We don’t know the bands that are playing. We can’t understand the lyrics. What we do know is the pounding of the bass, the whirlwind of the drum, and the voices that tear themselves out of the singers’ throats like a rabid animal. We know when to bang our heads along to the beat, when to throw ourselves into the chaotic whirlwind that is the pit. We kick and slam our way around, following unending circles, shoved along by each other and the outer barrier of our pandemonium. We fall. We scoop each other up. We keep going. We scream into the outstretched microphones, clawing at each other in an effort to climb the mountain of bodies reaching for a chance to be heard.
The last chord rings out. We yell ourselves hoarse, cheering for strangers, clapping hands and bumping fists with artists who scream their souls out loud enough to deafen us, but rarely ever loud enough to be heard beyond the stages of these DIY shows and venues. We hand over cash in exchange for illegible patches and buttons to later painstakingly sew onto our armor. We are adorned with spikes and people’s dreams.
We stumble and pour outside, sweaty and exhausted. We sit on the curbs, sharing joints and cigarettes, idly swapping words when our tired lungs allow it. We sip on water, if we find it. We breathe in the fresh night air and revel in the adrenaline coursing through our veins. We let the wind blow away our aches. We check our cuts and bruises. Then, when we hear the low vibrations of the next bass preparing for its time to shine, we rise and head back in, ready for the next round.
Sasha Jayne is a sophomore in the College studying psychology, and is one of the current Spotlight editors. Their true loves and passions are metal music, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and wearing excessive amounts of black clothing.
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