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Reagan-era politics, microwave food, docksiders, Izod, Rod Stewart, Def Leopard, Rocky sequels, Olivia Newton John, Pat Benatar, aerobics, slimfast, neon colored radio stations, nuclear family theories, The Breakfast Club, Madonna, Polaroid cameras, and bi-level feathered haircuts. Need I say more? Punk rock is the logical reaction to cultural circumstances between the late 70's and early 80's. On both sides of the Atlantic, everybody and their mother would wanna dress like Cindy Lauper and intellectualize about anarchy. How ironic that those mogg flunkies would assume responsibility for inspiring the biggest marketing tragedy in the history of industrialized nations. Fortunately, the one thing that would remain authentic and survive the commercialization, marketization, and dorkization of our MTV nation would be the Mosh Pit.
The Art Of The Mosh Pit
Moshing is not
for the faint of heart--whatever your age. In the first place, it's something of a contact
sport, a definite physical high. Participants catapult and boomerang against each other,
slamming one another around the mosh pit like billiard balls in a free-wheeling melee. The
melee temporarily subsides as moshers lift a partner overhead, and pass the
"surfer" across the pit on a conveyer belt of outstretched arms. Daredevils hop
on-stage with the band, then jump or dive into the pit. Their fellow moshers catch them in
mid-air, breaking their fall and raising them to surf the crowd.
Obviously there's risk of serious injury. Television news and tabloid shows have sensationalized the risks, presenting them as commonplace: a young woman trampled to death after a fall; a young man turned paraplegic when moshers failed to break his dive. Is it not time, critics ask, to ban moshing at rock concerts?
However alarming, the injuries are anything but typical. In the few dozen times I've moshed, no one has been hurt. In fact, unlike real contact sports, in which players routinely try to injure each other, the aim of moshing is to look after your fellow moshers. When participants lose their footing, moshers clear a space and give them a hand up; when someone dives from the stage, everyone focuses on catching him or her. Someone has his or her shoelace untied ? Two or three people form a human barricade to protect the mosher. "We're all in this together," as a teen in baggy shorts and T-shirt proudly shouted to me during a recent foray.
What is it about moshing that brings out some of the best in people? A crucial element, I believe, is the almost total absence of posturing and affectation. Dancing is not segregated by couples. There is little cause for envy or jealousy since no one's left out. Think of it as a junior prom turned inside out.
Moshing is communal without requiring conformity. There are few rules, other than to accept responsibility for the fate of one's fellow moshers. There is no discrimination, because one can't choose partners. True, the physical contact entails risks, but those risks lead to countless little miracles. For me moshing is more than a dance--it's a life- and community-affirming sacrament.