Years ago, I ended up in a mosh pit. Descendents had just reformed and the fact that a bunch of kids who were too young to see the band before Milo went to college was a big deal. Actually, make that a huge deal. However, as much as I liked the band, I almost didn't go. Since my early teens, I have had an aversion to punk shows, mostly on account of the fact that there is no such thing as a punk show without a mosh pit and, even back when the term alternated between "mosh pit" and "slam pit," I thought this to be the most asinine excuse for getting the shit kicked out of you possible. Additionally, I must admit to being an utter wuss. I spent my after school hours in ballet class, not AYSO, and dressed like a Twin Peaks teen. If I went to a punk show, I was basically begging to get pummeled.
One of my friends coerced me into going to the show with her. I really didn't put up much of a fight because that would mean that I must admit to my wussiness. When you're nineteen and part of a college radio station, there is no greater fear than the thought that someone might realize that you just aren't that punk rock. So, I headed down to the Whiskey with her and backed myself up against a wall while clutching onto the handle of my Esprit Kelly bag, prepared to watch Milo, Ph.D. sing about food from a safe distance. The friend wanted to go towards the front. I said okay, expecting her to go to the front of the sold-out crowd by herself. She grabbed me by the hand and dragged me towards the stage. No more than five minutes later, I learned that the only thing more degrading than feeling a Doc Marten sole up against your face is falling over the person in front of you while this happens, as the back hem of your pleated skirt meets with your ear.
I tell you this because, tonight, Megan and I ended up on assignment together at the Troubadour, covering the fourth installment of Rise Against's totally-sold-old five-night stint at the club, where we managed to observe the pit from the safe distance of the loft (me) and the back corner of the stage (her). The pit was fairly mellow until the singer from opening band Ignite made some comment that there would be no violence tonight and "if you want to fight, go outside." This statement proved to be about as useful as one of those "talk to your kids about drugs" commercials. Right as he went into the next song, the pit erupted, with guys flinging their bodies into one another and the occasional flailing fist meeting with an unsuspecting face. The dance continued throughout Ignite's set and only grew in size and intensity once Rise Against took to the stage. As we walked out of the club after the lights brightened, Megan and I could feel sweat-mists against our faces. It was hotter on that club floor than a Coachella dance tent at 3 in the afternoon and some of those folks looked as though they had gotten into a brawl while trying to run a marathon. I then realized that even when a show is excellent, as this one was, and even when I'm far removed from the action, I still loathe mosh pits.