Masochist in the Mosh Pit

I have been listening to a lot of old hardcore punk lately (Bad Brains, Black Flag, Dead Kennedys, Misfits, etc.) and I had another one of those epiphanies about the roots of my masochism. 

When I was a junior/senior in high school, I went to as many hardcore shows as I could. There weren’t all that many in my town, but I relished every one. Apart from loving the music, I was drawn to the violence of the mosh pit. My friend and I would drink Colt 45 in the parking lot, then dive right in to the mass of bodies flailing around in front of the stage. We would leave every show completely exhausted, sweaty, bruised, sometimes bloodied, and ECSTATIC. Kind of like the way I feel after a session with Mitsu.

My greatest memory is of the Dead Milkmen show senior year. Screaming Broccoli opened and the room was absolutely packed with bodies. I ended up with a bloody nose — I caught either an elbow or a knee to the face — a black eye, and bruises everywhere. When I came down to breakfast the next morning, my mom refused to believe that I hadn’t been in a fist fight. I tried to explain what “slam dancing” was, but she wasn’t buying it. I had to show her a Suicidal Tendencies video before she would believe me.

The other angle on the mosh pit that resonates with my S&M experiences is that, as violent and chaotic as the pit was, if you fell down all you had to do was stick your arm up and you would be pulled to your feet. There was that same delicate combination of violence and community; hurting and soothing. We were there to hurt and get hurt, but there was always a hand to help you stand up.