic "twang" that cut through the heavy bass and drums in a way a second guitar never could.
To truly appreciate the track, listen to it once for the energy, and then a second time while reading the lyrics. It changes the experience entirely. It stops being a party song and starts being a protest song.
Next Steps for the Listener:
- Check out the acoustic version from their This Machine Still Kills Fascists era to hear how the melody holds up without the distortion.
- Research the Claddagh Fund if you want to see how the band puts the message of the song into actual practice within the Massachusetts community.
- Watch the 2008 St. Patrick's Day live performance at the House of Blues (Boston) to see the song in its "natural habitat."
The song is a reminder that you can love where you're from while still being honest about the cracks in the pavement. That's the real State of Massachusetts.