Life Lessons Learned in a Death Metal Mosh Pit

Thankfully I never needed any bone marrow.
Aaaaand I never knew anyone named Rett, either.

I have however been on the receiving end of a drop kick executed by a shirtless 6'4" neo-nazi skinhead.

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The lineup included a few lesser-known metal bands like 69 Eyes, God Forbid and Burn Season but everyone was there to see Napalm Death. The venue: The Roxy in Atlanta, Georgia. Stardate - May, 2004.

I had always been a huge fan of hard rock. I thought I was especially cool when I could spout off a dozen or so names of underground grindcore or 'brutal' death metal groups (yes, there is a 'brutal' subgenre). I usually did so with my typical air of confidence and signature holier-than-thou tone of voice.

That night however my perceptions of just how hardcore I was would be checked. I don't mean checked as in how one might check his or her bank account balance or check on their kids. I mean checked as in how a hockey player might check. A hockey player on meth. And PCP. And steroids (hold your tongue, Method).

Yea, Burn Season got a rise from the crowd and sure, 69 Eyes dealt the pain but nothing would prepare me for what ridiculous level of chaos Napalm Death would bring to the table. If you've ever been to The Roxy you know that it's a smaller venue ... standing room for only about 200 or so people. That night I'd say about 250-300 showed up and that's probably a conservative figure.

The first song Napalm Death played was pretty true to their style; it was more than enough to cause that necessary stir in the crowd precipitating the quintessential, amorphous mosh pit. Shortly after the first song was over I heard a bottle break just to my left. This was something I should have paid far closer attention to.

The second song started and almost immediately the mosh pit began. Like most pits that form at rock shows it grew from the inside out, and before long the better half of everyone there was, willingly or not, a part of it. The smoke from lit cigarettes and joints floated above the sea of flailing arms and before long I realized that I had a fight or flight decision to make.

I took to fighting. Hard.

It kind of becomes a game of survival when you're in one of these. There is surely no mercy as everyone is too doped up on anger and rage to give a fuck if you suffer a fractured femur. At first I found myself faring pretty well - I had delivered a pretty well-placed elbow to the temple of someone obviously too emo to even be there and soon I realized that I was definitely among those better equipped to fend for themselves amidst the cacophony and blind brutality. Soon I upped the ante and started swinging closed fists. Wow ... this felt pretty good.

It was like getting revenge on every schoolyard bully who ever raped me for my lunch money (what, that never happened to you?).

By the 4th song I was pleased with my progress. I had effectively eluded the 'linchpins' of the pit, those few people who you just knew to stay away from. Why? Well for me the warning sign on one of them was the swastika tattoo placed just below his right ear. While he may well have been an ignorant supremacist asshole he probably had enough refined hatred for everything to send me to a whole other plane of anguish.

But about halfway through the headliner's set, things got terribly out of hand. This happened as the most tumultuous section of the pit migrated my way and enveloped me in knees, belts wrapped around fists and faces red with adrenalin.

Out of nowhere he came flying right at me. That guy with the swastika.

Perhaps it was the 'give peace a chance' shirt I was wearing or the gay pride-themed face paint I had on.

No really, whatever it was that spurred him, I was dropkicked squarely in the chest by a man out for nothing less than the procurement of my very soul. The soles of his boots bashed me so hard I was launched to the inside part of the human ring surrounding the pit. A few onlookers were quick to try to pick me up, but it was no use. I was unconscious.

Being unconscious on the floor in a death metal mosh pit is no fun, I assure you. Not for you, not for your nervous system, not for anyone but those who would take immediate advantage of your prone position. And that's just what happened.

I won't get into the exact details about what happened next because frankly, I don't remember. What I do remember is coming to next to a wall, surrounded by people standing around me with eerily curious looks on their faces.

"Dude, you ok?" one of them asked me.

I didn't respond. I tried to stand up but couldn't due to the shooting pain running down my right leg. I kind of had to situate myself on my side and then use the wall to assist me to a standing position. After looking around and locating the exit I made my way outside and into the night air.

2 blocks down was my car. I hobbled to it and got inside.

I angled my rear view mirror so I could see myself. I immediately panicked. My right eye was swollen to the point of being comical and I was bleeding from the left side of my mouth. The bridge of my nose led me to think it was broken. Thankfully it wasn't.

Sitting in the driver's seat made me very aware of a sharp pain in my backside. I reached back and down to just above my butt to find a shard of glass no less than 3 inches long, lodged into my skin. I got out of the car, removed the shard and waited for the pain to subside.

After asking myself over and over why the fuck I went to the show to begin with I drove myself home and got a few hours of much needed rest.





... so what life lesson did I learn in all this?


The Aryan Nation is still alive and well and will skullfuck you if you don't watch your faggot ass.