If your band consists of fiddles, mandolins, and something called a bodhran, and your audience looks like it could hold its own at a soccer hooligan convention, you’d bloody well better be able to use those instruments to mercifully bludgeon that rumbly bunch with a Celtic sonic assault that will leave them pounding on the bar, picking each other up off the Guinness-soaked floor, and screaming for one more song.

It also wouldn’t hurt if your combined weight is roughly that of the Canadian women’s hockey team in full gear.

Fortunately the Dust Rhinos have both. They’re big men with a monster sound. A sound rooted in an ancient time and a faraway place. Using traditional airs, reels, and jigs the Rhinos conjure up the Ireland of olde with leprechauns, shamrocks, tweed caps, and “sure and begorrah.” And then, like a shillelagh wrapped in a potato sack, they knock the bejeebers out of that green and lovely image and unleash a freight train loaded with banshees and the furious ghost o