I wake up in the morning covered head to toe in bruises. Bruises on my arm from ramming into the wall, bruises on my back and knees from falling down, a cut on the inside of my lip from being kicked in the face. I smell like shit from sharing sweat with so many strangers. I go to check my phone and can barely turn my neck. I wince in pain, but it's little price to pay for last night. I can't stand up out of bed, so I kneel on the floor and push myself up, trying to recall the fuzzy memories of last night.
I'm bent halfway over, stomping my feet and banging my head to the rhythm of the music. I can't make out any lyrics, and the guitar and bass melt together. The only things I can make out clearly are the drums and the energy in the room. My head is rushing from the shots, a couple hits of someone's joint, too many poppers, and the oncoming asthma attack, but I continue.
I realized early on in going to diy and hardcore shows that punk isn't about how good you can play or sing, but about the emotion in the music and the pit. I think my friend Miles puts it best when he says that mosh pits are “a beautiful release of emotion”. Even in the most violent pits you find yourself in, it all boils down to getting out the anger you can't in any other way. You can't throw yourself around in any other public, or even private, place.
Surrounded by others, sweating, barely breathing, most of you under the influence, thrashing around like a fish out of water. You can push and shove and ram into people with no consequence. To me, punk rock is raw, intense emotion being expressed.
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