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In a lot of ways I was reborn when I jumped into my first serious mosh pit at age 17, in Albany’s QE2.
It might seem weird to those who never did it, but the mosh pit taught me empathy more than any other experience ever did. Hitting and getting hit may not seem to be something that brings you together, but does it ever, and in the pit you look out for each other. Sometimes a real asshole, who only wants to hurt others, gets in there, and then the pit will respond like a living organism and beat the shit out of him and eject him from the center. It’s a miracle. It’s a self-regulating marvel. I’ve had some of the most extraordinary connections happen in a quick moment in a mosh pit. I’ve been on the floor, about to be crushed, when I was suddenly lifted by a half dozen hands above the crowd.
Obviously the pit isn’t for everybody, but I have to believe there is a similar experience everyone can have. An experience that allows you to understand that we’re all dancing around and bouncing into each other, to understand where the boundaries are between pushing back and causing harm, to understand the thrill of being on the ground and having others help you to your feet. To feel the bliss of helping others up.
”Devin wrote a great article about #GamerGate and the psychology behind the misplaced rage. But in getting to his point, he beautifully points out one of my favorite things I’ve ever encountered in the music world: the mosh pit.
I’ve written poems about the pit, it features heavily in my first novel, I can’t go on enough about how the pit saved my life. Transpose Albany for Seattle and Tacoma, and you have my sentiments exactly. I rarely went to those shows with people I knew. I loved blending into the anonymity of the pit, transforming into a family for the span of a song, being lifted up, bounced around, wearing the errant punch on the chin like a badge of honor, sweat drenching me, getting random pats on the back from people around me surprised to see a tiny girl holding her own at a punk rock show.
My first pit experience, a boy collapsed in my arms and I held him while the men around me formed a circle to keep us safe while he shook and I shouted for medical attention. Years later, when the rare bastard entered the crowd and began intentionally throwing punches and one landed on in the middle of my back, knocking the air out of me, six guys picked him up and ran him out, checked on me, went back to dancing, all like brothers, encircling me like a wall of extra space for the next few songs until they were sure I was okay. I felt strong in the pit, invisible and yet recognized as family, part of something great with the music coursing through me like it was dissolving my body, and despite the tempo and the toughness of the crowd, safer than I’ve ever felt before.
Pit hospitality, man. There’s nothing like it.
