It’s a balmy evening as I make my way to the magic stick. The air was rancid with humidity, leaving me feeling hazy and already somewhat tired. I took a deep breath as I exited my car on Woodward avenue, my glasses immediately fogging over from the sudden change from my cold air conditioned Chevy Cobalt to the sticky night air. I wandered slowly down the sidewalk, passing the old C-Pop building and gradually making my way to the neon signs of the Majestic complex.
Complex is a good way to describe the Majestic building. It feels like a cult compound for the great church of rock and roll. The building has five possible venues for concerts, a bowling alley, a pizza parlor and a restaurant. If David Koresh had spent more time listening to the Stooges he would have built the Majestic.
It’s quiet as I enter the magic stick. The bar is almost vacant, only a few thirty somethings are moseying around absorbing the air conditioning and alcohol. I look around and spot my accomplice for the evening, John Freeman. A shaking of hands and a few jokes. Inky black Guinness pints in our hands. We hold them tightly yet shake them through the air like conductor’s batons. We swap stories of our time in bands, mutual acquaintances and writing ideas.
The bartender looking over his black plastic frames at me. I order a Guinness, John does the same. A deep swig as soon as it arrives. The dark cold beverage rolls down my throat.
Jon introduces me to “Elbow”. A hulking bassist for the first band. An American flag tattoo on his right should, the red and blue popping from his pale white skin. He’s smiling but he seems slightly nervous.
Screech! A shrill feedback fills the room. I feel my ear drums shudder and my eyes blink reflexively. A few loud murmurs from the bar. Sound check has begun. Guitars begin to hum and drums heads are tightened. The vocalist speaking clearly into the microphone. More feedback. More winces.
Then ignition. The punk machine revs and pulses. The guitars howling over a thumping rhythm section. The band has begun their set. The music propelling the small crowd into a frenzy. A mosh pit promptly erupts. The band is called Bad Assets and ironically they’re quite good. Large men slam into one another, reveling in the joy of the mosh pit.
One man flies through the air, a tomahawk missile with love handles and tattoos. This WMD is clad in a stained wife beater and cut off shorts. He collides with a skinny twenty something in a Subhumanz t-shirt and a cabby hat. The two ricochet off one another before shifting their momentum to collide again. This process continues amidst a hurricane of elbows. The driving drum beat guiding them into a recurring battle of body against body. They’re joined by two other tribe members, all drawn by the cacophonous roar the band is creating. The punk rhythms serving as a tribal drum chant.
All of this is the illusion of chaos. Within the small group there is a camaraderie like none other. The warriors battle each other not to the death but rather to mirth. Every slam is carefully is actually a surgical strike. Whenever one of them falls down they immediately pick him up. Despite its Darwinian appearance, the mosh pit is actually incredibly empathic. Every member contributing to the enjoyment of the rest.
A mosh pit is not a battle. It’s not an act of anger or an expression of violence. A mosh pit is a group of people creating a problem for the sole purpose fixing it together. The bodies large and and small slamming together. If someone falls they’re picked back up before the next beat. Every pit is like a forest fire, a combination of living and dead elements creating an unpredictable scene. No two mosh pits are the same. There’s a rhythm to the sweaty elbows and bobbing heads that guides and moves its participants. If you haven’t been in one then you don’t understand.
Outsiders just see anger. They see frustration and rage. It’s true that some people join the pit to release those feelings. Those people are assholes and tourists. They’re not members of the tribe but instead a foreign parasite sucking the positivity from the crowd.
Even if you stand outside from the mosh pit you still feel it’s pulse. It shakes the floor beneath your shoes. Occasionally you push one of its members back into its gaping maw.
