Monday, May 24, 2004
The Last Time I Mosh
I moshed for the last time this past weekend.
Before this, it had been fourteen years, probably. During a heatwave in 1990, I moshed to Sinead O'Conner, playing live, outdoors, in upstate New York.
I was dating David Fuck You, a guy who went to great lengths to show he did not care. David Fuck You hated crowds and he hated the heat. We sat on a blanket waiting for the concert to begin, drinking cheap beer and getting soused. DFU sat in a chainsmoke of gooey humidity, sweat soaking down his face and neck. In his Harvey Fierstein rasp, he said: "All I can say is she better be good."
That wouldn't be a problem. For those of you unfamiliar, Sinead bust out of Ireland with a string of alterna-hits in the late 80s. On this, her first tour of the United States, she'd already torn up a photo of the Pope on national tv during her gig on SNL, and had caused a fuss refusing to sing the National Anthem at another. She was my kinda gal.
Sinead arrived. Her neatly oval shaved skull with notable scars contrasted with her soft eyes and lashes. She wore a black mini halter on a buff boy's body, and the clunkiest black Doc Marten lace-up boots. She was hot.
She cleared her throat distinctly into the microphone and spat a visible wad onto the stage in front of us. "Excuse me," speaking in a thick lilt, "Can you show some respect and not fuckin smoke; I can't sing in a cloud of toxic fumes." foken; kent sang; toxek fuums
'Boos' scattered through the audience. DFU blinked in disbelief and glowered at me, "This bitch better be fucking good." In the background, the drummer, who had sounded like he was softly practicing, suddenly attacked the drums and shifted into a driving beat.
Two guitars came in simultaneously, and Sinead jumped to the microphone. If you've never heard Sinead, she was amazing. She looked like she was going to eat the microphone, her voice ranged what seemed like several octaves and her angst broke windows.
The crowd went wild, people galloping past us down to the front. "C'mon, let's go!" I said to DFU, and he didn't have to be coerced -- he was into it. We paused on the fringe of bodies, and then sank in. That memory -- moshing with my cute, miserable boyfriend, is a happy one.
Crashed back to the edge by the tide, we looked at each other and laughed. In front of us, a small college-aged girl danced. She had long blonde hair, a visor and a bright white Sinead concert T-shirt. She looked like a sorority gal. DFU took one look and crows beat their wings across his eyes.
His two palms covered nearly her entire upper back, and then, like a spring unloading, he pushed full force. Her blonde hair whipped out behind her as she flew through layers of human cogs. Like a satellite crumbling when it hits the atmosphere, she hit the hardcore slammers in front of the stage, churning in the opposite direction. She had lost her balance and stumbling, she disappeared. My stomach turned. I looked at DFU square on.
"I hope that girl doesn't have a boyfriend, cuz he'll be looking for you."
"She shouldn't be here," DFU said.
"You shouldn't be here," I thought, and shook my head. That was probably the turning point in our relationship.
Fourteen years later, Dayton's goth club is closing down and I decided to go one last time. In a cloud of smoke that would choke Sinead, the music is, as it always has been, heavy on Depeche Mode.
After one drink, I go out onto the dance floor. I dance with children half my age wearing 80s style pleated catholic school mini skirts and wallet chains. Depeche Mode ends, and now they're playing White Zombie, of all things. People start slamming.
How Fun! I think, and Gosh, it's been a while! I'm not concerned; slam dancing hasn't changed that much.
Closer to the slammers I dance. I think I look good, doing a move that looks like I'm kicking in a door. Closer, closer. Then I'm too close and the tornado picks me up. I remember to relax and go with the flow. I do. An elbow goes into my nose, the same elbow jams my lip into my teeth. I feel my gums sting, I'm kneed or kicked in the kidneys, I'm hit around the head. In a few seconds, I'm thrown out like an old cigarette. I can taste blood.
Hey, I don't remember it being like this! I try to look cool and unaffected; I try not to limp to the bathroom. Fat lip, bloody nose, hot bruise on lower back.
I don't belong here. David Fuck You is in chemo. The nurse says "you need to give that habit up." You can guess how he responded.
Man I hope I get over this midlife crisis I'm having and soon.
Note to purists: I intermix the words "slamming" and "moshing" to mean the same thing. According to the links, there is a distinction. (And one which makes silly sense applied to last weekend since White Zombie was playing and not Depeche Mode!) No matter: Applying the strict definitions, I've done both and I don't remember hurting or being hurt by it. What's changed between then and now is the amount of alcohol consumed: Just like drunks who can walk away from deadly accidents, maybe I was just too sober.
