Growing up in a rural culture is difficult when you don't listen to country.
For their 15th birthday, most girls have a sleepover and gossip about what senior they have a crush on. For my 15th birthday, I sneaked out to a hardcore show almost two hours away. If you're reading this, I'm sorry in advance, Mom. I desperately wanted to go to a show to see if the fans from my Punk Rock Confidential magazines actually existed.
On a cold Tuesday in March, my friend and I loaded into her car and made the drive to a place called HYAMP that used to exist in Huntington, W.Va. I remember that graffiti-covered fire hazard fondly; a lot of really good bands played there. It was also the place that spurred my infatuation with live music.
Hearing a good band on a CD is great, but there is nothing - I mean nothing - like seeing a live show. HYAMP was home to my first mosh pit experience, which resulted in my small body receiving a combat boot shaped bruise to my face, a ripped out gauge and a blood soaked smile (thank you gigantic stage-dive dude, wherever you are).
As a thousand hands pulled me up to the surface of a sea of concerned but amused faces, I don't think a smile had ever been so ridiculously wide. I was in love with the set lists of those four bands. For the first time, I felt like people knew where I was coming from; they understood why I was so passionate.
All of the pushing, pulling, groping and shoving sweaty bodies - it was so new and chaotic; it blew my mind. Everyone was coming together for the same purpose - to live the music.
When I think of a mosh pit and why people mosh, it reminds me of waiting in line at, say, a bank. They are playing some hit on the radio, and the person in front of you begins to tap his or her foot or bob his or her head slightly. People can't help it; it's just a reaction.
That is how I feel about punk music. When you are there in that venue immersed in that kind of atmosphere, you can't help but react. As with an out-of-body experience, you have no control.
Instead of just tapping your foot to some smooth jazz, your entire body gets into those thick guitar riffs and drum beats and begins to go everywhere.
Those punk kids at your high school - the mosh pit is their sport of choice, and it can be a brutal one. You just close your eyes and trust that if you fall down, someone will be there with a steady hand to help you through the chaos.
When I walked out of that building I felt alive. I don't know whether it was the adrenaline from being in a pit for the first time or a possible mild concussion from my head bouncing off concrete, but I just felt right.
About five years and many shows later, I feel just as strongly as I did that night about live shows. I remember that 15-year-old kid I was with the bloody smile, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Merri is a sophomore studying journalism and a columnist for The Post. Send her your personal sneak out stories at mc112609@ohiou.edu.
4 Opinion
Merri Collins
