A colleague the other day told me he thought the Dropkicks trafficked in Irish-American clichés. And in a way he’s right. But then again, many a beery-teary trad ballad from the Auld Sod is all too happy to regale us with tired and treacly truisms. And you know what they say about clichés often having basis in truth? That’s also sort of true.

Even if their version of Boston is a sepia-toned photo that barely exists any more except in their lyrics, the Dropkicks’ music is so fierce and furious, their stage presence so explosive, and their commitment to their audience so ironclad, one can’t help but be moved.

Hell, just the other day, riding the Red Line across the Longfellow Bridge as the Back Bay skyline trundled into view, the Dropkicks’ “For Boston” shuffled onto my iPod. The ringing bagpipe lead-in. The tattoo-like drum rolls. The deafening twin guitars. Then, magnificently, the split second before the song ignites into double time and the full-throated howl of a sold-out club screams along. It’s the BC fight song, for cripes sake. But I’ll admit: I got a fleeting chill.

Casey is modest about his band’s success. Especially about what they’ve done to articulate the ineffable Boston-Irish experience for a worldwide audience. “People can call us what they want,” he says. “But I wouldn’t say we consider ourselves ambassadors.” He pauses for a moment, recalling those eight years of sold-out Saint Patrick’s Day shows at Avalon and Agganis Arena, the thousands of fans in Boston Celtics T-shirts and Glasgow Celtic scarves who flood the city for five days every March. “But if the tourism board wants to give us a cut of the profits from hotel sales . . . ”