Before this, it had been fourteen years, probably. During a heatwave in 1990, I moshed to Sinead O'Conner, playing live, outdoors, in upstate New York.
I was dating David Fuck You, a guy who went to great lengths to show he did not care. David Fuck You hated crowds and he hated the heat. We sat on a blanket waiting for the concert to begin, drinking cheap beer and getting soused. DFU sat in a chainsmoke of gooey humidity, sweat soaking down his face and neck. In his Harvey Fierstein rasp, he said: "All I can say is she better be good."
That wouldn't be a problem. For those of you unfamiliar, Sinead bust out of Ireland with a string of alterna-hits in the late 80s. On this, her first tour of the United States, she'd already torn up a photo of the Pope on national tv during her gig on SNL, and had caused a fuss refusing to sing the National Anthem at another. She was my kinda gal.
Sinead arrived. Her neatly oval shaved skull with notable scars contrasted with her soft eyes and lashes. She wore a black mini halter on a buff boy's body, and the clunkiest black Doc Marten lace-up boots. She was hot.
She cleared her throat distinctly into the microphone and spat a visible wad onto the stage in front of us. "Excuse me," speaking in a thick lilt, "Can you show some respect and not fuckin smoke; I can't sing in a cloud of toxic fumes." foken; kent sang; toxek fuums
'Boos' scattered through the audience. DFU blinked in disbelief and glowered at me, "This bitch better be fucking good." In the background, the drummer, who had sounded like he was softly practicing, suddenly attacked the drums and shifted into a driving beat.
Two guitars came in simultaneously, and Sinead jumped to the microphone. If you've never heard Sinead, she was amazing. She looked like she was going to eat the microphone, her voice ranged what seemed like several octaves and her angst broke windows.
The crowd went wild, people galloping past us down to the front. "C'mon, let's go!" I said to DFU, and he didn't have to be coerced -- he was into it. We paused on the fringe of bodies, and then sank in. That memory -- moshing with my cute, miserable boyfriend, is a happy one.
Crashed back to the edge by the tide, we looked at each other and laughed. In front of us, a small college-aged girl danced. She had long blonde hair, a visor and a bright white Sinead concert T-shirt. She looked like a sorority gal. DFU took one look and crows beat their wings across his eyes.
His two palms covered nearly her entire upper back, and then, like a spring unloading, he pushed full force. Her blonde hair whipped out behind her as she flew through layers of human cogs. Like a satellite crumbling when it hits the atmosphere, she hit the hardcore slammers in front of the stage, churning in the opposite direction. She had lost her balance and stumbling, she disappeared. My stomach turned. I looked at DFU square on.
"I hope that girl doesn't have a boyfriend, cuz he'll be looking for you."
"She shouldn't be here," DFU said.
"You shouldn't be here," I thought, and shook my head. That was probably the turning point in our relationship.
Fourteen years later, Dayton's goth club is closing down and I decided to go one last time. In a cloud of smoke that would choke Sinead, the music is, as it always has been, heavy on Depeche Mode.
After one drink, I go out onto the dance floor. I dance with children half my age wearing 80s style pleated catholic school mini skirts and wallet chains. Depeche Mode ends, and now they're playing White Zombie, of all things. People start slamming.
How Fun! I think, and Gosh, it's been a while! I'm not concerned; slam dancing hasn't changed that much.
Closer to the slammers I dance. I think I look good, doing a move that looks like I'm kicking in a door. Closer, closer. Then I'm too close and the tornado picks me up. I remember to relax and go with the flow. I do. An elbow goes into my nose, the same elbow jams my lip into my teeth. I feel my gums sting, I'm kneed or kicked in the kidneys, I'm hit around the head. In a few seconds, I'm thrown out like an old cigarette. I can taste blood.
Hey, I don't remember it being like this! I try to look cool and unaffected; I try not to limp to the bathroom. Fat lip, bloody nose, hot bruise on lower back.
I don't belong here. David Fuck You is in chemo. The nurse says "you need to give that habit up." You can guess how he responded.
Man I hope I get over this midlife crisis I'm having and soon.
Note to purists: I intermix the words "slamming" and "moshing" to mean the same thing. According to the links, there is a distinction. (And one which makes silly sense applied to last weekend since White Zombie was playing and not Depeche Mode!) No matter: Applying the strict definitions, I've done both and I don't remember hurting or being hurt by it. What's changed between then and now is the amount of alcohol consumed: Just like drunks who can walk away from deadly accidents, maybe I was just too sober.