A concert is hardly the place that jumps to mind when someone mentions the word “camaraderie.” Although, to be fair, almost no one uses that word anymore, so most people probably don’t have anything that immediately leaps to the forefront of their brain.
There are plenty of places where I am comfortable, of course. Given enough time, I can grow to like any given setting, and I apparently have competent social skills, as I tend to find at least one or two people with whom I can communicate. But a true feeling of brotherhood (siblinghood, perhaps, is a better term) is hard to find, especially at the drop of a hat.
Concerts, though. All of us, gathered together in the same place, are there to hear the music, see the bands, and maybe buy some merchandise to support the industry. There’s no hierarchy among the fans. No arguments over politics or religion or anything other than the walls of sound blasting from the amplifiers. No posturing, no contests of one-upsmanship, no anger.
Now, this certainly doesn’t apply to many, or even most, musical performances. Different genres attract different types of fans, not all of whom are as comfortable with such a kind yet frenzied atmosphere (and I’m looking at you, hipster scum) (not that hipster actually means anything anymore). The focus shifts from the music to the “experience,” and people begin to speak of their past attendance at such events as a way of determining who has the longer… well, you get my drift. But there is at least one genre that, in my experience, has produced nothing but positive experiences.
Metal.
Young or old, jeans or studded leather, baseball cap or mohawk, the fans are just that: fans. They headbang, they fist-bump, they compliment each other on their attire. They scream along to the more recognizable lyrics and throw devil horns in the air during solos. A metalhead saying she saw Slayer back in ’84 will be met with goodhearted envy and appreciation rather than an upturned nose and more impressive claims of seeing older bands.
And the pit! The mosh pit holds a place of honor in my mind. Everyone follows the unwritten rules: take nothing personally, no fighting, and help someone up if they fall. It is difficult to find another place where people willingly put themselves at risk and then actually take responsibility for their choices instead of blaming it on someone else. You will be bruised. You will be aching afterwards. And you will enjoy every second of it.
Now, I know I have to address the obvious question. “But Hats,” you say, “where the hell have you b-”
No, not that question. The other one. About whether or not I actually take part in these displays of ferocious enjoyment.
The answer: no. But I watch. I listen. And, standing amongst hundreds or thousands of complete strangers, I feel at home.
Also: if you only buy one album this year, you should probably listen to more music. But Surtur Rising, Amon Amarth’s latest endeavor, is worth your money (if you like hearing angry Swedish men growling about war and Vikings and that sort of thing).
