At the Red House

Adventuring rule # 12: When offered alcohol, take the alcohol. 

     Deep breath. Exhale. It's time.

     The rumors have flown about for weeks. I, Sara Jane, attended a death metal concert.

     I was invited by a friend, who knew some guys who were playing one Friday in Walnut Creek. I've blocked out the name of the venue. And the band. And the name of my friend's boyfriend who came with us. I should say the boyfriend and his liberty spikes Mohawk. Together they took up the entire right side of the car for the ninety minute drive.

     What I do remember is this. We arrived and a man with piercings was selling discount tickets outside before the show began. There was a bar offering beer and snacks inside, which I should have partaken of. Really, the whole night would have been improved with a little alcohol. 
     As it was, I was nervous and tense in my skinny jeans and oversize plaid flannel shirt. Inside the stage area, it was small and dark, with a cloud of beer and man sweat flowing over the gathering crowd.

     There were two or three bands. Songs had imaginative titles about nightmares and highways, but when they launched into the track, it all sounded the same. My friend spent her time snapping photos and bullshitting with her friends. Mostly men, mostly with ponytails, mostly very large and drinking. She did introduce me, but I was too nervous to speak.
 
     Is it clear yet that these are not my people? I like to think I blended in with the crowd. At six feet tall with no makeup and a man's shirt, however, I don't think that worked out.

     A shining memory returns when I think of the moment that 'our' band took the stage. A short guy stepped forward, took off his shirt and removed his cap to release his flowing black hair. He grabbed the mike and smiled out at the group of us, waiting for him to start.

     "This song is for all the pretty girls," he said, making eyes at the handful of females. They cheered in response, but the sound was weak.

     "Don't get too excited. She gets kidnapped, raped and murdered." That's when the screaming started.
His abs grew shiny with sweat. My friend pulled me to the front of the stage 'to get the full experience' so I was in the direct line of fire when he began to headbang. He might have spit on me, but I think it was accidental.

     At this point, I was introduced to the frightening reality of the most pit. Our sweaty friend at the mike decided we in the audience were not being awesome enough. In a pause between lyrics, he screamed "Fuckin' mosh!"

     Without missing a beat, every one of those giant drunken men began to sprint in a circle. This was a small venue, so they were extremely crowded. The moshers didn't seem to mind. It made their goal of crashing into as many people as possible much easier. I got elbowed in the back and stepped on. I grew much more comfortable at the front of the stage because it was the only spot in the room safe from the circle of flailing, smashing men.

     The show, while violent, physical and hostile, had one redeeming quality. Absolutely no one was taking themselves seriously. These are not artists, they are a bunch of guys with their friends and guitars who like to scream. Each band had a great time on stage, whipping their sweaty hair around and running for no reason. That spirit of freedom and joy was contagious. It acted as a kind of padding for my brain and ears against the relentless noise.

     It's true. I went. I survived. I'm never going again.