The bodies slam together. The snare drum rings through the air. Screeching microphones continue feeding back into a Ouroboros of noise. Cheap beer and shots of whiskey. Neon lighting. Testosterone and flatulence mixing with sweat and booze. The smiles and laughing. Grown men sticking to their guns and making the sounds of their youth. Shirts come off and they continue to collide. One of them falls, as soon as he hits the ground his former opponent reaches down and lifts him up. They whisper something to each other and smile pausing for a second before they resume moshing.
Kinship, brotherhood. The second band was half the members of the first, they only added a guitarist and bassists. The singer of the first band would occasionally push through the mosh pit to sing back up for the second. More cheerful glances and laughter. He knows all the words to their songs.
A ‘hot chick’ walks by. Her outfit roughly the size of an eye patch. Her polished lips stuck in a permanent “duck face”. The light bouncing off them as she slowly walked past. Not a single attendee batted an eye in her direction.
What is the nature of punk rock? This strange beast has been around for roughly forty years. It’s a piece of culture with no discernible start or end point. Some think that punk is dead. It’s message muted under a sea of disposable teen pop. Avril Lavigne is a thief. It’s drifted far from it’s old roots of political and social upheaval. It’s founders are either dead or retired. Are the remaining few idealists or fools? Punk rock was never seen as an intellectual pursuit perhaps being the fool is the goal.
Is punk rock youth? Is it rebellion? Does it mean keeping with traditions of chuck tailors and safety pins? Have we created a punk rock uniform? A punk rock philosophy? Do these men represent a vanguard of a noble tradition or are they instead the tattered remains of a once noble movement? Are they the keepers of the flame?
All of these things run through my mind as I watch these sweaty titans clash before me. Resting comfortably in my bar stool nursing my Guinness. The men laugh and shout as the music continues.
My ears were filled with a perpetual sine wave. The bright hum seemed to compliment the warm night sky. Walking back to my car. I’m tired and frazzled from the derangement I observed. Sometimes being a non participant can be exhausting. I wonder if I should have joined the festivities. I felt a call to join the pit. A call of the wild stirring within me. A strong desire to run with the wolves once more and howl to the moon. I supress it. Those days are long passed. I’m older now. Fatter. My ankle is bad. My glasses could fall off and be broken. I’m half the size of those guys. But it’s okay, I’m content to be a spectator, remembering bygone days and enjoying the war chants.
Complex is a good way to describe the Majestic building. It feels like a cult compound for the great church of rock and roll. The building has five possible venues for concerts, a bowling alley, a pizza parlor and a restaurant. If David Koresh had spent more time listening to the Stooges he would have built the Majestic.
It’s quiet as I enter the magic stick. The bar is almost vacant, only a few thirty somethings are moseying around absorbing the air conditioning and alcohol. I look around and spot my accomplice for the evening, John Freeman. A shaking of hands and a few jokes. Inky black Guinness pints in our hands. We hold them tightly yet shake them through the air like conductor’s batons. We swap stories of our time in bands, mutual acquaintances and writing ideas.
The bartender looking over his black plastic frames at me. I order a Guinness, John does the same. A deep swig as soon as it arrives. The dark cold beverage rolls down my throat.
Jon introduces me to “Elbow”. A hulking bassist for the first band. An American flag tattoo on his right should, the red and blue popping from his pale white skin. He’s smiling but he seems slightly nervous.
Screech! A shrill feedback fills the room. I feel my ear drums shudder and my eyes blink reflexively. A few loud murmurs from the bar. Sound check has begun. Guitars begin to hum and drums heads are tightened. The vocalist speaking clearly into the microphone. More feedback. More winces.
Then ignition. The punk machine revs and pulses. The guitars howling over a thumping rhythm section. The band has begun their set. The music propelling the small crowd into a frenzy. A mosh pit promptly erupts. The band is called Bad Assets and ironically they’re quite good. Large men slam into one another, reveling in the joy of the mosh pit.
