September 22, 2010
Though chaotic and dangerous, there have always been rules on the floor. You watched out for your brethren. You pulled people up by a handful of tee-shirt or used belt loops if you had to. You become dense when one readies to dive from the stage; don’t scatter like roaches when the light comes on.
The physics of crowd surfing, being quite elementary, should known and understood by all on the floor. The displacement of weight over mass is akin to why some bugs can walk on water. You needn’t fling or hurl the individual overhead. The interruption to the show only lasts a moment and some would argue, adds to the general ambiance and vibe of the experience.
Does the topography of a mosh pit exist anymore? Or is it every man for himself? Once upon a time, the roles and expectations were clear. You knew where you stood, as it were, and you knew what to expect from others.
There were the ones lined up in front, arguably the best seats in the house. But you wouldn’t be there long if you let your guard down for a moment to take in the show. Hold on, always be on the lookout for something flying, be it fist or bottle, always ward against the weasel trying to steal the rail.
Behind them was the Pit. The guys who came to fight, to thrash… the true moshers. The “metalness” of the band generally determined the size, intensity and level of violence of the Pit. You knew standing near them that you ran the risk of getting popped in the eye or sucked in. You had no business being there if you didn’t accept that risk.
Behind them was the hot spot. You could bounce about freely, jumping and tossing yourself about. Throw yourself in any direction, you’ll slam into a relatively soft surface and it’ll be too crowded to fall. This was normal, this was expected.
Behind this pseudo, softer mosh pit were the stand-arounders, with bobbing heads, bouncing knees and a few pounding fists. They filled nearly the rest of the house. Maybe some mini-circles of thrashing or dancing would materialize here and there. Most would rotate in and out of the main pit at some point and they always made way for those heading down. And finally, beyond them are those taking care of business; getting a drink, smoking, peeing, puking, you know…
With my concert and show renaissance since April of 2010, I’ve found things to be quite different. Folks on the floor seem there to only to try and get a better view. The stand-arounders are in the hot-spot and seem genuinely put off when bumped into by those caught in the moment or just passing by. There is now a contingent that seems to think they're too cool to rock out, only there to say they were. There’s little sense of solidarity, only a vague and distant sense of camaraderie among some of the more aged rockers. There’s no need to catapult the surfer overhead. No need to scoff at me when I’m weaseling my way up front. You’re just standing there, arms crossed with a puss on your face.
No comments:
Post a Comment