Saturday night -- Jack Rabbits. A packed house for the kickoff of a new indie/hardcore package show called "The Girls Gone Wild Tour" featuring local punkers Glasseater, Calico System, and Evergreen Terrace.
I worked my way to a point in the middle of the crowd during the third band's set, sliding and pushing until the sea of strangers in front of me was simply too thick to navigate. On one side of me was a skinny guy drenched in sweat from the first two acts, and on my right were two girls who's arms were already in front of their bodies in preparation for pushing back the rush.
Clearly, I was in a good spot.
What I didn't notice though, was that about two people ahead of me was an incredibly well fed young man in a black hoodie. I know he was wearing it because once the band kicked in and the pit got going, that hoodie started falling towards me like that scene in 2001 where the astronaut flies into the monolith, except this time all I could say was, "My god, it's full of cholesterol."
There we were -- right in the middle of an overpacked sardine can of a club, with the fattest punk on the First Coast flat on his back. Pit instincts kicked in immediately, and everyone around started reaching down to help him up.
But try as we might, we
were no match for Shamu.
There were like four of us yanking on his arms and yelling obscenities at him, but all Star Jones could manage was to flail his legs like a turtle on his back. Eventually we got him upright, but by that time two songs had run by. The thing that struck me though was the fact that even though the kid took up an acre of floor, nothing even nearing stompage happened to him.
Curious to see what the deal was -- I started moving closer to the stage. A circle had carved itself out in the middle of the crowd, but people seemed to stay out of it's way. In fact, the closer I got to the pit the more clear it became that there wasn't really anyone in it at all.
Instead of the melee I was expecting I found this weird pecking order going on. One kid would jump into the middle of the open space and then start swinging his arms and kicking his legs like a martial arts display. Then, once he was done with his intro, he'd slam into the edge of the circle with fists flying, almost like he was looking to catch someone not looking and clock them in the head.
Even stranger, once the first kid's exit was complete, ANOTHER kid would jump into the opening and do his own version of the same thing. Sometimes two or three people would go in at once and there would be a little pushing and shoving to establish priority, but in the end, it was all setup for the midair combo punches. It was like a breakdancing circle where everyone waited their turn.
It's Punk Rock -- Since when do you have to take a number?
I actually said to the person next to me, "What the hell is this?" - but the complaint didn't seem to register.
The one good thing was that whenever someone hit the floor, everyone around hustled to get them back up to safety. Or at least that's what I thought until I helped one dude up off the ground who immediately started throwing blind elbows as soon as he was on his feet again. He caught me in the lip with one shot, and then moved on to some other part of the crowd, punching blindly at strangers with both fists.
It all seemed kinda wrong. Too violent, too personal. At the same time, I couldn't help feeling like the problem might be me. Like I was being shown that I didn't necessarily belong in this particular pit at all, even if I did like the music. I still managed to find my way in there and get a couple of licks in, but it didn't really feel right, you know?
I made my way back to the bar, and tried to cool off with a fresh drink. Pretty soon, some of the people I'd met before the show started talking to me and sharing old stories. And that's when it hit me. This is what I want. That sorta 'temporary best friend' syndrome. That bonding that happens with strangers in the crowd, the kinship that lasts until the last encore is played. The kind of thing you can't get from listening to a demo CD. The kind of feeling you can't express with a t-shirt or patch.
That feeling that says, "We were there -- together."
.. God, I sound like a hippie. Somebody slam me.
I worked my way to a point in the middle of the crowd during the third band's set, sliding and pushing until the sea of strangers in front of me was simply too thick to navigate. On one side of me was a skinny guy drenched in sweat from the first two acts, and on my right were two girls who's arms were already in front of their bodies in preparation for pushing back the rush.
Clearly, I was in a good spot.
What I didn't notice though, was that about two people ahead of me was an incredibly well fed young man in a black hoodie. I know he was wearing it because once the band kicked in and the pit got going, that hoodie started falling towards me like that scene in 2001 where the astronaut flies into the monolith, except this time all I could say was, "My god, it's full of cholesterol."
There we were -- right in the middle of an overpacked sardine can of a club, with the fattest punk on the First Coast flat on his back. Pit instincts kicked in immediately, and everyone around started reaching down to help him up.
But try as we might, we
were no match for Shamu.
There were like four of us yanking on his arms and yelling obscenities at him, but all Star Jones could manage was to flail his legs like a turtle on his back. Eventually we got him upright, but by that time two songs had run by. The thing that struck me though was the fact that even though the kid took up an acre of floor, nothing even nearing stompage happened to him.
Curious to see what the deal was -- I started moving closer to the stage. A circle had carved itself out in the middle of the crowd, but people seemed to stay out of it's way. In fact, the closer I got to the pit the more clear it became that there wasn't really anyone in it at all.
Instead of the melee I was expecting I found this weird pecking order going on. One kid would jump into the middle of the open space and then start swinging his arms and kicking his legs like a martial arts display. Then, once he was done with his intro, he'd slam into the edge of the circle with fists flying, almost like he was looking to catch someone not looking and clock them in the head.
Even stranger, once the first kid's exit was complete, ANOTHER kid would jump into the opening and do his own version of the same thing. Sometimes two or three people would go in at once and there would be a little pushing and shoving to establish priority, but in the end, it was all setup for the midair combo punches. It was like a breakdancing circle where everyone waited their turn.
It's Punk Rock -- Since when do you have to take a number?
I actually said to the person next to me, "What the hell is this?" - but the complaint didn't seem to register.
The one good thing was that whenever someone hit the floor, everyone around hustled to get them back up to safety. Or at least that's what I thought until I helped one dude up off the ground who immediately started throwing blind elbows as soon as he was on his feet again. He caught me in the lip with one shot, and then moved on to some other part of the crowd, punching blindly at strangers with both fists.
It all seemed kinda wrong. Too violent, too personal. At the same time, I couldn't help feeling like the problem might be me. Like I was being shown that I didn't necessarily belong in this particular pit at all, even if I did like the music. I still managed to find my way in there and get a couple of licks in, but it didn't really feel right, you know?
I made my way back to the bar, and tried to cool off with a fresh drink. Pretty soon, some of the people I'd met before the show started talking to me and sharing old stories. And that's when it hit me. This is what I want. That sorta 'temporary best friend' syndrome. That bonding that happens with strangers in the crowd, the kinship that lasts until the last encore is played. The kind of thing you can't get from listening to a demo CD. The kind of feeling you can't express with a t-shirt or patch.
That feeling that says, "We were there -- together."
.. God, I sound like a hippie. Somebody slam me.