Humanity on the Fringes of a Moshpit
Brandon and I pull up to the Ottobar, a punk rawk club in Baltimore City, at about 9:30. GBH, a legendary English punk outfit, is playing tonight and we don't want to miss the action. Swarms of punkers stand outside the club smoking cigarettes. Baltimore's new ban on indoor smoking is displeasing to the group of rabble-rousers, anarchists, and indie types despite their big government politics.
Brandon meets and greets. He knows more people than I since I left the scene; a pair of older guys in their 50s who totally don't belong, a rotund guy with long hair who could be Gimli from Lord of the Rings, a scrawny short kid (surprisingly not me!) with a tall lithe girlfriend. Nearly all wear rocker T-Shirts. Many have mohawks and colored hair; leather jackets, even in the September heat, are perfectly acceptable. There are chains and spiked jean jackets, even a guy dressed up as a banana.
We make our way into the building, roomier than the Ottobar's last location. Guys air drumming with drum sticks sell T-Shirts and CDs behind folding tables. I notice the lack of smoke inside...never before this year. I get a beer and head down to the stage, worming my way through the crowd, making sure my 5'4” frame doesn't go unnoticed and accidently get crushed in the swarm.
A band by the name of The Krum Bums takes the stage. Donned in leather with mohawks, living in a van, and touring from Texas gives them instant cred. They start up with a flurry of expletives, a hammering guitar, and something I dare call a melody. The crowd gives way making a hole where two dozen once stood. Six or seven young men start running in a circle where the crowd was, their fists pounding toward the ground, their backs curved like hunchbacks, their knees coming up to their chins. Others from different parts of the crowd being to enter in, pushing their way through the crowd, to join the tornado of testosterone as it spins counter clockwise. With clenched fists I join in.
Soon the circle pit is so full and so fast I have no idea how anyone else can even enter it safely. Doing so would be akin to boarding a moving train with hammers swinging from the ceiling. Yet more still do. You must not fear, you must be fast, you must be willing to take a shot to join this maddening frenzy of human flesh, denim, and aluminum.
The pushing and shoving reaches a climax. Those on the fringes of the pit, perhaps more dangerous than the pit itself, guard themselves from the fists, knees, and elbows jutting out, and the bodies sent careening outside the perimeter like a race car thrown off the track into a crowd. When one does, and it happens often, a half dozen hands pick him and toss him back into the frenzy whether he asks for it or not.
The males on the fringe stand in front of their females, protecting their mates from the competition. Only a few girls actually join in the fray, the mosh pit is still a man's world, full of blood and bone and spit.
The Krum Bums give way to Whole Wheat Bread, a punk band with some hip hop influence (huh? Yeah.). During their punkest moments the circle pit remains alive, but when the band gives way to hip hop roots the crowd begins a gradual shift. The pit slows, the men begin to pound the air to the rhythm with clenched fists, and the girls, all over the audience, begin to sway their hips and fluff their hair and perform their sensual dance like amateur strippers.
We head upstairs where the beer is cheaper (For the record, Brandon doesn't drink). I'm hanging out with Brandon and the two old out of place guys. A large mirrors hangs the length of the wall. A girl, clad in black like everyone else stares at herself in the mirror and begins moving her chest around. She notices my puzzled look and says “Boobs lopsided,” laughs, and walks away.
Finally, the long awaited headliner takes the stage. The pit begins its glorious circle again. As the band revs up into high gear, the pit loses any and all sense of gravity, the spinning stops, and the pit explodes. No longer does it spin and spin and spin, now bodies collide in any manner possible. The fists fly, the knees jerk, and more bodies hit the floor than have all night.
One tough skinhead, feeling slighted by someone in the fray, starts yelling. The offender tries to make peace to no avail. The skinhead stares him down and before anything violent starts he escapes in the pit. The skinhead stares on for minutes, unable to let the altercation subside, a bouncer sidles up to make sure peace prevails.
Brandon and I are tired. We are hungry. We pack our proverbial bags and head out the door for Taco Bell. We talk religion, we talk porn, we talk bands, we talk the scene. I've been to a lot shows but I can't get it out of my head. Somewhere back there, somewhere back in the pit, I have questions. Why all the mock violence? Especially from suburban white teenagers (and lots of “adults” as well). What do they get out of it? Probably excitement from their dull lives and an American dream that promises dull rewards.
