In Defense Of: The Mosh Pit

There are times in life when I feel I am fortunate. They may not come that often, but for certain opportunities into which I’ve stumbled, I am grateful. In my life as a music fan, I’ve caught many an amazing performance and had some wonderful experiences at shows. But there are many who can say that. I’m lucky because I was able to catch the last days of beautiful mosh pit perfection. I was going to write that moshing gets a bad name these days. However, it is more accurate to say that moshing doesn’t have much of a name at all. When’s the last time you went to a concert with a mosh pit?

See, the pit used to be a wonderful place that was totally dictated by the band’s performance. There was a natural ebb and flow to its energy. When the music would get crazy, so would all the kids in front of the stage. In that craziness, there would be crashing and bumping, and maybe even a jab or two. Every person was entitled to their individual display of exuberance while contributing to something bigger than themselves. There was something organic about the movement of the pit. Some would have people running full speed across the open space, others would have more of a circular, swirled motion, and some were just people jumping up and down together. It didn’t necessarily help the band interact with the crowd better, but fans felt more involved with the show. You couldn’t help but derive more enjoyment from the performance.

Additionally, every single person in that pit viewed you as a brother. If someone fell to the ground, those around him would immediately stop and help him up. Nobody was out to hurt anyone else. People did not attack one another. When the band played a slower song, the moshing stopped because it was all about the music. There was never moshing for its own sake. Some may prefer having a seat at a concert, but even if you stand, you’re stuck in the assigned spot declared by your ticket stub. You can’t passionately jump around to the music you’re hearing. Well, you can, but only within your two foot area. And God forbid you accidentally bump into another person. In the pit you were free to roam. If you were somehow stuck behind the tall guy with unkempt hair or sweaty dude in a leather jacket, it didn’t matter because everyone was going to move as soon as the next song kicked in. It was an egalitarian place. No one deserved a better time than anyone else. Again, we were all brothers.

I started by saying that I caught the last days. I figure I went to maybe three or four concerts with great pits. It’s an opportunity I will always cherish. Because soon after I was discovering my love of the mosh, it was dying on the vine. I saw Smashing Pumpkins at Metro right when Siamese Dream was released. I was astonished to see that there were people wearing tie-dye shirts and hiking boots. I had no idea that hippies were into the Pumpkins. Unsurprisingly, they had no idea what they were doing in the pit. They were actually crowd surfing when no bands were on stage. I couldn’t believe it. It clearly annoyed the hell out of everyone, and Billy Corgan even addressed it during the show, saying, “If someone is jumping on your head during the slow songs, just dump them on their ass.” My disdain for these hippie-come-latelys reached its peak when one of them was surfing during the intro to Window Paine (a slow build). He was flailing his arms and legs like an epileptic and I caught a hiking boot right in my eye. I immediately grabbed his ankles and threw him down to the ground. I was angry. But not just because I had been kicked in the face during one of my favorite songs. Because I had the feeling that moshing was about to die.

Sadly, I was right. As the alternative genre took over popular music, kids who’d seen too many Pearl Jam videos thought they knew what moshing was all about. I recall being punched in the face and kneed in the crotch. That never should have happened. I got in a shouting match with some fourteen year old girls at a Tool concert in Detroit because they were shoving unsuspecting people in the back, forcing them into a pit they had no interest in joining. They felt it was their right to do whatever they wanted. I nearly punched a 14 year old girl that night. But this isn’t just about me. At Woodstock ‘94, kids moshed to Joe Cocker. Joe freaking Cocker! At Woodstock ’99, Limp Bizkit played a song about breaking things, and the fans lost their damn minds. Moshing's worst moment was far more tragic. At a Korn concert last summer, a father was murdered by a fan who took mosh pit violence to an extreme.

But it's not moshing's fault. Like many things that began great, the masses immediately corrupted it. There are some who are actively trying to recapture those days. I’ve given up. Most people at shows these days like to stand around and applaud when the band is finished. And that’s fine. Really. People should enjoy themselves however they prefer. You can’t mosh by yourself. And I’ve lost faith in other fans’ ability to know how to behave. But I will always revel in those shows where I felt like I was somehow more than just a fan watching a performance. I was a small part of the music. Me and my brothers.

In Defense Of: Compact Discs

I’m not sure how to approach this without coming off as a stodgy old coot.

Many people have been claiming that the days of owning a tangible item upon which your music arrives are soon to end. You can purchase nearly any song you want via I-tunes or record labels themselves these days. They offer instant delivery and you can bring thousands of tracks with you wherever you want to go. And that is great. It’s progress. It’s the American Dream. You can bet that when I go to work every morning, I have my headphones on and am oft seen rockin’ out as I stride to the el. But all those songs are also sitting on shelves in my home, eagerly awaiting their next spin on the stereo.

