By Anthony Benigno

A couple of weeks ago I saw the Dropkick Murphys in New Jersey. It was my fifth time seeing them in three years, and despite a revamped setlist and an increasingly impressive set design, the experience remained basically the same: everyone in the place knew the words to every single song the boys sang, fans jumped onstage at various points in the show to fraternize with the group, singer/bassist Ken Casey posed for iPhone photos at the end, and lead singer Al Barr took the time to yell at a guard for manhandling an errant crowd-surfer, only to later reach out mid-song and shake the guy’s hand by way of a man-to-man truce.

Direct interaction with the crowd? A singer yelling “hey, Glasses! Let go of the kid!!!”? People literally piling up onstage alongside the band for the grand finale?

Try seeing something like that at a Britney Spears show.

Call it the Cult Band Phenomenon. You take a group without a big mainstream following. Maybe they’ve got a decent hit or two; maybe their song was used in a movie or in Madden 07 or something like that. Whatever the case, they’re well-known enough that you can hum their signature tune and people will have heard of it (but probably not the band). But for the most part, these bands’ fandom spreads by word of mouth. Groups like the Dillinger Escape Plan, the Gaslight Anthem, the Script, Theory of a Deadman, and a whole lot of others I can’t name off the top of my head.

Ever hear of them? Chances are, no. Every so often, a cult band makes it big, like Phish or the Grateful Dead. But for the most part, they keep bubbling just below the radar. The Murphys, for example, tour almost nonstop and maintain a fantastic, almost co-dependent relationship with their fans to keep themselves relevant. Their last studio album came out two and a half years ago (although they did just put out a hell of a live album).

They may never fill up Madison Square Garden on their own, but the news of another show couldn’t be better for the fans. Every time I want to see U2 or Springsteen, it runs me an arm and a leg. When the Murphys come to town, it costs all of 30 bucks, give or take, to go to the show. And I’d say I like all three of those acts more or less equally, so in essence I get to see one of my three favorite bands for roughly one-third the cost of another.

Besides the fact that it’s easier on your wallet, as a fan of a cult band you always know you’re in for a good experience with the crowd. No one’s there for the pedigree, of being able to say “I saw So-and-So!” Everyone there either loves the band or was sold on the idea by a friend, so they really get into it. If the band in question has a heavier sound, there’s a lot of male bonding going on, too. You’ll get punched in the face by some 200-lb drunk guy and be doing one of those plastered, back-and-forth sways with him not ten minutes later once your favorite song comes on. Come to think of it, you might get the same experience with a woman as well. And for the most part, the venues are intimate, so there aren’t really any bad seats in the house.

At a Big Band show, even if you’re on the floor, the whole thing is so regulated and controlled there’s barely any spontaneity, even from the band. The setlists are uniform; a parade of hits one after the other. The best thing about cult band concerts is that these guys have the freedom to be loose and random with their shows. There’s no pressure to play the hits, because everyone there knows them already. You’ll almost always come away with an interesting story from a cult band show. And if you happen to catch one of those elbows to the head and take a nasty spill, everyone around you will literally stop what they’re doing and hoist you up off the ground. It’s incredible.

They do it because you’re one of the guys. You’re on the bandwagon, You’ve drank the Kool-Aid. Together, you’re all practically with the band.

Everyone wins.