One man flies through the air, a tomahawk missile with love handles and tattoos. This WMD is clad in a stained wife beater and cut off shorts. He collides with a skinny twenty something in a Subhumanz t-shirt and a cabby hat. The two ricochet off one another before shifting their momentum to collide again. This process continues amidst a hurricane of elbows. The driving drum beat guiding them into a recurring battle of body against body. They’re joined by two other tribe members, all drawn by the cacophonous roar the band is creating. The punk rhythms serving as a tribal drum chant.
All of this is the illusion of chaos. Within the small group there is a camaraderie like none other. The warriors battle each other not to the death but rather to mirth. Every slam is carefully is actually a surgical strike. Whenever one of them falls down they immediately pick him up. Despite its Darwinian appearance, the mosh pit is actually incredibly empathic. Every member contributing to the enjoyment of the rest.
A mosh pit is not a battle. It’s not an act of anger or an expression of violence. A mosh pit is a group of people creating a problem for the sole purpose fixing it together. The bodies large and and small slamming together. If someone falls they’re picked back up before the next beat. Every pit is like a forest fire, a combination of living and dead elements creating an unpredictable scene. No two mosh pits are the same. There’s a rhythm to the sweaty elbows and bobbing heads that guides and moves its participants. If you haven’t been in one then you don’t understand.
Outsiders just see anger. They see frustration and rage. It’s true that some people join the pit to release those feelings. Those people are assholes and tourists. They’re not members of the tribe but instead a foreign parasite sucking the positivity from the crowd.
Even if you stand outside from the mosh pit you still feel it’s pulse. It shakes the floor beneath your shoes. Occasionally you push one of its members back into its gaping maw.
The bodies slam together. The snare drum rings through the air. Screeching microphones continue feeding back into a Ouroboros of noise. Cheap beer and shots of whiskey. Neon lighting. Testosterone and flatulence mixing with sweat and booze. The smiles and laughing. Grown men sticking to their guns and making the sounds of their youth. Shirts come off and they continue to collide. One of them falls, as soon as he hits the ground his former opponent reaches down and lifts him up. They whisper something to each other and smile pausing for a second before they resume moshing.
Kinship, brotherhood. The second band was half the members of the first, they only added a guitarist and bassists. The singer of the first band would occasionally push through the mosh pit to sing back up for the second. More cheerful glances and laughter. He knows all the words to their songs.
A ‘hot chick’ walks by. Her outfit roughly the size of an eye patch. Her polished lips stuck in a permanent “duck face”. The light bouncing off them as she slowly walked past. Not a single attendee batted an eye in her direction.
What is the nature of punk rock? This strange beast has been around for roughly forty years. It’s a piece of culture with no discernible start or end point. Some think that punk is dead. It’s message muted under a sea of disposable teen pop. Avril Lavigne is a thief. It’s drifted far from it’s old roots of political and social upheaval. It’s founders are either dead or retired. Are the remaining few idealists or fools? Punk rock was never seen as an intellectual pursuit perhaps being the fool is the goal.
Is punk rock youth? Is it rebellion? Does it mean keeping with traditions of chuck tailors and safety pins? Have we created a punk rock uniform? A punk rock philosophy? Do these men represent a vanguard of a noble tradition or are they instead the tattered remains of a once noble movement? Are they the keepers of the flame?
All of these things run through my mind as I watch these sweaty titans clash before me. Resting comfortably in my bar stool nursing my Guinness. The men laugh and shout as the music continues.
My ears were filled with a perpetual sine wave. The bright hum seemed to compliment the warm night sky. Walking back to my car. I’m tired and frazzled from the derangement I observed. Sometimes being a non participant can be exhausting. I wonder if I should have joined the festivities. I felt a call to join the pit. A call of the wild stirring within me. A strong desire to run with the wolves once more and howl to the moon. I supress it. Those days are long passed. I’m older now. Fatter. My ankle is bad. My glasses could fall off and be broken. I’m half the size of those guys. But it’s okay, I’m content to be a spectator, remembering bygone days and enjoying the war chants.
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