Missing The Pit

I cannot remember how old I was or what band I was seeing when I experienced my very first mosh pit.  I can be certain, however, of the following:


1. I was with my friends Laura, Becky and Jill;
2. At least one of us ended up bleeding;
3. Laura got trampled by the crowd at some point; and
4. After the show, we went to Bickford's and drank about a gallon of coffee.

Oh, Bickford's.  You were so depressing and so magical at the same time.

Wherever and whenever that event took place, it was a defining moment in the life of teenaged Al.


The other night my husband and I went to see a high school production of Macbeth, set in modern day Portland and centering around the Occupy movement.  (I feel like I should follow that statement with:  Please shoot me in the face, but it was actually quite good.)  Between scenes, to capitalize on the angsty feeling of the play, they played snippets of 90s grunge tunes.  I wondered why the high school students hadn't chosen current angsty music from their own time, like Lamb of God or some crap like that; instead they played Nirvana, Jane's Addiction, Alice In Chains, Soundgarden, etc.  This music brought back a flood of precious memories of the days I spent as a pit-dweller and the friends with whom I shared those violent and wonderful times.


Moshing was perfect for me for two reasons, other than the simple fact that it's what was happening at all the shows I went to in my teenage years.  First of all, the experience was a relentless release of pent up frustration and rage, which melded ideally with the late stages of puberty.  Secondly, moshing gave me an opportunity to spend time and bond with huge groups of my peers without actually having to talk to them.  That meant I could have a wonderful time with lots of people without the distraction of having to hear anything that came out of their mouths other than, "WOO!" and, "YEAH!" and, "THAT FUCKIN' ROCKED!"


My parents were remarkably cool about my moshing obsession.  When it came to my sister and me, they seemed to have an "if they're not dead, in rehab, or incarcerated, we must be doing something right" teen parenting philosophy that worked really well for all of us.  I remember one morning after a particularly explosive concert, I was sitting at the kitchen table and noticed my mom eying me curiously.  After a few moments, she informed me that there was a boot print on my face.  I went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and saw this image, stamped very clearly through a purple bruise, on my cheek:

It was so awesome.  It was also not the last time that very thing happened.  Since I was usually one of the tallest people in the pit, I frequently got kicked squarely in the face by crowd surfers.


When I was about 17, Mike Barnicle wrote an article in The Boston Globe slamming moshers and the whole mosh pit scene.  I wish I still had a copy of it for citation purposes, but unfortunately it was reduced to ashes due to the flames of rage that burst forth from my eyes when I read it.  Essentially he wrote that young people in mosh pits were stupid, crazed lunatics who were so useless to society that they should've been thrown to the wolves to help invigorate the failing wolf population.  He also said that it was his goal to cleanse society of anyone not like himself and just have a whole nation of little Mike Barnicles running around, being hateful and judgmental to anyone not Mike-Barnicley enough.  Again, I don't have the original article, so I can't provide exact quotes, but it was definitely something like that.

Writing Mike Barnicle a letter in response to his stupid article was my very first exercise in diplomacy.  What I wanted to say to him was, "You are a dumb fuck who doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about so shut the fuck up you fucking fuckhead."  But even way back then, I realized that taking that approach would not be very effective, so instead I wrote him a letter explaining that moshing was a positive thing for young people in that it built community, allowed for a release of anger, and taught people how to look out for each other.  [Case in point:  more often than not, I would hear someone yell, "Look out!" about a nanosecond before I took a boot to the face.]  Mr. Barnicle never responded to my letter, but it didn't matter.  I'm sure his response would've been annoying, anyway.


I don't think people should feel entitled to blatantly judge cultures with which they have absolutely no experience, unless, however, that culture is the current teenage vampire culture, because actually believing you're a vampire, wearing fake fangs, biting people, and drinking their blood is wicked fucking stupid.  [Right now I'm reminding myself of the time I was questioning the logic of my husband's fear of bridges while simultaneously attempting to justify my fear of clowns.]

See?  Clearly this thing is pure evil.

Strange as it may seem, I miss those long gone days and nights of black eyes, bruises, stomped friends, bloody noses, hands full of the stinky armpit hair of crowd surfers and boots flying into my head.  However, I know I will never be able to recapture those days for 2 primary reasons:

1. The friends I used to mosh with now send me pictures of their children waiting for the bus on the first day of school; and


2. If I came upon a huge crowd of sweaty, stinky, stumbling, smashing bodies, I would certainly not throw myself into it.  Blech!  Pew!  Yes, there was a time when that was very fun for me, but that time has passed.

This is more my speed these days.