[I “floated” at a concert once and got dropped in a hole in the crowd. DON’T float. Then there was this really lame trend amongst the emo kids where they’d put a bandana around their face like bandits and then they’d stand in one place and thrash their arms around. It was sooooo awesome when I got punched in the face at The Bled concert because of those assholes. I mean, it’s like nobody read this nor cared about the pit…seriously, think about the pit. -Caitlin]
I used to go to parties and shows where I moshed all the time when I was 16-18. I lived for most of that time in Brazil, where the grunge scene IS SUPER CURRENT. (Srsly, they stay a wee bit behind.) I was fine with moshing, but I LOVED stage diving and crowd surfing. I got hurt quite a lot, but I thought that was tough. At one concert, I stage dived just as a song ended and everyone just lost their attention. So I landed on my back (thankfully, I was a veteran enough to twist midair) with an air-stealing THUUUUMPH. I couldn’t draw another breath for a full minute. Getting hurt because no one will catch you? NOT TOUGH. But funny, or so it seemed from the crowd laughing their asses off around me, me looking up at them from my back, squeaking my un-air-propelled curses of surprise.
Another notable moshing moment came after a Mudhoney concert, when a local record store framed and displayed a photo of me crowd surfing. Why? There were literally like 25 hands supporting me, and all but one was on my ass. It was an awesome photo. I mean, er, demeaning. After that concert, I hung out with the band, and Dan Peters especially, who was so incredibly nice but seemed really surprisingly old—like mature really, but tired—and so, like, OVER IT that I felt like a big dork for being super into the whole thing (grunge music) in 2000. I mean, I was eleven when Kurt Cobain died, so like what the fuck did I know? And he was being so nice, but in a patient and protective way—it was like what I got was a fatherly figure when I expected a fucking rock machine.
What I expected:
What I got:
All the roadies in their jumpsuits kept hitting on me, and Dan Peters was like, “Leave her alone,” like he was embarrassed and disgusted by their pathetic perviness. Now, it’s ten years later than that, so those dudes are at least 7,000 times grosser (and so totally-for sure-most definitely still doing the same thing: trust.) So, I’m speaking from xperience, y’herd?
*Sidebar: D.P. talked to me for a long time about Kurt Cobain, who he said was always really depressed and was like the last person you’d notice in a room full of people you’d never notice. Sounds like a fucking bore. And what an asshole was I, talking to a living legend about his career and then being like, “Can I ask you a few questions about Kurt?” OMG, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but I even asked him about whether he thought Courtney killed Kurt and mentioned that Nick Bloomfield doc. Fuckfuckfuckme. Ugh. Never be eighteen. (Unless you are eighteen, in which case we both love you and promise to help you be the best eighteen-year-old you can be.)
Me then, there: