Main Street Magazine Spring '23

the underground. Walking down the stairs, I was overwhelmed with flashbacks of
gripping these walls eight months prior, trying not to puke. A crowd had gathered
already forming a halo around the corner of the “stage”. Josie and her friends
were apprehensive as I pulled them to the middle of the right side.
A man in a full green suit pushed past us to the front, it was the kind of suit
that covered his whole body and face, making him look like a blank canvas.
Something about his energy sent my intuition ablaze. I couldn’t place the
unnerving feeling I got as I stared at him. I didn’t have to ponder for long, within
the first guitar chug he unleashed his inner beast. Thrashing his entire body
back into mine, then whipping in a fashion that can only be compared to that of
the Tasmanian devil. Immediately my phone and riding crop were thrown to the
ground, and I found myself elbow-chopping him with the strength of Stone-Cold
Steve Austin.
The pit had begun, and mohawked girls did pull-ups on the wood slabs of the
ceiling, releasing back into the madness.
A mass of bodies thrashed and tore at each
other’s limbs, punching and clawing to get to the
light.
I found myself on the edge playing the part of a pit leader, controlling the circle,
and shoving every six-foot man that came crashing my way, sending them back
into the eye of the storm.
The band playing was the same band that I saw in February, a heavy metal
scream fest that I knew none of the words to, as if it even mattered. The crowd’s
violent dance, filled with screams and body slaps, melded in with the rhythmic
guitar chugs and whatever nonsense the lead singer was yell-talking about. It
was my second time seeing this band, and yet my first being so close to the
action. Excitement radiated from the crowd as everyone was thrown from one
side to another, headbanging to the drum of anger.
The songs smudged together. After what might have been two, I felt myself losing
stamina amongst the crowd. I stood, fighting off a cheap pope costume, Mr.
Green man, and a grandma in a gas mask; I ceased my thrashing and gazed at
the swell of bodies. The pit slowed in a graceful kind of way, morphing into an
intricate tango in my mind.
The mullet clown girl glided into the arms of a last-minute Harley Quinn. A
blonde Daphne was pulled to her feet, her curls streaked with sweat creating a
flat helmet of hair. Josie sat underneath the stairs silently bobbing in her own
universe, and in the back, I saw a girl, all too familiar with her cheek pressed
to a metal pipe. All within this was a masquerade. I heard each lyric exit the
lead singer’s lips as he entered his own short-lived guitar solo. And out of the
corner of my eye, I saw the same man in the green morph suit, except his mask
was taken off. His blond mop was freshly drenched in sweat. He stood on the
edge of the pit, observing just like I was. He had an odd vacant quality to his
expression that I couldn’t quite place before he shoved back on his mask and
dove into the vortex.
Within the folds of these chalk outlines, guitar bends, and dank concrete
drippings, an odd and unfamiliar feeling crept in. The cold intoxicating sweat
poured out from under the crease of my veil, down the bridge of my nose, and
back into my mouth as a form of rehydration. A sticky cheap raven wig hung
from the ceiling and brushed my forehead as I was thrown in all directions.
At this point, all was lost. My phone was held in the bra of my companion, my
cross-riding crop thrown into the whirlpool, and my demonic makeup seeped
into my pores. Reality crept in.
My dance didn’t look as beautiful as before, I couldn’t embrace the manic
majesty of this human cyclone. Hyper aware of each drop of sweat, how sticky
my costume felt, and the weight of my platforms as I held my ground.
Perhaps this was more ground-breaking when
you were eight shots deep.
At that moment it was as if my head was a balloon filling the entire room.
We were all incapacitated to some extent, crammed into one small basement,
absolutely losing our minds to unknown lyrics and riffs. Screaming in united
anger as the lead guitarist yelled,
“All the people you love are perverts, Fuck You!“
right before the last song. Everyone stood still for a moment before resuming
the tangled spiral of dancing. I just stood and stared in silence. We had all
chosen to agree at that moment that this band was good; that their music was
worth this kind of aggression. In my silent observation, my blind love faded.
When it was over, I walked outside the house and sat on the front lawn.
I wondered about the lives of all the strangers I just met. Would I even
recognize them if I passed them on the street, or if we shared a classroom? It
can be so hard to see behind a mask. Why did we choose to unite in such an
outwardly unsettling way, and why did I like it so much? The screaming and the
unrelenting force of the pit looked like something out of my worst nightmare.
And yet, I dive in as soon as the first song starts. Did it fuel some sense of
belonging in a union of anger, beating on each other to not beat ourselves?
Within a crumbling society, was this the bridge that united the broken? A place
of devotion for those who had no other place to scream, no other place to just
simply be. I slowly laid down on the grass and stared up at the night sky. The
only thing I could think was, “Is this all?.”