I still remember the first time I purchased a CD. Actually, it was eight of them and they were shipped from Columbia House in Terre Haute, Indiana. I sure was excited for what can now only be considered an embarrassing slate of albums (including such artistic endeavors as AC/DC’s “The Razor’s Edge”, Aerosmith’s “Pump”, and for some bizarre reason, Bell Biv DeVoe's "Poison"). In fact, I don’t think I own any of those original eight anymore. But you have to start somewhere, right? Since then I’ve purchased hundreds upon hundreds more. There are no consumer goods that will thrill me more. Some people get excited to buy clothing or shoes or furniture, but CDs have always been my cultural currency of choice. Some are signed by the musicians, and others have random stories of how I ran across them. I can still regale you with tales of stumbling upon, say, a copy of Living Colour’s “Vivid” for six dollars during a high school excursion to Iowa City. The used record store was on the upstairs level of a house, and on first post of the banister, there was a scoop of spaghetti. No plate or nothin’ – it was just hanging out there. What I’m trying to say is that CDs have character. They’re an actual thing. mp3s may be convenient and have their purpose, but they’re not real, are they?
Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a holier than thou kind of thing. If you want to download everything directly to your computer, stealing it, buying it, whatever – go for it. I just can’t do it. And it’s not about the artwork, although I certainly appreciate that aspect. My collective set of discs is easily my most prized possession, the one I have worked the hardest to attain. I show it off to people when they come over, and tell them the spaghetti story if they happen to look at a Living Colour album.

Part of the thrill is the hunt, of course. Examining row after row of jewel cases might seem exhausting or tedious, but when you find something you were seeking, or something you weren’t even looking for in the first place, it’s like digging up buried treasure. Or better yet, when you experience a band’s live show, then gleefully buy their album at the merch table – you make your way home, knowing it’s way past bedtime, but you have to listen to that new release at least once before you conk out. You just can’t get those feelings with a downloaded electronic file. If you read here regularly, you'll know I am awfully excited to crack open a new disc, but seriously, who isn’t?
I realize that it is likely inevitable that we will go to a solely electronic approach for our music, particularly as the quality and accessibility improves. I just don’t want you young whippersnappers to remove CDs from production. We’d all be missing out. Now where’s my mush? And my pills?

In Defense Of: Faith No More

Sandwiched in between Glam Metal and Nickleback-style Post Grunge, horrendous rock music took a brief foray into the world of Rap Metal. Noisemakers such as Jimmy’s Chicken Shack, Biohazard, Kid Rock, and, those cheaters Limp Bizkit bombarded airwaves, high school locker rooms, and fraternity parties everywhere. The lack of talent collectively possessed by these bands was truly appalling. Yet, young folks in need of inspiration to “break stuff” were able to overlook the sheer awfulness of this musical movement and mosh in their living rooms. As it goes with every genre of music, the end resembled the beginning on an esthetic level, but not on a musical one.

In this case, the beginning was Faith No More. I’m sure some would try to say that Aerosmith and Run DMC doing a video together was the genesis of Rap Metal, but I would say that was more Rap Blues. Calling Aerosmith “Metal” is a bit like calling Shaquille O’Neal an actor. They may have a Metal name, but they’re really a fat, black center. Thanks to Jim Martin’s crunching, edgy guitar work and Mike Borodin’s pounding beats, Faith No More was undeniably Metal, despite Roddy Bottom’s orchestrated synthesizer strings. After going through a series of vocalists, their first true frontman was Chuck Mosely. While Chuck does truly sing on some of the songs from those first two albums, all of their strongest early tracks featured Chuck rapping. When he crooned, he sounded more like a drunken Wesley Willis.

Faith No More would have most likely just been another solid, California band had they not chosen to kick Mosely out. The result of that move was to pick up 20 year old Mike Patton. On their next release, The Real Thing, Patton continued Mosely’s rapping style, but also displayed his superior chops. See below. It’s Rap. It’s Metal. It’s Fat Dr. Dre and Ed Lover:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiFr7qpQZlo

The Real Thing was a landmark album, and the songs still hold up today. It featured by far their biggest hit in “Epic” (yes, the one with the fish). They went on to top that effort with Angel Dust. A creative masterpiece whose lyrics covered such topics as blow jobs, redneck suicidal fathers, masochistic masturbation, and “Crack Hitler”. On those two albums, they managed to perfect the Rap Metal genre. And while Rage Against the Machine managed to give it a solid go, recording two fairly good albums themselves, no one else even came remotely close to what FNM accomplished.

Many of their followers like Limp Bizkit and Kid Rock have claimed Faith No More as an influence, and ended up seeing far greater commercial success than Faith No More ever attained. The public was inundated with garbage from carpetbaggers with no discernable musical ability. Jim Martin was kicked out of the band, and their style became less distinctive. Patton would later show off his remarkable talent in various endeavors, but never really return to the style that put him on the map. Now they are largely remembered as the band that led to late 90’s awfulness. If they can be condemned for anything it is that their forays into the bizarre tacitly endorsed lyrics that seem unimportant, allowing songs like “I’m a Cowboy, baby,” to become massive hits. But that’s hardly their fault. All they did was make the two best Rap Metal albums before anyone else even got started. Talented bands chose not to go there because there was nothing left to prove. So we ended up with garbage.

PS – if there’s anyone who believes Kid Rock is anything but a talentless carpetbagger, check out The Polyfuze Method sometime – if you can stomach it.