I ask myself: “Where was Jesus in that place? Was I His only representative?” I hope not, I represented nothing.
Then I get this creeping thought, this nagging suspicion. “It's all summed up back there, isn't it?” The men, it's always men, showing off their masculinity, brazenly in front of the women. Bare knuckled, slack jawed, Neanderthalism. They protect their females from the other warriors, trying to impress, guard them against battle, protect them from the violence. The women, God Bless 'em, dress to impress, sway their hips, lift their boobs, take extra special care of their looks on this special night out. They are looking for their Prince Charming in a den of trolls.
Yet these people are believe that the old status quo has run its course. These kids; progressives, anarchists, feminists, social outcasts, the dregs of society, have envisioned a better world much different from the past. To them the old world is gone and we are entering a new era of enlightenment. An era without property, where all genders are equal, where peace is preferred to violence. 'Really?' I wonder. From here, from the fringe of the mosh pit, humanity looks the same as it ever was.
[That really concludes my blog. If you've made it this far hats off to you, my friend. But I have to add, especially on the topic of gender, that if these people, if these ultra leftists, still obey the traditional gender roles, I wonder if they can be loosed at all. Perhaps this is something deep down in the roots of who we are as homosapien. Something earthier and more mystical than we can even imagine. From our chromosomes to our spirits perhaps this thing cannot be broken. I think the early men and women behaved in similar ways, certainly we have since the dawn of recorded history, and it isn't confined to one geographic area. All men, from all times and locations, have been more violent than women. And likewise women have been the fairer, more even keeled, yet more emotional, of the sexes. Perhaps it is not so much what we are as who we are. Perhaps the damned thing, no matter what we do, cannot be shaken. Perhaps that's not a bad thing. Perhaps.]
Brandon meets and greets. He knows more people than I since I left the scene; a pair of older guys in their 50s who totally don't belong, a rotund guy with long hair who could be Gimli from Lord of the Rings, a scrawny short kid (surprisingly not me!) with a tall lithe girlfriend. Nearly all wear rocker T-Shirts. Many have mohawks and colored hair; leather jackets, even in the September heat, are perfectly acceptable. There are chains and spiked jean jackets, even a guy dressed up as a banana.
We make our way into the building, roomier than the Ottobar's last location. Guys air drumming with drum sticks sell T-Shirts and CDs behind folding tables. I notice the lack of smoke inside...never before this year. I get a beer and head down to the stage, worming my way through the crowd, making sure my 5'4” frame doesn't go unnoticed and accidently get crushed in the swarm.
A band by the name of The Krum Bums takes the stage. Donned in leather with mohawks, living in a van, and touring from Texas gives them instant cred. They start up with a flurry of expletives, a hammering guitar, and something I dare call a melody. The crowd gives way making a hole where two dozen once stood. Six or seven young men start running in a circle where the crowd was, their fists pounding toward the ground, their backs curved like hunchbacks, their knees coming up to their chins. Others from different parts of the crowd being to enter in, pushing their way through the crowd, to join the tornado of testosterone as it spins counter clockwise. With clenched fists I join in.
Soon the circle pit is so full and so fast I have no idea how anyone else can even enter it safely. Doing so would be akin to boarding a moving train with hammers swinging from the ceiling. Yet more still do. You must not fear, you must be fast, you must be willing to take a shot to join this maddening frenzy of human flesh, denim, and aluminum.
The pushing and shoving reaches a climax. Those on the fringes of the pit, perhaps more dangerous than the pit itself, guard themselves from the fists, knees, and elbows jutting out, and the bodies sent careening outside the perimeter like a race car thrown off the track into a crowd. When one does, and it happens often, a half dozen hands pick him and toss him back into the frenzy whether he asks for it or not.
The males on the fringe stand in front of their females, protecting their mates from the competition. Only a few girls actually join in the fray, the mosh pit is still a man's world, full of blood and bone and spit.
The Krum Bums give way to Whole Wheat Bread, a punk band with some hip hop influence (huh? Yeah.). During their punkest moments the circle pit remains alive, but when the band gives way to hip hop roots the crowd begins a gradual shift. The pit slows, the men begin to pound the air to the rhythm with clenched fists, and the girls, all over the audience, begin to sway their hips and fluff their hair and perform their sensual dance like amateur strippers.
