Mosh Pits = A Life Lesson
What happens when you enter a mosh pit? Get your face pushed in a bit? Do you purposefully go after the lanky kid in the corner? Is your version of a pit a slamdance? Whatever the case – you end up being part of a big heavy metal community. A sea of people who you have never even met before simply become your brothers and sisters for at least half an hour. They pick you up when you get knocked down. They protect you from arrogant purposeful idiots (as mentioned above). They’re like you’re own private army…who you ironically ‘fight’ against. That is, unless, you’re in Boston where they banned mosh pits of course.
That’s not to say you won’t exchange crushing blows or not suffer the odd elbow in your gut. It’s more along the lines of one giant ongoing trial by fire. Just imagine if you underpinned that sort of psychology to life in general. Sacrifice and hard work in order to get to an end goal – something worthwhile in your life.
Take common courtesy. In the pit at a metal show, it is courtesy to help one who has fallen. Your roommate might not be as courteous when he leaves the fridge door open and a trail of mud from the door.
In a fantastic excerpt from BBC Magazine, how much can you relate to the issues mentioned below?
Mosh Pits = A Life Lesson
Some people just don’t realise how annoying they are – you can’t hate them for that. One person’s quiet is another’s noisy. One person’s air-drumming is another’s fistfight.
By the same token, we need to practise being told off. The older we get, the less capable we are of taking criticism. Think of all the great writers who have gradually lost it as they’ve become more touchy about having their work critiqued, and think of all the great editors who have become more and more scared of suggesting corrections.
Social friction takes practice. One of the iconic images of the London riots was of a woman berating the rioters – in a likeable, motherly way – as they looted all around her.
I can vividly remember the first time I asked a boy to put his ice-cream wrapper in the bin. He was not a physical threat, being probably seven years old. But little did he know he represented a lifetime of grievances.
As my body flooded with adrenalin, he cheerfully put the wrapper in the bin. It felt good. But that euphoria is not a helpful emotion. I should not feel victorious. And if he had turned to me and said “get a grip, grandad”, then I should have been able to take that on board too.
To return to the mosh pit, a little shove in the back to let the guy in front know that you’ve got a mouthful of hair from his headbanging – it’s nothing. But it takes practice to take the emotion out of it, for it not to be about winning or losing.