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.

For me, the answer is usually “I’m a Bruce Springsteen fan.”

Now, in an age where MGMT (who I can’t stand, by the way) pass for the best band in the country right now, I might as well be telling my prospective lady-friend that I have the swine flu. It doesn’t matter if she and I have the same major, three classes together and live two floors apart from each other. Being a Springsteen fan actually loses me points.

To be fair, the responses aren’t always that harsh. Sometimes, I get the following:

“Well, you are from New Jersey. I guess it makes sense.”

So apparently, the only thing that absolves me from having the cojones to declare myself a fan of the Boss is the fact that I’m from the same state as him. Cold as ice. Also, nonsense.

I’m a fan of Bruce Springsteen because, quite frankly, he’s the best singer/songwriter/performer out there right now. Yeah, that’s right, I said it. I’ve been to a hell of a lot of concerts and I’ve seen a lot of different genres performed, but none of the acts I’ve seen can compare to what Bruce Springsteen did the last time I saw him, at Madison Square Garden last month.

What he did was perform his 1980 album, The River, in its entirety. For the uninitiated, The River is a freaking double-album that’s 20 songs and about an hour and a half long. Just listening to the thing is an exhausting experience. Not only did he play that bad boy to perfection, but he played about fifteen other songs beside it. And he’s sixty. And his bandmates, for the most part, are as old, if not older, than he is. Even a young man would have trouble pulling it off.

Hell, let’s see anyone pull it off. Phish play for 4 hours at a time, but they take an intermission. Springsteen took no breaks at the River concert. He sang his heart out alongside his (heart-stoppin’, pants-droppin’, hard-rockin’, earth shockin’, booty-shakin’, love-makin’, Viagra-takin’, history makin’, legendary)* E Street Band, spinning stories about fathers and sons and death and dreams and the occasional Cadillac ride.

He loves what he does and I love watching him do it. It’s perfect. It’s borderline magical. Seeing him perform brings grown men to tears (I’ve seen it). And listening to his stories is a rare privilege in a scene where so much music is sound and fury signifying nothing.

The best part about Springsteen is that he’s not always trying to make a statement with his music. Sometimes he’s just talking, playing, and spinning fairy-tale love stories that began at a bar with two people talking about music. I wonder what they said they listened to.

* Sorry. I couldn’t resist.