We head upstairs where the beer is cheaper (For the record, Brandon doesn't drink). I'm hanging out with Brandon and the two old out of place guys. A large mirrors hangs the length of the wall. A girl, clad in black like everyone else stares at herself in the mirror and begins moving her chest around. She notices my puzzled look and says “Boobs lopsided,” laughs, and walks away.
Finally, the long awaited headliner takes the stage. The pit begins its glorious circle again. As the band revs up into high gear, the pit loses any and all sense of gravity, the spinning stops, and the pit explodes. No longer does it spin and spin and spin, now bodies collide in any manner possible. The fists fly, the knees jerk, and more bodies hit the floor than have all night.
One tough skinhead, feeling slighted by someone in the fray, starts yelling. The offender tries to make peace to no avail. The skinhead stares him down and before anything violent starts he escapes in the pit. The skinhead stares on for minutes, unable to let the altercation subside, a bouncer sidles up to make sure peace prevails.
Brandon and I are tired. We are hungry. We pack our proverbial bags and head out the door for Taco Bell. We talk religion, we talk porn, we talk bands, we talk the scene. I've been to a lot shows but I can't get it out of my head. Somewhere back there, somewhere back in the pit, I have questions. Why all the mock violence? Especially from suburban white teenagers (and lots of “adults” as well). What do they get out of it? Probably excitement from their dull lives and an American dream that promises dull rewards.
I ask myself: “Where was Jesus in that place? Was I His only representative?” I hope not, I represented nothing.
Then I get this creeping thought, this nagging suspicion. “It's all summed up back there, isn't it?” The men, it's always men, showing off their masculinity, brazenly in front of the women. Bare knuckled, slack jawed, Neanderthalism. They protect their females from the other warriors, trying to impress, guard them against battle, protect them from the violence. The women, God Bless 'em, dress to impress, sway their hips, lift their boobs, take extra special care of their looks on this special night out. They are looking for their Prince Charming in a den of trolls.
Yet these people are believe that the old status quo has run its course. These kids; progressives, anarchists, feminists, social outcasts, the dregs of society, have envisioned a better world much different from the past. To them the old world is gone and we are entering a new era of enlightenment. An era without property, where all genders are equal, where peace is preferred to violence. 'Really?' I wonder. From here, from the fringe of the mosh pit, humanity looks the same as it ever was.
[That really concludes my blog. If you've made it this far hats off to you, my friend. But I have to add, especially on the topic of gender, that if these people, if these ultra leftists, still obey the traditional gender roles, I wonder if they can be loosed at all. Perhaps this is something deep down in the roots of who we are as homosapien. Something earthier and more mystical than we can even imagine. From our chromosomes to our spirits perhaps this thing cannot be broken. I think the early men and women behaved in similar ways, certainly we have since the dawn of recorded history, and it isn't confined to one geographic area. All men, from all times and locations, have been more violent than women. And likewise women have been the fairer, more even keeled, yet more emotional, of the sexes. Perhaps it is not so much what we are as who we are. Perhaps the damned thing, no matter what we do, cannot be shaken. Perhaps that's not a bad thing. Perhaps.]
Comment
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Comment by Chad on October 9, 2008 at 3:37pm -
Humanity can't break free of its barbarianism. We can only be freed to a new way of life by God, and by following the example of the perfect love and life of God's son Jesus. It can't be any other way. We are absolutely incapable to make the changes neccessary on our own. It's like a mower pulling a semi's traylor. Without the power of God we are nothing, and until we give all our life to Christ things won't change. That's why government regulations and solcial movements won't change the world. Only in God can we find the power to change the world.
p.s. I've applied for an assistant pastor position there in Baltimore in the Pigtown area. i was wondering if you could give any insight on that area or the general state of things up there. Thanks!
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Comment by Jordan Lane Peacock on September 11, 2008 at 4:32pm -
One of many reasons why I never fully delved into the whole punk-rawk routine. Thanks for the article.
I think we as humans are capable of moving past our trappings, but not by as much as we often think and not without significant effort. Often a movement forward in one area (dealing with racism, for example) means that effort is slackened in others (expanding beyond gender stereotypes).
Peace
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