Dating my boyfriend when I was 19 threw me into the open arms of a viciously warm group of punk-hipsters. Whatever they were, these kids loved music. Every member of the friend group seemed to be in at least one band, and before I knew it, I was invited to tag along to a million little shows. This was the shock to my system I had craved. Hard and fast and loud, and I reveled in this rebirth right in the eye of the storm: the mosh pit.
Moshing is living with all five senses on overdrive. It's a marriage of rage and mirth that could never exist otherwise. It's a pack of unruly and vehemently autonomous people moving as one body. One extreme part of a communal whole, a mosh pit feels the way we were always told church would feel. One night when I kicked off my vinyl red stilettos to dance a little easier, someone came down hard on my tiny foot. To this day I can still see the hazy shadows of where that massive bruise once lived. I love it.
Heat and energy. As a manic depressive who was yet to be diagnosed, it makes sense how much that meant to me. A safe place for me to move my body brightly and violently as my mind moved. I grew and left that friend group, but they opened my eyes to truth behind this town's nickname, "The Live Music Capital of the World." When Zac and I first started dating, that's we would do- invite each other to shows. One night I really wanted to see Comeback Kid, and he had never seen them before, or moshed at any hardcore show before, but he was right there with me. I wasn't a girl that was easily impressed, but man, I was impressed. I hardly remember the show, but I remember his smile. And the very simple fact that I mirrored it all night long.
There used to be a venue called Red 7, and it seemed to be where rock lived. I took my best friend to a small show there the first time she came to Austin. I saw The Adicts there, and moshed until my feet hurt, and until my arms hurt from everyone's spiked-jacket-shoulders. The venue is now called Barracuda, and is where Zac and I saw Russian Circles on Saturday. What happened in the years between those two shows is awful, but minor.
Zac and I weren't together, and I was instead dating a complete idiot. I really wanted to see Cold World, so this guy took me. He never wanted me to do what I wanted to do, didn't see why I would mosh, but I broke away anyway to go dance in the pit. He didn't come with, of course. I was jamming, having fun on my own, but someone in there collided with my face, a little too much. I remember being alone on the floor, trying to answer questions, and an employee trying to put a bag of ice in my hand. Later, homeboy was like, you probably got a really bad concussion (YES), I probably should've taken you to the hospital (YES). What a winner.
So flash forward to this Saturday, I'm there with Russian Circles on stage and every blood cell in me is pounding to the overexcited beat of my heart. Part of me, habit or instinct, feels the need to be out in the pit, but part of me knows I'm happy to be safe, and comfortable, even if it means I'm in the back. It was overwhelming happiness: to know that with Zac's arm around me, I could close my eyes and feel the music & bang my head without a worry in the world. But also, when the music got more intense and I got more intense, that I could dance and jam in my own little space and Zac, nor anyone else, would judge me. There doesn't have to be a moral to this rant of a story, but if there is a moral, it's that literal metaphor: I got to close my eyes and experience all the beautiful things I wanted to experience, because I was there, fully present, and leaning on the best partner ever. I couldn't be happier.
at Red 7, January 2007
