Susannigans: Confessions from the Mosh Pit

SUSANNAH CLARK

This weekend, my dreams came true. UMW’s Centennial Homecoming was drawing to a close, and I was being crowned—with a goose-egg.
A closeted mosher for years now, I am now a black-belt—I have had my first concussion.
Only in Fredericksburg would the rowdiest mosh-pit in the tri-county area be at an Eve 6 concert.
After a good twelve songs of pushing and shoving to my heart’s desire, an anonymous protruding elbow proceeded to jab me right in the cranium, and hard.
My head was throbbing; my eyes struggled to focus; my face was euphoric.
It’s hard to maintain street-cred—especially when you’re a chick. Eve 6’s touching power-chords channeled my former 8th grade self—a punk rock poser, desperate to be labeled “hardcore.” Middle school was a time when being “punk-rock” meant shopping at Hot Topic and posting Blink-182 posters in your locker.
Now older and wiser, I am aware of the history and significance of the punk-rock movement—and how far removed I am and have always been. I have since abandoned my efforts; I now allow myself to wear pink and own several Vera Bradley bags.
But my inner-head-banger rages on. Though Eve 6 is far from the acceptable underground bands embraced in today’s “hardcore” community, everyone was a fan back-the-day—it’s hard to find a single rock-fan that doesn’t know every single word of “Inside Out.”
Saturday’s crowd was wild with aggression and enthusiasm—I thought I’d been transported to another college.
There is an inherent beauty in the depths of a mosh-pit. Though ours was of modest size, (about 25 people front and center) there was still an overwhelming sense of support and community among the friendly violence.
You shove me, I shove you back, and we both shield each other from failed crowd-surfers and sweatily-transmitted diseases.
Everyone in the pit is united by a passion for individualism and defiance. When you succumb to the pull and sway of the mass, you have no cares in the world.
It’s just you, the music, and countless entranced others.
My subsequent concussion is a badge of honor. I have been bruised in the name of rock ‘n roll.
Three Advil and 14 hours of sleep later, I had trouble convincing my hall-mates that my clumsiness and blurred vision on Saturday night was not from playing beer pong with the rest of campus.
Here’s to the night I finally found fervor in Fredericksburg. Eve 6’s sugar-sweet ballads and poppy guitar riffs may not be “hardcore,” but the fact such a band brought out such passion from Mary Washington students is quite telling.
You don’t need to be listening to The Misfits to be hardcore: I’ve got the scar on my head to prove it.