Obelisk: Further reflections on mosh pit spirituality

     The pain of a pit is practically sexual, combining karma and libido into a Tantric event, like iron evolving into gold. The moshers are sadomasochistic; some dominate the pit with a vengeance while others submit to their pain and love every minute of it. The only true gimps are the spectators who do nothing, but stand in the perimeter and behold the moshers with mild curiosity or feigned indifference. But the Tantric vibrations are alive and kicking in the moshers, throbbing and pulsing like a bed against the wall. We jump in unison, we pump our fists in perfect sync with each other, we bang our heads as individuals and then as an entirety. Headbanging in and of itself is provocative. Anatomically speaking, thrusting the torso downward puts you in the same position as thrusting the hips up. Headbanging is the coquettish hairflip of a tease amped on acid. Headbanging is distorted flirting, distorted passion, arms awkwardly slung around each others shoulders as we move our bodies in unison, sweating and screaming all the while. We lose ourselves, we get dizzy and fall, we stagger to each other when the blaring speakers and schizophrenic lights overwhelm us. Each metalhead is a source of support for the others, a solid obelisk to withstand the barren desert that the individual can not endure alone.

   The beauty of metal, in all of its grotesqueness, is unison in entropy. While we jump and push and lunge in a bedlam state, we know what we are doing. We are fully conscious, aware of every blow we suffer and reciprocate. Although the multicolored lights can dazzle us, we can differentiate them from the shadows. We are as sentient worms, writhing and struggling in the soil which imprisons us. The psychosexual violence of the pit aims to unite us in our solitude, our self-induced isolation. We delve so deep into negativity that we absolve ourselves of it.

   A good metal concert is like being unable to take a religious fast, so you just drink straight whiskey until you vomit. If that’s your way to cleanse yourself, then just indulge in the blood orgy, knowing that you need to take a little poison in order to heal yourself. A good concert is a glorified primal scream, it is the lead singers vocals solidified throughout the entire venue. We growl when we feel threatened, shout when we’re horny, yell when we’re hurting. There is always an eternal scream, one in which we wallow until it possesses us. Under the control of this demon, we twist our hands to resemble his horns and raise them high, reaching toward the heavens that we may taint them. Somehow our militant anger is neutralized, though I doubt this is the work of angels, lest they are of the fallen variety. If stage diving has taught me anything, it’s that gravity’s a bitch. But at the same time, my fallen comrades are waiting for me below, some with devil horns, some with fists, some with open hands, ready to catch me and bring me to their world.