How’s this for trying new things: I spent my Tuesday night in the mosh pit. And kind of liked it.
Remember back in April, when I came to the realization Green Day’s music is kind of catchy? Well, Dave decided that my infatuation – even if solely based on a Broadway musical and Youtube videos – warranted a live show.
And friends? Let’s just say that the road from Broadway to the mosh pit is, um, a long one. Which should probably be paved with exercises designed to increase your tolerance for violence and vulgarity and the smell of beer and sweat.
While you’d think that I would have gotten an education in the aforementioned topics during college, let me remind you that I’m from Connecticut. And spent most of my summers rocking out to Kelly Clarkson in the lawn seats at the Hartford Meadows Music Theatre with a bunch of 15-year-olds. Purple hair and piercings and Fight club flashbacks not included.
But there I was last night, in the thick of it, I mean, really in the thick of it, a few feet from the stage, surrounded by people purposefully slamming their bodies into each other and throwing their bodies on top of one another and propelling their bodies onstage, where said bodies usually immediately flopped to the ground and/or were removed by security. So. Many. Bodies. So close to me.
I’m not going to lie, I was totally petrified for most of it. Billie Joe was all “get your motherfucking hands in the air!” and I was like “Billie Joe, I am certain that if I remove my appendages from my sides, where they are currently stationed to protect my important internal organs, I will die. But maybe next time?”
Do you know Billie Joe? The lead singer? He was wearing a black vest and a short, silver tie and striped tight pants and thick, dark eyeliner. (Take away message: even in stressful situations, I will critique your wardrobe.) Anyway, he’s literally the scariest person on earth. After about five minutes in his presence, I was convinced Heath Ledger as the joker in Batman was presiding over our concert. Every time he grabbed his guitar, I would simultaneously hope for him to play a song and brace for him to perform a ritual animal slaughter. When he started to spray us with the fire hoses, I thought we were goners. Ditto on the massive flames of fire rising upwards from the stage.
But, we weren’t. We survived, only a few bruises worse for the wear. And when the band came back for their second encore and started belting out the lyrics to Jesus of Suburbia and all the people around me started to move together in one giant wave, all powered by this one, awesome song that they’ve sung so many times in the shower and with their headphones on and after a nasty breakup; and these colored shreds of confetti, plastered with little skulls and the words Green Day, came cascading down on us; and Billie Joe, scary as he was, was strumming the chords on the guitar, right there, right above me…well, I wanted it to go on forever.
Rock on, I think, is what the kids would say. Rock on.